CHAPTER 40: STRANGER

The medical pavilions behind the arena pulsed like living hearts, each tent glowing gold through the heavy canvas, the air thick with the smell of smoke, herbs, and blood. Inside, it was quieter but not peaceful. The silence there was tight, broken only by groans, whispered prayers, and the hiss of burning magic.

Eight slabs formed a perfect circle at the center of the largest tent. The surviving Eight lay upon them, bodies stripped of armor, skin slick with sweat and streaked in dust and blood.

Around them moved the Flame Menders as they were called, mages of the kingdom, each from a noble family who still carried the blessings of Pyronox, their robes deep orange, threaded with ember-bright veins that seemed to pulse and shimmer as they worked. The air trembled with the weight of their power.

When the Head Mender raised her hands, the others followed in unison.

"Vaer’kath sulai renor."

Their palms ignited, not with red fire, but green. The light was soft, almost holy, bathing each wounded fighter in warmth. The flames sank into flesh without burning, spreading through skin, muscle, and bone.

Wounds sealed as if time itself reversed, deep cuts knitting closed, bruises paling and vanishing, blood evaporating into steam that hung faintly in the air.

One warrior jolted as a rib cracked back into place with a sharp snap. Another, who had been coughing blood minutes ago, exhaled clean air for the first time. The green like glow crawled across them like vines until not a trace of the battlefield remained, save for the faint pink ghosts of old wounds.

Then came the Boost.

The Head Mender, her hair gleaming silver and her eyes grey, stepped into the circle. She lifted both hands high, her voice old but resonant.

"Vael’nora suun kai’thar elen"

The words rippled like thunder through the tent. Flames burst from her palms and spread outward in a wide ring, washing over the eight fighters. They convulsed, not in pain, but in renewal. The glow sank into their skin, into their very veins, until their hearts beat brighter, harder, faster. It was as if a coal had been placed within each chest, hot, alive, hungry.

Breathless, they sat up. Their exhaustion evaporated. Strength surged through their limbs.

They rose one by one, rolling shoulders, flexing hands, testing the power thrumming beneath their skin. Eyes once dulled by fatigue now burned with focus. They were not the same fighters who had fallen bleeding in the arena, they were sharper, harder, almost reborn.

Meanwhile, in the smaller tents nearby, the Fallen Fifteen endured slower care. Their tents smelled of salve and sweat. There, lesser menders rationed Lifeflame sparingly, closing only what was necessary. Limbs were splinted, flesh stitched by hand. Pain dulled, but not erased. Their recovery would take days, not minutes, and none of them would ever forget what they saw in the circle of gold light beyond their reach.

Outside, the crowd could see it too, the golden glow leaking through the canvas walls like dawn breaking.

They roared in approval.

Nobles in their gilded balconies leaned close to whisper and wager anew, adjusting their bets based on who had looked strongest before the healers’ touch.

And when the bells tolled one hour later, the tents dimmed. The golden light faded.

The eight chosen fighters, restored, sharpened, unstoppable, stepped once more toward the hero’s gate.

The arena trembled under the continuous roar of the crowd, a living storm of sound and heat. The braziers blazed higher, tongues of fire writhing like serpents, painting molten light across the obsidian sand.

Eight warriors stood in gleaming armor, blades polished, banners of their houses trailing behind them like ribbons of flame. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and pride.

But then,

The crowd’s jubilation broke. Confusion rippled through the tiers like a wave. At first, no one understood what they were seeing. Then came the gasps.

A lone figure pushed through the gates, each step deliberate, heavy with authority that defied the guards shouting after him.

His armor was black as cooled ash, seamless and unmarked by any crest or sigil. It devoured the firelight around it. The visor of his helmet was nothing but shadow, no reflection, no humanity, only a hollow abyss where a face should have been.

He moved as though the arena were already his.

The Herald’s voice cracked, high and incredulous.

"What—who is this? GUARDS!"

But the man wasn’t even moved.

Eight champions turned as one, weapons drawn, stances dropping into readiness. The obsidian sand shifted beneath their boots. The stranger kept walking, unhurried, as if he were walking through a field leisurely, not toward eight armed killers.

By the time he stopped, the crowd had gone utterly still, thousands holding their breath, as if afraid to exhale in his presence.

"YOU THERE!" the Herald barked from where he stood, gripping the speaking trumpet. "This arena is for the sacred duel! Identify yourself immediately or be removed!"

The stranger lifted his head toward the Herald, the faintest echo of amusement in the tilt of his helmet.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rich, and steady, the kind that cut through noise like a blade through silk.

"I’m here to participate."

The world froze.

Then the arena exploded in laughter, derision, outrage. The commons shouted curses; nobles exchanged appalled glances.

