The cloak of darkness draped over a dungeon, barely lifted by the faint, yellowish glow of rounded stones. They acted as vigilant eyes, fixed on the rows of cells lining the lone but lengthy corridor. On this particular day and moment, only one cell was occupied—an occurrence as exceptional as its occupants: elvirean Holy Warriors. The three sat together on the floor, gazing disdainfully at the ground for minutes. The abundant filth that kept them company was another line on their list of endured humiliations.
This can't be happening… Thought one, engulfed in despair.
With some clumsiness, another of them stood up, peering through the bars of the cell to get a glimpse outside. No one was guarding them.
"DAMNATION!" He exclaimed, delivering a kick with the tip of his foot that shook the grate.
"Renel, calm down," advised his companion, his identical twin. "You've just come out of the infirmary."
"How am I supposed to calm down when I wake up to this?! 'Man At Axes' really screwed us this time!" Renel replied, even more agitated. "You'll see! The son of a bitch is going to make us spend the entire Maskirian Week in this shit hole!"
"That's the least of it," Cyprain disagreed, with a contrasting dejection. "We still have the trial. If we lose, much worse things could await us…"
Seriously? Docemin, their only companion, snorted, growing increasingly impatient as she listened to their argument. Unlike them, she stood with her arms crossed, in a cold yet fragile calm.
"If it were up to me, I'd bolt out of here right now while I still can," Renel continued, succumbing to anxiety. "I don't know about you, but I refuse to be judged for telling those bas...!"
"YOU'RE BOTH FOOLS!"
Startled, the twins turned to their friend. The Sublieutenant had just intervened, reprimanding them sternly.
"That bastard must have hit you hard in the head," she snapped. "You're drowning in a mug of ale for something that's not even going to happen."
Not going to happen? Both looked at her bewildered, demanding an explanation.
“’Man At Axes’ may be one of the most renowned generals in the kingdom, but he has no power to bring us to justice for something like this," she replied, with a shrewd smile. "Think about it; he's dug his own grave by biting off more than he can chew. No matter how old his friendship with him is, not even His Majesty will defend him this time.”
Cyprain's eyes lit up. He was beginning to grasp where she was going.
"So, will they release us soon?" he asked.
Docemin nodded enthusiastically.
"Very soon," she affirmed. "The news of our arrest must have reached his ears and my mother's. They'll get us out of here before nightfall."
The three heard a door open in the distance shortly after, followed by a series of approaching footsteps.
A guard made an appearance.
"Get up," he ordered, pulling out a keyring with several keys and using the right one to unlock their cell door. "You can go."
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"Mother!"
"Lady Jan!"
As soon as they recognized her, the three hurriedly exited their confinement to greet her.
"My boys!" she exclaimed with similar excitement, pulling them towards her in a short and affectionate embrace. The twins had been good friends with her daughter since childhood, so she regarded them as an extension of her family. "Are you all right? "Did they hurt you?"
"No…" they all replied.
However, the Minister couldn't overlook the subtle but visible aftermath of their confrontation at the station's gates.
"My God! What happened to your hair?" she said to her daughter, horrified as dry strands detached from it between her fingers when she touched it.
The mark of Chatel Chatel's slap on Cyprain, a crude painting on his skin, was the next thing to capture her attention.
She touched it gently.
"Who did this to you, Cyprain?"
"Um…" Cyprain hesitated for a moment. The truth behind its origin was even more humiliating than his defeat against a complete stranger. "It was that knight, in the midst of our duel," he finally lied, furrowing his brow a bit. "Has His Majesty been informed about what happened to us?"
"Yes," Lady Jan confirmed. "I was in a meeting with him when the report arrived. You have no idea how furious we were." She clenched one of the cell bars, letting her disgust drain. "That scoundrel 'Man At Axes' and that so-called knight will be held accountable for this." She turned her face back to them. "They will regret their audacity."
The three young ones smiled broadly; their humiliations would, after all, have a fitting revenge. The woman moved away from the bars, taking a few steps to position herself in charge.
"Come, you need to retrieve your belongings," she said. "His Majesty will be very pleased to see you free again."200Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXJM9xmsFCz
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***
"...and then, my uncle ordered them to be taken to the station's dungeons."
Luciara recounted to her aunt Dana, sitting right across from her at the living room table. The family matriarch had decided to postpone lunch a bit, wanting explanations from her niece about the reasons behind Agent Zeham's impertinent visit to their home.
