thief of fate-Chapter 81: Stage Three

Above the high edge of the royal platform, where the three thrones met, stood the three monarchs Yaram, Elyria, and Tarell watching the combat arena as it prepared to host the remaining hundred.

The sky was blue, of a colder hue than usual, as if something invisible had passed through it and caused it to shrink slightly, hesitant to remain.

Even the air itself... felt different.

It did not catch the attention of the guards or the priests lined up on either side of the platform, but something about the silence between the three monarchs...

Tarell was the first to speak.

"Did... either of you feel that?"

He looked to the side, where Elyria stood motionless, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Dead air. Nothing more."

Then she added after a brief moment of silence, in a calm yet faintly apprehensive tone,

"But I haven’t felt this before, not in the arena, not even during the war days."

Yaram was the slowest to respond.

He finally said, as his gaze dropped downward where the warriors had begun to gather,

"As if something took a breath here, then vanished."

Tarell looked at him, eyes holding more worry than a king should show, then said,

"And do you deny it?"

"No, I don’t deny it." Yaram replied, then sighed slowly, as if his chest had become heavier than it should be.

Beneath them, in the arena, stood the remaining hundred. Young men and women of various ages, reorganized precisely into four age groups, each containing twenty five, in preparation for decisive one on one battles.

As the horns announced the beginning of the first round, the worry withdrew from the monarchs’ eyes into their depths, like a fear that chose to remain silent... but alive.

Tarell clasped his hands behind his back, staring downward without blinking much. The scene seemed familiar, traditional... then that feeling returned again, faintly, like a drop of ink in a river. Something in the air, in the ground, in the souls of the contenders, was not pure.

"Do their eyes look... different to you?"

"Some of them look like wolves starved to the bone."

"More like wolves that tasted poisoned flesh." Yaram added, his eyes on the first duel beginning in the youngest group’s arena.

A boy and a girl, no older than fourteen, stepped steadily into the center of the circle. The boy’s steps were controlled, but his shoulders slightly hunched, as if something weighed down his chest. The girl, on the other hand, had something strange in her eyes... something that did not belong to a child that age.

"That’s not nervousness."

Elyria leaned forward slightly.

"It’s something else. Something... asleep."

Then the battle began.

The strikes were not extraordinary, nor the movements dazzling. But the determination in their eyes... was beyond normal.

The boy charged like someone fleeing from something, and the girl blocked him like someone unafraid of death. Between their strikes, there wasn’t a single moment of hesitation.

The sound of wooden weapons clashing, the shouting, the applause... all of it felt very far away to the three monarchs.

"These are not children. These... are burdened."

"Maybe we pushed too hard." It was spoken in a low voice, as if to himself, but not hidden.

Tarell looked at him. He didn’t comment, only nodded slightly.

As for Illyria, she spoke with a tone sharp despite its calmness,

"Or perhaps... something else is pressing on them."

The next battles began, one after the other. And with each passing round, it seemed the energy in the arena was shifting.

More duels.

More eyes that didn’t blink.

More faces wearing resolve that didn’t suit their age.

And in every match, one would bring down the other... and some didn’t stop until they were called upon twice.

Yaram clasped his hands in front of his face and said quietly,

"Could it be that some of them... have changed?"

"Not just some. I don’t see the eyes of those who first entered this arena."

Then silence fell between them.

A long silence.

An eerie silence.

The rounds continued like cold slaps across the face of patience.

Minutes or hours passed? Time upon the throne isn’t measured by clock, but by the weight of glances, by the number of breaths held in fear of a surprise, or released in relief after a fair duel.

But something remained missing, as if the arena, despite the blood, sweat, and applause, was still waiting for a different tone... a heartbeat yet to strike.

Tarell sighed and cast his gaze toward the horizon, where sunbeams had begun to fade into blue.

"The moment is near, isn’t it?" he asked quietly, but it was directed more to himself than the others.

Yaram, who seemed lost in deep thought, responded without turning:

"Yes... they’re coming."

Illyria raised her eyes toward the arena, now momentarily empty in preparation for the next round, and said:

"Now the real ones begin."

