CHAPTER 46: NO WISH

The Stranger lifted his head slightly. The dark visor reflected her face back at her, a thousand molten shards of herself.

"Because mystery, Your Majesty," he said softly, "keeps even the gods entertained."

A ripple went through the stands... laughter stifled by fear.

Eris’ expression didn’t change. "Then perhaps you’ll humor me with less poetry and more truth. Your lineage. Your house. What master do you serve?"

The Stranger tilted his head. "None," he said. "And as for lineage... I come from a line that cannot be slain nor saved. A cursed blood that devours itself to live. We end only when we consume our own."

Her eyes flickered, a strange recognition, something she didn’t want to name. Refused to. "A bold claim," she murmured, "for a man with no face."

He chuckled under his breath, low and dangerous. "I’ve worn many faces, Your Majesty. All of them burn the same in the end."

"You speak as if fire answers to you."

"No," he said. "Only that it listens."

That earned him a slow, careful smile, the kind that never reached her eyes. "So. You serve no master."

"Only myself."

"Then you are a servant of a merciless one," she said, almost idly. "I’ve met such men before. They mistake freedom for purpose and end chained to both."

The Stranger’s head inclined slightly. "And yet here you stand, ruling a world built on both."

That silenced her, just for a breath, the kind of silence that hums with the threat of violence.

"You joined the Proving for a reason," she said finally. "Tell me what you seek."

"You," he said.

Gasps tore through the crowd.

Eris’ gaze sharpened. "Choose your words wisely."

He rose from his kneel to meet her eyes through the slit in his helm. "I seek a wish from you, Fire Queen. That is the victor’s right, isn’t it?"

Her chin lifted. "And how can I grant a wish to a man without a name or a face?"

"Surely," he murmured, "a queen who commands flame can grant shape to smoke."

Her lips parted... not from shock, but from the audacity of it. "And how can you be so sure of my generosity?"

"Because," he said, stepping closer, "you wouldn’t be who you are if you denied the fire its curiosity."

A hush spread through the coliseum... every breath suspended between them.

Eris’ eyes narrowed. "Do you know I could have you executed for insolence?"

He didn’t flinch. "I know."

"And yet you sound... unbothered."

"Because I’m certain," he said quietly, "you won’t."

The words landed heavy, not arrogance, but conviction. For a fleeting moment, something old and buried flickered across her face. Recognition. Memory.

Finally, she exhaled. "Very well. Then let the victor name his wish."

All around them, the arena leaned forward. Even the torches seemed to still.

The Stranger stood tall, head bowed just slightly reverent, mocking, both. "I have no wish... yet."

The sound spread through the crowd like shattering glass.

Eris’ expression hardened, irritation sizzling underneath. "Do not toy with me. A wish is not a coin you may hoard."

He angled his head. "Then perhaps I’ll spend it when it’s worth something."

"Bold."

"I’ve been called worse."

Their eyes locked, flame against shadow.

At last, she turned away, the crimson of her gown swirling like blood in water. "Very well, stranger. Keep your wish. But when you return for it... I expect you to show your face."

He bowed low, the smile audible in his voice. "Then I’ll pray the gods grant me one worthy of your gaze."

Eris didn’t look back as she walked away, but her pulse betrayed her..

The moment the Queen turned her back on the Stranger, the illusion of stillness shattered.

The crowd, held breathless for too long, erupted into pandemonium, the roar of thousands crashing like surf against stone. Nobles leapt to their feet, voices tumbling over one another, already spinning speculation into politics, gossip into prophecy.

"The faceless knight!"

"Did you see the way she looked at him?"

"No sigil, no name—perhaps a royal bastard—"

"Or worse... a revenant."

The Herald, his voice hoarse from awe and strain, raised his trumpet again. "VICTORY... TO THE KNIGHTLESS GHOST!"

The declaration rolled like thunder. Fireworks burst above the arena, scattering embers that rained like falling stars. Beneath their glow, the Stranger stood unmoving, sword point resting in the sand, his gaze lifted to where the Queen had vanished into the towering buildings.