"Just after he did that, he saw us in the crowd and invited us to stay with you..." Luciara continued, taking a small pause. "I won't lie; at first, I said no. I didn't want to bother you, but he insisted." She averted her gaze a bit, visibly embarrassed. "Now I realize it was a mistake. Because of me, I've gotten you into this mess..."
Her aunt gave her a sympathetic look, reaching out her arm to touch her hand.
"You're not guilty of anything, and you would never be a bother," she reassured, releasing her hand afterward. "Your escort was too impulsive, true, but he and Charlen did the right thing. For years, it has become common for the Grianzan forces to commit abuses like these with impunity, and not just with the Ayarians; they are just the easiest victims they can harass."
She explained, looking up at the ceiling.
"We need more people who won't just stand idly by." she reflected, then returned her gaze to Luciara with a somber expression. "Unfortunately, Renardin is too blinded by his delusions of grandeur to recognize how rotten his environment is. He will release those thugs and punish Ser Marlon. He can't allow the authority of the Grianzan army to be questioned."
"And my uncle?" Luciara asked.
"You don't need to worry about him," Dana assured her, showing calmness. "Despite their differences, Charlen's relationship with Renardin remains... 'special.' He will only give him a light reprimand at worst." she explained, furrowing her brow. "I hate to reiterate, but your escort is likely to be the sole scapegoat to be sacrificed."
Mavros… Luciara looked out of a window, letting out all her anguish for the wandering knight. More than the possibility of him being condemned, she feared what could happen if he resisted. He had managed to escape from prison once, but he wouldn't be as lucky if he tried it again. He was one of the most formidable fighters she had ever known, but even so, his chances against elite elvirean holy warriors were slim, and in such an important city like Netzach, there were plenty ready to confront him at any moment. Her uncle was one of them.
Meanwhile, Dana turned to her sons, who had been quite busy amid that conversation. Both were scrubbing old rags on the wooden floor to remove the spilled Du Clar wine, a result of Olivrin's accident.
After clearing the last remnants and wringing them into a small bowl, they stood up.
"Ready, Mom."
"It's all clean."
They informed her.
"Good. Pour the wine in the kitchen, Gabran," she instructed, and he proceeded to take the bowl. Dana then turned to her younger son. "But you haven't finished yet, Olivrin," she said, throwing him a threatening look. She lifted a tablecloth from the table, pointing out several wine stains. "Look at these stains. Clean them with clenza."
Clenza?! Both brothers twisted their lips in fearful grimaces. That mention wasn't at all encouraging.
"Why with clenza?" Gabran asked, looking at her with a nervous smile. While it wasn't his task, he couldn't help but feel solidarity with Olivrin. "It's better to change the tablecloth in the meantime."
"Yes, yes! Cleaning it with clenza is too much work," his brother seconded. "I can take it to the laundries tomorrow."
"No. I want you to clean it, now, and with 'magic'," his mother clarified firmly. "Who told you to get 'creative' with your inexperienced Nefesh?!"
"But it wasn't even my fault this time," the boy defended himself, shrugging. "The 'Invisible Hand' was coming out perfectly. It was Zeham who came out of nowhere and made me lose..."
"I don't care," his mother didn't yield to his excuses, appearing even more impassive than before. "Find the clenza. If you like nefeshic arts so much, practice their use in useful applications, not just in circus antics."
What a drag…The young mage had no choice but to accept the order, controlling his reluctance as best as he could to avoid another reprimand. He took the "clenza" from a compartment in one of the living room cabinets. It was a small glass bottle with a narrow neck, containing a thick, greenish substance like the leaves of a tree in spring. His mother stood up and stepped aside, allowing him to approach the tablecloth. Carefully, he pulled it a bit and uncovered the container to pour a few drops of the substance on the various stains on the fabric. After crushing them with his fingers, he stepped back to point his wand at the dirt.
Art of Ramij: clenza cleaning.
His wand tip shone faster than when conjuring the "invisible hand"; it was a spell with a simpler pattern but much more tedious to execute. The largest of the stains soaked with the green substance gradually shrank until disappearing, thus restoring the original color of the material.
"You've taught him how to use clenza perfectly." Luciara commented to her aunt as she stood beside her, admiring how her cousin went on to repeat the process without making mistakes with each of the remaining stains.