Her words, though spoken calmly, had the weight of drums to those who knew the names.

Kairn.

Shizo.

Zenith.

Then after them... Rayne, Valerian, Claire, and Selina.

This was the Chapter everyone had been waiting for.

As if the arena... desired to see something greater.

Kairn entered first. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

His body was a perfectly sculpted mass of muscle, but he did not walk with pride. His steps were confident, free of showmanship, as if the earth acknowledged him before he stepped.

Behind him came

Then... Zenith.

He entered without a word, without looking around. As if the world to him was just noise not worth hearing. But the moment he stood beside the others, everyone felt... something shift.

Elyria clenched her fist slightly, without even noticing, and said:

"None of them will show all their cards here... but it’s enough to see the intent behind the strike."

Tarell said with a sigh:

"And what I fear... is that some of their intents have been mixed with something else."

Yaram didn’t comment. He had begun watching another face.

Valerian.

He stood among his comrades, a few steps apart, yet it felt like he was a world away.

He wasn’t normal.

Yaram had seen him before. He remembered him, remembered that strange feeling when he stood before him. He carried something in his presence that was... unsettling. Not evil, but strange... torn.

But he watched... closely.

What’s wrong with you, boy?

Valerian was staring into the arena, but his gaze wasn’t tied to it.

As if his eyes were looking through it... to something behind it.

Then, at the moment of Kairn’s and his companions’ entry, Valerian lowered his gaze slightly, as if he didn’t want to see them... or didn’t want them to see him.

"He’s... running from himself."

Tarell heard him but didn’t reply. Yaram was not one to throw careless judgments.

In the arena, Kairn began to move forward steadily.

His opponent was a large young man, known for his physical toughness and defensive skills. But from the first moment, the match seemed decided.

Kairn’s strikes were calm... yet painful. He didn’t rush, didn’t smile, didn’t taunt with fierce glares.

Kairn was simply... a human machine.

The match ended in less than a minute.

No one applauded.

Everyone who knew the difference... went silent.

Then came Shizo.

She moved like a ghost, only seen when striking. Her opponent, fast as he was, didn’t last more than three moves.

But Zenith... didn’t move like the others.

His opponent was the fastest of them. Arrogant, full of energy, loud.

But he fell.

Not by a strike.

By a look.

Zenith didn’t raise his sword, didn’t even take a fighting stance.

His opponent charged, and Zenith remained still, looking at him like one would look at a shadow that means nothing.

And at his opponent’s first mistake... Zenith stepped lightly, closed the distance, then took him down with a single, clean, effortless strike.

Tarell said unconsciously,

"What a deadly calm."

"This isn’t just talent... this is someone raised on the edge of a blade."

Yaram wasn’t with them entirely.

His eyes never left Valerian.

In that moment, the young man finally moved. His name was called.

He stood.

But his body seemed to respond to an internal call, not an external one.

He ascended slowly, then turned toward his opponent.

And in that moment... something trembled in Yaram’s heart.

The boy wasn’t moving like someone afraid.

But like someone... dragging something heavier than himself.

His steps weren’t weak.

They were... deep.

As if something within him... was not his own.

Valerian stood at the edge of the arena, staring into the void without focus.

He felt... gazes. Heavy, unwavering, as if piercing through his skin.

From whom?

He didn’t know. But something inside him tightened, and the muscles in his shoulders tensed slightly.

He took a slow breath... then scoffed at himself under his breath.

"Stop it, Valerian. You’re not the hero of some novel."

He finally lifted his head and took a step forward.

But before he could move any further, a familiar voice came from behind deep, resonant, and laced with danger:

"Win, you little punk... or I swear your night will be a lesson in pain."

He turned quickly to find Kyle standing there, arms crossed, a devilish grin spread across his face.

"If you lose... horrors await, kid."

Valerian swallowed hard, his body straightening instinctively.

"Got it, got it!" he said with a half-panicked tone, then turned back toward the arena with firmer steps.

No choice... victory or torment.

He smiled despite the fear.

At least now, he knew what he was truly afraid of.