"Who is the crazy fellow?" Asked one of them.

The Herald went red. "Participate? Are you MAD? The Culling has ended! Only these eight have earned the right to continue—"

"I’m here," the man interrupted, his tone still calm, "to challenge all eight of them."

Silence. Like a candle snuffed out.

Then bedlam. The stands erupted again, jeers, laughter, disbelief, a thousand voices clawing for dominance. One of the fighters spat into the dirt.

"Is he crazy or suicidal?" Another fighter scoffed.

"Poor man has a death wish." The one standing beside him added.

"Then we shall make it quick and painless for him."

The Herald’s voice cracked again, this time shrill with fury. "You—you DARE mock the Duel of Cinders?! You make a mockery of sacred tradition!"

"I’m not mocking anything," the stranger said. "I’m completely serious."

"What house do you represent?" the Herald roared. "Name your bloodline, your right, your claim to stand here!"

The stranger’s answer was quiet... dangerously quiet.

"None. I represent no house. I’m here for myself."

Gasps. Sharp and collective. The nobles leaned forward in disbelief.

"That’s blasphemy!" the Herald spat. "You have NO right!"

"I have every right."

"You have nothing! Leave this arena or face imprisonment! If you wish to compete, you will petition next year through the Council—"

"I can’t wait that long."

The Herald froze. "What?"

The stranger tilted his head up toward the Royal Pavilion, that dark, seamless visor finding the Queen’s figure seated high above.

And when he spoke again, his words were quiet, but they reached every ear.

"I have a feeling if I did... the Queen might slip away from me."

The world stopped.

A thousand voices turned to shrieking chaos, scandal, fury, disbelief. The nobles shook from disbelief in their seats, shouting accusations, clutching pearls. The commoners howled, half in shock, half in awe.

Eris herself did not move. Her hand tightened around the armrest, knuckles whitening. A crack appeared in her perfect mask of composure.

Beside her, Caelen leaned forward sharply, eyes narrowing in alarm.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!" the Herald bellowed. "You DARE speak of Her Majesty in such manner?! You—"

"She knows what I mean," the stranger said simply, turning ever so casually towards the royal pavilion where Eris sat.

The arena erupted again.

The Herald’s voice broke with rage. "GUARDS! SEIZE—"

The stranger raised a gloved hand, and the entire arena went quiet as if the flames themselves obeyed him. His voice boomed, commanding:

"The rules state that only two survivors must advance to the Crucible. But nowhere... nowhere does it say a new challenger cannot join before it begins. I am not breaking your tradition. I am merely invoking my right to challenge."

The Herald stammered, "There—there IS no such right!"

The stranger’s head turned slightly. "Show me where it’s forbidden."

The Herald’s mouth opened. Closed. Nothing. He turned helplessly toward the pavilion.

The fighters stirred, restless. One called out, "Enough talk! Let us gut him and be done with it!"

The crowd split in two, half baying for blood, half chanting for the stranger to fight.

And then, Eris rose.

The world went silent again. Even the fire stilled, burning low and steady, as if bowing to her presence.

"You claim the right to challenge," she said. Her voice carried like smoke, cold, sharp, regal.

"I do, Your Majesty."

"You hide your face. You claim no house. You speak in riddles." Her gaze was molten steel. "Why should I allow this?"

The stranger tilted his helmet toward her. "Because I’ve made you curious."

A murmur rippled through the stands. The gamble hung in the air like a drawn blade.

Eris’s expression didn’t change for a long time. Then she said, slowly, "Then I have a condition." She mused.

"If you fight, and you fall in defeat, I will not spare your life. You will face death by my hand for this insolence. Do you understand?"

"I understand your Majesty."

She watched him for one last, searing moment, and then:

"He may participate."

Chaos erupted.

The Herald dropped his trumpet entirely. Nobles shouted, furious, disbelieving. The commons screamed approval, the noise shaking the air. The eight fighters looked stunned, unsure whether to laugh or draw blood.

Caelen’s eyes flicked to his Queen in disbelief. The Consort’s Lover went still, face darkening with something like dread. The Emperor smiled faintly, whispering something to his aide.

The Queen sat again, her composure returned, voice cool and final:

"I have spoken. Let the match begin."

The stranger drew his sword, black steel catching no light, and turned back to the others. His stance was easy, fluid, almost lazy. Like this was a pastime activity.

The eight warriors spread out, faces hardening into grim focus.

The Herald, breathless, raised his arm again. "The—The Queen has spoken! The match will proceed with NINE competitors! May the strongest prevail!"

The braziers roared to life, flames snapping high enough to lick the night.

And across the black sand, the stranger’s voice echoed once, steady, certain:

"Let’s begin."