"He and Gabran had to master the basics of Ramij, no matter what," Dana replied, with a shrewd smile.
"My mother also forced me to learn it from a very young age," Luciara told her, lost in nostalgia. "I remember hating it as much as Olivrin did back then, but now I appreciate it. It has helped me earn a living more than once."
"She must have been a better teacher than me, obviously," her aunt commented. "Ramij never came to me as naturally as to Menuha, but it's a family tradition worth preserving…" she averted her gaze, hiding a darker expression.
With effort, she prepared to convey a simple question she had wanted to ask her since she saw her but had been equally reluctant to ask until now:
"How is she?"
Silence stood between the two like an abyss.
"Well... quite well. She never has a month without commissions." Luciara finally replied, in a mixture of modesty and discomfort.
"I figured," Dana said with some coldness. She returned her gaze to her son. "I've heard she's become one of the most sought-after sculptors lately, not just in Najta but also in Elvira. I'm glad she's enjoying so much success as an artist; she's the new 'Lior' of the family..."
"Mom, I'm done." Olivrin informed, interrupting to show them the tablecloth, now entirely clean.
"Sensational! See? It wasn't that bad. You should consider becoming a full-time nefeshic launderer," Dana joked, clearly pleased with the result. "I'm going back to the kitchen. Now, I'm the only one with pending work," she informed them. She turned to her niece. "I know you must still be worried about your escort; I am too. But until we know what will happen to him, worrying won't do us any good."
She walked away, separating from Luciara to leave the room, but she paused briefly to look at her over her shoulder. "I trust that Charlen will find a way to help him," she said. "Let's hope for the best."
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***
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Rolling through the streets of the capital city within the comfort of a curros, Chatel Chatel left the Royal Palace behind alongside Mavros. After reaching their agreement, King Renardin allowed them to depart in peace and provided them with one of the vehicles and drivers from his fleet.
“He appears to annoy when uninvited, but vanishes like a shooting star when one needs him…” The general clenched his right hand into a fist. “That jerk Zeham!” Exclaimed, finishing his vent in his native tongue.
The General had hoped to encounter the agent of the Order of Lebias again to ask him to transport them back home using instant transmission. However, since they left the meeting, there was no trace of him inside or outside the palace.
“Ser?”
Mavros asked, puzzled by his outburst.
“Sorry for the Grianzan... I forgot you understand it well,” the Holy Warrior responded, embarrassed. That reminder that he was not alone was enough to restore his composure. “I'm just still upset about what happened. It has ruined my lunch.”
“It struck me like a cold shower too…” the knight replied, very calm. “But by the grace of Maskirio, it hath been settled more fittingly than mine expectations did foretell.”
How can you be so calm, Ser Marlon?” the general questioned him. “You even had the guts to claim that you visited Netzach solely to participate in the Eh-Nam tournament.”
"Verily, 'it’s the truth," affirmed the knight. "In sooth, I wished to inquire how thou didst come upon such knowledge."
The general chuckled, turning his head in disbelief.
“I didn't know. It just occurred to me from what you asked me at the station and from your spectacular display with the Cotores twins…” he clarified. “It was the last card up my sleeve to save you from an unjust trial, and I had to use it.”
"I wouldst have chosen a different path to partake in the tourney, yet I express my deepest gratitude unto thee," Mavros said. "Without thy aid, the journey to claim a place within wouldst have proven far more challenging for me."
Is he grateful to me? Stupefied, the general turned toward him, starting to believe that he challenged the twins not out of hero-worthy courage but because he had some loose screws. His comments no longer seemed like mere whims of a healthy sense of humor.
“Do you know the rules of martial tournaments?” the General confronted him. “As a perpetrator of a crime, you are not protected by the same code of honor as the Holy Warriors and the rest of the independent participants. Unlike them, you have no right to surrender during duels.” He approached him, with a very serious expression. “If someone wishes to eliminate you by ending your life, they can do so in combat without any restrictions. Only for that reason did His Majesty grant you a place.”
I could die… Despite that reminder, Mavros didn't seem overly daunted. He was more than accustomed to dealing with situations where death always lurked. “That doth render the challenge even more intriguing for me,” he asserted without hesitation. “Maybe I am not a Holy Warrior, yet in the arts of their martial prowess I have gained proficiency. I have... undergone training and engaged in combat with diverse brethren in times of yore," he disclosed. For a fleeting moment, he averted his gaze, resting it on the window of the moving vehicle. "I harbor complete assurance in mine own skills.”
