CHAPTER 39: THE CULLING

The first round began not with a trumpet, nor a call, but with the thunder of twenty hearts colliding at once.

The instant the Herald’s staff struck stone, chaos bloomed.

Twenty warriors surged forward like wild flame, no formation, no mercy, no plan but survival. The ground shuddered under their boots, sand bursting upward as steel met steel. Blades screamed. Shields shattered. The noise was less battle and more a storm of bodies, a dozen wars compressed into one inferno.

A mountain of a man from House Azareth, a brute wielding a warhammer that could crush a man in half charged into the fray. His first swing was reckless, devastating. It caught a boy half his size in the ribs with a sound like breaking wood.

The boy folded, blood spraying from his mouth before he even hit the ground. The crowd’s gasp turned to savage delight.

"FIRST FALL TO HOUSE ZAHAR!" roared someone draped in the red of that House, face streaked with ash and pride.

Medics rushed in through the side gates, thin, desperate figures in leather aprons, dodging wild swings as they dragged the groaning fighter out on a stretcher. One medic nearly lost his head to a stray axe.

Around them, the battle didn’t pause, it fed on the blood.

At the arena’s edge, three fighters ganged up on a man dual-wielding short swords, House Aetherion champion.

He was a blur. Ducking. Spinning. His twin blades flashed like silver lightning. He opened a gash across one opponent’s thigh, kicked another straight into the burning barrier. The man screamed once, high and short, and crawled away smoking.

"HOUSE ASHVALE FALLS!" shouted a voice from the stands.

A noblewoman in emeralds threw her betting slip down in disgust. "Useless! Fifty gold on that coward!" she hissed. Her companion laughed, collecting his winnings as if he’d been born for it.

From her throne, Eris did not move. Only her fingers twitched, gripping the armrest tighter. Even after years of witnessing the same thing, she couldn’t tell if she enjoyed it or hated it.

Beside her, Caelen leaned in to whisper something unheard, and Ophelia’s painted mouth curved into a small, secret smile.

She ignored them.

Two more fell in the next second.

One, disarmed by a whip-chain that wrapped around his wrist and yanked his sword away. The other, trapped between two rival Houses, went down beneath a storm of fists and boots.

"HOUSE VULKARIS FALLS! HOUSE DARGON FALLS!"

The Herald’s voice cut through the madness, booming above the crowd:

"FIVE ELIMINATED! FIFTEEN REMAIN! THE PYRE BURNS HIGH!"

The crowd answered in rhythm, stamping their feet, chanting,

"BLOOD FLAME! BLOOD FLAME! BLOOD FLAME!"

The chaos thinned into strategy. Fifteen left.

The strongest began to recognize the strongest.

Three warriors, clever men, surrounded the Azareth brute who had drawn first blood. Together, they attacked from three sides, feinting high, sweeping low. He roared, swung, missed. A blade caught him behind the knee. He crashed down into the sand, the hammer slipping from his grip.

They didn’t hesitate.

Blows rained down. Boots slammed into his ribs.

When he stilled, they left him for dead.

"AZARETH FALLS!"

The portly lord in the Nobles’ Box turned white as a ghost. "No, no, not Azareth!" He clutched his chest. Servants fanned him, others poured wine down his throat.

Laughter rippled around him, cruel and bright.

The alliance that had taken Azareth down broke instantly. One of the three turned on his companions, driving his sword toward his nearest ally’s back, but the man was faster. He caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted, snapping the arm clean at the elbow. The sound was... unforgettable.

"HOUSE RAVION FALLS!"

From her throne, Eris’s gaze flickered, a flash of interest, a shadow of approval.

She never really liked them.

And Soren, sitting near her, leaned forward for the first time. His eyes narrowed, studying the fighters with a kind of hungry calm.

Then came the next.

Two men locked blades and rolled into one of the Great Pyres. The crowd screamed as both caught fire, armor melting, skin blistering. Medics swarmed the field, dragging their blackened bodies out.

"HOUSE KAARAN AND HOUSE AURELIX , BOTH FALL!"

"TWELVE REMAIN! THE FLAMES BEGIN TO LOWER!" cried the Herald.

A single flower was thrown from the stands, it burst into flame midair, turning to dust before it touched the ground.

Twenty minutes in. The arena stank of sweat, blood, and scorched flesh.

Sand turned red-black beneath boot and body alike.

A scarred veteran, veins bulging at his neck, lost himself to fury. He charged a cluster of three, swinging a double-bladed axe with abandon. One blade lodged in a man’s shoulder. The veteran didn’t stop, he drove his head into another’s face, teeth flying. A third tried to flee. The berserker tackled him into the sand.

When it was over, three men lay broken. One stood, shaking, his chest heaving.

"HOUSE THYRAEN FALLS!"

High above, Soren’s focus sharpened. His mind tracked each movement, the measured rhythm of survival.

His eyes flicked from stance to stance, calculating, assessing.

He murmured to himself, three names.

Three who would make it through.

Then one of them struck.

The dual-blade fighter from House Aetherion, still as fast as ever, cut down a wounded soldier trying to crawl to safety. Three strikes. Three bleeds. Down.

"HOUSE KARIN FALLS!"

For the first time, Eris’s eyes narrowed, the faintest sign of judgment.

"TEN WARRIORS STAND! THE GREAT PYRE DIMS!"

The flames were smaller now, flickering low. Shadows lengthened. The heat grew oppressive, heavy as a shroud

THE FINAL PUSH.

Twenty-five minutes gone. Every breath a labor. Every swing a gamble.

The berserker fell next. His rage spent, his body broken. Two fighters moved like predators around him, dodging, weaving, tripping him into the obsidian sand. A blow to the temple. His body went limp.

"HOUSE AUDRIK FALLS!"

The Nobles’ Box exploded into chaos. Bets reversed. Gold changed hands faster than blood spilled below. One young lord overturned a table, screaming bloody murder. Guards hauled him away as his father wailed about his coin.

And then, the unexpected.

A wiry, quiet man, the smallest in the arena, took down a giant twice his size. He slipped inside the reach of a sword, caught the man’s arm, and twisted. Down they went. A chokehold. The larger man tapped once before collapsing.

"HOUSE STORMFORGE FALLS! EIGHT REMAIN!"

From the Pavilion, Soren’s mouth quirked faintly. Every one of his earlier predictions had proven true.

He rose to his feet, murmuring something to an attendant about needing to "take a moment to collect himself", or, in less noble terms, perhaps find relief away from the blood.

Below, the Great Pyre guttered low. The seven braziers sputtered, the once-golden flames turning red and blue at the edges.

Eight fighters still stood, barely.

Bruised. Bleeding. Wounded.

But alive.

One dropped to his knees, too injured to continue. Medics dragged him out.

"HOUSE VALKAEN YIELDS!"

Another swayed, stumbled, and fell before the Herald could even speak.

"EIGHT WARRIORS STAND AS THE FINAL EMBER FALLS!"

The last flame died.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the world roared.