thief of fate-Chapter 66: Built

In the road leading to the castle...

The path to the castle was muddy, but Valerian walked with steady steps, his eyes never leaving the horizon.

Inside, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling. The city was loud, drenched in tension, and the faces he saw weren’t alive so much as they were masks pretending to be strong. And now, as he approached the castle... home, he felt like he was returning to a place he no longer truly knew.

"Strange," he thought as he passed through the castle gates, "everything here is the same, but I feel like the stranger."

The servants said nothing as they saw him pass. Just silent bows and eyes watching him. As if everyone knew something was going to happen. And maybe they were right.

The grand hall was slightly dim despite the daylight. The curtains were half drawn, and the air was filled with something indescribable. Tension, perhaps?

There, by the far wall, Edgar stood.

To his left sat Rayne, legs crossed as usual when he felt bored. His left eye never stopped inspecting the nail of his right hand.

Claire was across from him, back straight, hands in her lap.

Alexis, to the side, sat in silence. He didn’t look at anyone. He clearly didn’t want to be here.

"Valerian," Edgar finally said without turning. "Close the door."

He obeyed silently, then approached and sat beside Alexis, who didn’t move.

A long moment passed where no one said anything. Only the sound of the big clock in the corner, marking time, reminding them that every minute counted.

Then Edgar said, with a heavy voice: "Everyone knows what happened in the past weeks. No need to repeat it." He paused, then turned to look at them one by one. "But we will not wait. The tournament will be held. And the three kingdoms will participate. That means we need the best we have."

He paused again, then added, "I ask you now, as your father... and as your king, will you participate? Are you ready?"

The first to move was Rayne. He chuckled lightly.

"I believe in myself more than I believe in anyone else. The tournament? Why not? I’ll be its star."

He looked at Edgar, eyes filled with confidence.

"I think this kingdom deserves a champion like me."

Claire didn’t move. Didn’t smile or even raise her eyes.

"I’ll participate," she said coldly. "Not because I want to... but because someone has to."

Edgar looked at her for a long time, but said nothing. Then turned to Alexis.

The silence continued.

"Alexis?" Edgar said, in a low voice.

The boy slowly raised his eyes, looked directly at his father, with no hesitation or regret, and said quietly:

"No."

Then he looked back down.

"Why?" Edgar asked, pain evident in his voice.

"Because I don’t want to be a clown in a show. And I don’t want to be a tool to satisfy the people," his voice was soft but clear. "This isn’t ignorance. It’s a choice."

Valerian felt something heavy in his chest. How much he resembled Alexis now...

"And you?" Edgar asked, finally.

Valerian raised his eyes, met his father’s gaze for a moment. Then looked away.

He didn’t know exactly what to say. Inside him was a mix of many things: fear, doubt, a vague yearning for power, and maybe an unexplainable sense that he just wanted to see... to see how far he could go.

"I don’t know," he said honestly. "But... maybe I’ll participate."

"Maybe?" Edgar repeated.

"I want to fight. Not to prove something, but to feel alive. But... I don’t know if I’m strong enough."

Rayne laughed again, sarcastically: "Oh, always the wise hesitant one."

Claire gave him a cold look. "At least he’s not lying to himself."

And Alexis... said nothing.

Edgar walked to the window, looked out at the garden.

"The world isn’t kind," he said. "And it doesn’t wait for those who hesitate. Cruelty isn’t a choice... it’s the rule. And the coming tournament... will not be a game."

Then he turned to them.

"But I won’t force anyone. The choice is yours. But once it’s made... there’s no going back."

Later, when everyone had dispersed, Valerian sat in his room. Same walls, same furniture, but the room felt smaller than ever.

"Maybe I’m not ready," he thought, while his hands fidgeted with his wristband.

"But when was anyone ever ready?"

He thought of Selena, of Evelyn, of Zenith, of the academy now reduced to ashes. All those names, faces, memories... they all said one thing:

That life has no mercy. And if you don’t rise, you’ll be crushed without anyone even noticing.

In another wing of the castle, Edgar stood near his desk. Letters piled up.

But he didn’t look at them.

He just stood there, pondering.