Chatel Chatel smiled with closed lips, infected by his unsettling yet convincing assurance.
“So do I,”He nodded. He addressed the chauffeur. “Chaufeaú, si vou plé nous emmenegr colisé Eh Nam.”
Following his order in Grianzan, the chauffeur turned a corner and changed the course of the journey.
“Eh-Nam Coliseum?” Mavros asked, surprised to have caught the new direction of their journey. “Art we not returning unto thy home?”
“Nothing will happen if we do it a bit later. The coliseum is much closer to us from here than my house,” he replied. “Just as I promised, I'll take you to see it.”
The curros made its way through a particularly clear avenue on a hill, surrounded only by strips of green vegetation. In the distance, an immense and extravagant building could be seen.
“There it is,” Chatel Chatel pointed it out to Mavros through the window, “that's the coliseum.”
Mavros blinked a couple of times, making sure it was that and not a monumental work of art. It was a semicircular structure, composed of a web of long intertwined white cylinders. These, along with large pillars behind them, supported a roof of pointed, black, and overlapping plates.
“It looks... like a black dragon,” the knight murmured.
Its silhouette, with distinctive extensions, vaguely resembled one of those legendary creatures he had read so much about in his youth with fascination. Infernal reptiles brought by the Tarburians, the powerful and ruthless race that descended from the skies a thousand years ago to dominate the known world. During the Holy Rebellion, they were fought mercilessly alongside their masters, to the point that after its end, they were considered extinct.
“That's right. An ‘earth’ dragon to be precise,” the general said, emphasizing its robust body, with sharp and armored scales, devoid of the iconic wings. Its other siblings were those of "water," with a shape similar to aquatic serpents, and the most famous: those of "air," with a body light and sinister like that of a bat. They had been the largest flying monsters that had ever soared the skies. “You can only appreciate its shape from this height; a subtlety befitting a wonder of the Tarburians. From the biggest to the smallest details of this city, they keep alive the commendable side of their legacy.”
The commendable side? The wandering knight raised his eyebrows, believing for a moment that he had imagined it. It was very rare to hear someone express a positive assessment of that people, understandable due to the infamous image painted by Blinitaka and other texts set in that era.
“But I didn't divert us just for you to enjoy this view,” Chatel Chatel clarified. “We'll go down to it. There's something I want to show you there.”
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***
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Among small groups of travelers and locals, Chatel Chatel and Mavros walked on the outskirts of the Eh-Nam Coliseum. With its surrounding gardens and its facade, even more impressive up close, distractions were everywhere for the knight. However, after a while, he addressed his guide.
“Ser Chatel Chatel,” he called. “May I beseech thee a query?”
“Yes.” The General turned to look at him. “What is it?”
“What bonds dost thou share with King Renardin?”
“Why do you ask?” The General replied, cautiously approaching that topic with him.
“The exchange between ye appeared... beyond the usual," the knight elucidated. "Ye both did address each other by thy names, omitting the honorific titles; and despite the gravity wherewith thou didst criticize him, he refrained from using it as a cause to inflict harm upon thee. I cannot fathom that he would permit such transgressions to pass unchallenged for the remainder of his subjects."
Chatel Chatel fell into a brief silence.
“Good observation,” he responded. “His Majesty and I have known each other since childhood, when he was a prince,” he proceeded to tell him, abstracting himself from the present to immerse himself in those distant but cherished memories. “At that time, I worked with my parents as a domestic servant in the Royal Residence of Luti, the capital of Grianz. Several times I had to assist His Majesty in his activities, and over time, we became almost inseparable.” He paused for a while. “Thanks to him, I got the chance to prove my worth at the University and become a Holy Warrior of the Holy House of Lis; something unthinkable for a man of as humble origins as mine back in those days.
“That explains it,” Mavros said, listening to his story with keen interest. “No offense, but it’s a challenge for me to place faith in the notion that the prince who aided thee in thy youth is the same king with whom we have contended.”