Up in the noble tier, courtiers were already in motion. Scrolls passed between trembling fingers. Runners sprinted to and from the palace spires, carrying news that would bloom into rumors by dawn.

It was no surprise that by the time the first flute struck up a tune for the midnight ball, the tale of the faceless warrior would have already split into a dozen versions , each more blasphemous, more romantic, more dangerous than the last.

But Eris did not wait to hear the start of those rumors

Her guards fell in around her as she left the arena, her footsteps echoing through the vaulted corridor beneath the stands. The torches flickered as she passed, the flames seemed to bend toward her, drawn to the heat in her wake.

She said nothing until they reached the bronze doors leading to her private wing. Then—

"Report."

One of her knights stepped forward, helm under his arm. His voice carried the faint rasp of fear. "Your Majesty... we’ve received word. The Ice Emperor was sighted not an hour past... near the outer watchtower by the southern ridge."

Eris stopped dead. Her heart skipped once, hard. "The ridge?" she repeated softly.

"Yes, Your Majesty. The guards claim he was alone. He vanished before they could approach."

Her gaze flicked upward, to the ceiling fresco of the twin thrones, fire and ice entwined. For a moment, her control wavered; the air around her rippled with heat, a shimmer like mirage.

Then her voice returned, perfectly level. "Keep the sighting quiet. Double the guard at the tower. No one approaches without my leave."

The knight bowed and retreated.

Eris exhaled through her nose, the faintest tremor betraying the battle under her calm.

The stranger’s voice still lingered in her mind ... the cadence, the composure, the audacity.

It wasn’t his tone that haunted her. It was his restraint. That same, infuriating control she once knew far too well.

No. She forced the thought away.

If the Ice Emperor wished to haunt the shadows of Solmire, let him. So long as he did not cross her flame, his intrigues were no concern of hers.

There were greater matters tonight... weightier, colder things.

By dawn, she would no longer be queen.

---

The royal chambers were awash in firelight, the glow from the hearth spilling across marble floors and gilded furniture, painting everything in molten gold. Outside the high arched windows, the sound of distant celebration drifted up from the palace courtyards... laughter, strings, and the clinking of glass... a world away from the silence that cloaked this room.

Caelen sat near the window, still in half-armor, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, the other loosely gripping a cup of untouched wine. He hadn’t spoken in a while. The flames from the hearth flickered in his eyes, restless, reflecting something he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Ophelia stood behind him, her hand brushing across his shoulder in quiet habit. The gesture was meant to soothe, though she could feel the tension running through him like a drawn bowstring.

"You’re quiet," she murmured, her voice soft against the distant music below.

He blinked once, as though dragged from some faraway thought. "I was thinking about the fight."

She smiled faintly. "You always did enjoy a spectacle."

Caelen’s fingers tightened around the armrest. "That wasn’t a spectacle. That was Soren."

Her smile faltered. "You don’t know that."

"I do," he said. "The stance. The way he moves. The timing before each strike. It’s him."

Ophelia moved toward the hearth, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor. The fire caught in her hair as she spoke. "If it is him, then it’s just Soren being Soren. You know how he is, reckless, dramatic, always chasing the edge of the impossible."

Caelen didn’t look at her. He was staring out the window now, down toward the distant glow of the arena far below. "It’s not the first time he’s done something foolish," she continued, gentler this time. "He lives for the rush, for attention—"

His eyes finally met hers, sharp as a blade. "No. But it’s the first time he’s done it under her gaze."

The silence that followed was long and fragile.

Ophelia’s throat tightened. She didn’t like the way he said her. Not as a queen. As something else. Something older, more dangerous

That struck something deep, something she didn’t want to name.

The tension between the three of them, old, tangled, and dangerous, stirred beneath her ribs.

She tried to laugh it off, but it came out too soft. "You worry too much. Tonight’s about celebration, not ghosts."

But Caelen’s gaze didn’t move from the arena’s heart, where the sand still smoked faintly from the fight. "You don’t bury ghosts by pretending they’re gone," he said.

She didn’t reply. And in the heavy quiet that followed, even the music from the ballroom below seemed too bright, too hollow — like laughter before a storm.