"What children they are..." he murmured. "Each of them carries a part of me, and a part of you."

He knew the tournament would be bloody. More than they expected. And maybe... it would be their end.

But he couldn’t stop them. Because this world has no mercy. It only spares those who dare to stand in the storm without closing their eyes.

And he had raised them for that, hadn’t he?

---

In the Mountains of Arinval

"Lift it higher!" shouted one of the supervisors, gesturing to the massive stone pillars being reinstalled at the arena entrance.

The workers spread across the slopes like ants, each knowing that a mistake here didn’t mean being fired it meant falling into the depths. The ropes were tightly woven, the timber dragged along pulleys, and the iron heated over fires.

On the mountain’s side, the foreman stood a bald man with arms that looked as though they were carved from the mountain itself. His voice always arrived before he did.

"I want the ground solid as steel!" he yelled, striking the near-complete arena floor with his staff. "Any vibration during the fight? They’ll say we don’t know how to build!"

A thin man beside him said fearfully:

"But, sir... the rocks here are strange. The more we dig, the more we find... black veins. And some of them move."

Orin didn’t seem afraid. He only frowned.

"This mountain is cursed, everyone knows that. But we’re not here to pray we’re here to build. Ignore the veins. And get the arena ready."

High on the cliff, another group was raising a massive statue of an unknown warrior, holding a spear and wearing a helmet that covered his entire face. It wasn’t a statue of any known hero, but a symbol. A symbol of glory.

"Do you think they’ll fight here to the end?" asked a young worker to his friend as they secured the base of the statue.

"I heard they won’t allow withdrawals," the other replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. "And those who fall... they say they die."

The first laughed lightly, but his eyes remained fixed on the valley.

"Maybe we better finish and leave before the madness starts."

On the other side, engineers were drawing precise field maps, studying angles that allowed good visibility for the audience, and guard placements.

"It’s going to be a bloody spectacle," said one, pointing to a spot on the map. "But we’re tasked with making the blood look grand."

"Can death be decorated?" his assistant murmured.

"Here? Yes. In fact, it’s sold."

As sunset approached, the main arena was taking shape. A massive stone circle, surrounded by tiered stone steps, and a central area with a smooth surface, covered with a thin white layer that held together under strikes.

At the edges, special spots were being prepared for each kingdom: platforms adorned with their emblems, designated for the kings, observers, and waiting fighters. Wooden giants were being fixed atop them statues representing each kingdom’s symbolic beast.

And at night, when the sounds dimmed and everyone retreated to temporary sleep tents, Orin stood by the arena, watching the work of an entire day.

"A lot of blood will be spilled here," he murmured, stuffing his hands into his heavy coat. "But I’ve built something that can endure. The rest isn’t my concern."

The winds calmed, and the workers slept or pretended to. No one remained in the arena.

Orin, with his right hand a hand that had known thousands of tools, thousands of swords, and thousands of broken bones stood alone in the middle of the ring, arms folded. His chest rose and fell slowly.

He let out a long sigh. "If I’m to surrender this place... at least I want to know if it will hold."

He took off his coat, revealing arms thick as tree trunks. Then he stepped forward, pulled his right fist back until his shoulder was tight like a bowstring.

And brought it down to the ground.

It wasn’t just a strike. It was what Orin called the "Fracture Blow" the most his body could deliver after decades of mining, forging, and smithing. A blow capable of shattering a boulder the size of a cart, or cracking a wall two arms thick, or as had once happened breaking the jaw of a mountain beast in a fit of rage.

When his fist met the arena floor, a subtle shockwave spread like ripples in a still pond, crawling through the ground to the edges.

A muffled, deep sound rose from beneath the arena. Then... nothing.

Orin kept his fist pressed to the stone for long seconds. His hand trembled slightly not from pain, but from tension.

He lifted it slowly and looked where he had struck.

Only a faint mark appeared, like a scar of honor. No cracks. No fractures. No screams from beneath the surface.

He smiled.

"Beautiful," he muttered, his voice rough like rock grinding against rock. "If I were younger, I’d join this tournament just to fight on it."

He lifted his eyes to the sky, to the stars, then turned his back to the arena.

"Let them come. This ground... is ready."