“No offense taken.” Chatel Chatel shook his head. “In fact, you're absolutely right. “He lowered his gaze to the ground with solemnity. “Renardin, His Majesty... changed a lot since the Nefeshic Wars. The tragedies he endured during them, and his premature coronation as the king of Grianz and Netzach after their end, were the perfect conditions for his worst flaw to flourish: his emotional immaturity. Many petty characters, both within and outside the government, haven't stopped taking advantage of his vulnerability for their own personal gain.” He turned his face towards Mavros. “Unfortunately, the ones who suffer the most from this reality are the citizens.”
“It must be tough for thee to witness his decline so closely,” Mavros told him, empathetic with his feelings, and even with those of the king himself. He understood how a few events and people could change an entire life, for better or for worse. “Hast thou never endeavored to make him realize the error of his ways?”
“Many times, but as you've seen, it's futile to try to bend his stubbornness. He only has ears for the pleasant words he wants to hear, not the harsh ones he needs to consider. That's why I've been gradually distanced from his Court. I am an advisor, not a flatterer with no dignity.”
Ser Janpelan, and now Ser Chatel Chatel. Although the journey started on the wrong foot, I've been very fortunate to meet Holy Warriors of this caliber. Mavros cherished every second he spent with that veteran. A worthy example to follow for someone still young like him.
Gareth deserved to reach that age. To have a family like theirs along with Rika.
As much as he wanted to prevent it, the faces of the people special to him that he had left behind in Tiberland, his homeland, kept appearing in his thoughts. Although he preferred not to dwell on it, they were a more potent reason than his Code's own invitation to embark on his current adventure.
Returning to his senses, he found something that finally pulled him out of his reverie. A large marble statue, as tall as the walls of a castle. It depicted a herculean man, entirely covered in a colorful and strange armor, made up of spiky, thick, and overlapping scales, similar to the dragon-shaped roof of the coliseum. A harness fixed a round plate in the middle of his chest, on which was sculpted an emblem in the form of a four-pointed star. His helmet was also unique: the face of a man, but without a mouth and ears, with fierce eyes as the only features. Long and sharp spikes protruded backward on the sides of his head, resembling a sort of crown.
A sword that he raised with his right hand solemnly, whose blade seemed to be composed of a dancing flame instead of rigid metal, gave the work an even more supernatural touch.
“Is this... Eh-Nam?” the knight murmured, lifting his gaze to be able to admire the rest of the monument carefully. It no longer surprised him that the adoration of this hero rivaled that of Maskirio himself.
“That’s right,” confirmed the general. “There are two statues of him in Netzach, one in the White Forum and this one in the coliseum, standing for almost half a millennium. The magnum opus of Lior Diklah, the greatest sculptor this region has produced.”
His style is very similar to that of Lady Menuha. The knight realized. Unknowingly, he had just discovered one of the inspirations of the artist: one of her most celebrated ancestors.
“It's... sublime,” judged Mavros. “Is this what thou wanted to show me, Ser?”
To his surprise, Chatel Chatel vehemently shook his head.
“No. I'll take you to a training room,” he clarified. “Your talent in martial arts is outstanding, but it's not enough to keep you out of the dungeons. You need more than mere talent; you must have what it takes to be one of the best.”
“One of the best?” Mavros inquired, intrigued by these last statements.
“According to the Fifth Path of Atonement, for a condemned person to be considered pardoned by divine grace, they must reach at least the semi-finals of a martial arts tournament. If you're disqualified before that, your trial will resume... and that's only if your opponents are merciful enough to spare your life, of course.”
I'm completely cornered. The knight acknowledged. However, he did not falter. Having more at stake only meant greater motivation to succeed.
“I'll be honest with you: formidable participants will come this year, prodigies freshly graduated from the best universities,” the General assured him, more serious than before. “It's going to be very difficult for you to suddenly reach their level, but what I saw at the station makes me confident that you can become the surprise of this edition.”
Chatel Chatel took a few steps, moving away from the statue. He straightened toward the facade of the coliseum.
“I was a finalist in the tournament when I was your age, and I've trained several contestants since then. The vast majority have managed to reach the semi-finals; some even made it to the finals and became the champions of their respective years,” he turned toward the knight, revealing a smile brimming with pride and confidence. “I don't like to boast, but I believe there's no one better suited to teach you some tricks that will increase your chances.”
“I have to disagree.”
What?! The General startled, just like the knight.
It wasn't Mavros who had just said that. Upon turning around, they found themselves face to face with the man who had brought them before the king.
“You have other priorities you need to attend to, Charlen.”
Zeham had reappeared, with new orders for both of them.
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