It was just past dawn when Ari found him.
Xerxes stood barefoot atop one of Batangara's obsidian cliffs, where the cracked earth dropped violently into a gorge carved by generations of magical upheaval. A thin mist curled along the canyon edges, wrapping around his silhouette like a spirit reluctant to leave.
He wasn't training in the usual sense—there were no shouts, no flashy Threads or elemental flares. He was just… kicking the ball.
The relic hummed each time his foot struck it—a deep, resonating tone like a distant war drum echoing across centuries. It wasn't just movement. Each kick imprinted a glyph of momentum, a purpose. And each glyph bled into the air, fragmenting and reforming like language made of impact.
"You watch like a ghost," Xerxes said without looking. "Come to challenge or talk?"
Ari stepped forward, his shadow joining Xerxes' in the half-light.
"Talk."
Xerxes gave a low chuckle and kicked the ball again. This time, it bounced off a sharp stone and ricocheted into the air before coming to a soft stop mid-flight, suspended by a residual syntax mark. A spiral of Thread runes pulsed around it, fading after a few seconds.
"You never asked," Xerxes said. "About this thing."
He gestured to the ball, which now rested again near his foot. Its surface was aged bronze, veined with Thread-syntax and ancient engravings that didn't belong to modern schools.
"I thought it was a relic," Ari said. "You treat it like a weapon. But not like a tool."
"That's 'cause it's not a weapon," Xerxes said, his voice softening. "It's my brother."
Ari blinked.
Xerxes looked out into the gorge.
"My tribe's gone now. Long before I joined the Batangara tournament circuit. We were warriors of the Ballarun Steppe, way east—where the sky doesn't turn blue, and the thunder speaks like language. We weren't Threadbearers at first. We used these relics. Artifacts from before Threads even had schools."
He gently placed his hand on the ball, reverent.
"My brother, Ruyel, was born threadless. In our tribe, that meant exile. Weakness. But he had a mind… like a storm. He studied this relic, found ways to 'kick' spells into it—imprint motion, emotion, impact. I was the brawler, but he gave my fists purpose."
"What happened?" Ari asked quietly.
Xerxes' jaw tensed.
"We were conscripted in a war between Thread houses. Ruyel got caught trying to hack a battlefield syntax web to save me. His mind broke apart. Too much raw language, too fast. He didn't die… not really. I locked his final spell into this relic. His soul's still in there. Somewhere. When I kick it, it remembers."
Ari said nothing at first. There was a kind of sacredness in Xerxes' grief—a brutality mixed with reverence.
"That's why you fight like that," Ari said. "Not just for strength. But precision. Memory."
"Exactly." Xerxes kicked the ball again. It whirled like a comet across the canyon and bounced back to him as if the world itself couldn't bear to part with it. "I don't care about winning for the throne or glory. I fight to make sure Ruyel's spell—the final one—is never wasted. Every battle I live… he lives."
They stood there, silent for a moment, the wind howling like a distant hymn.
"You're different, Ari," Xerxes said finally. "The way your Threads move… it's not just technique. You fight like someone trying to understand the world, not conquer it."
Ari tilted his head. "And you fight like someone trying to remember it."
Xerxes smiled—a rare, tired smile.
"Yeah," he said. "Guess we're both carrying things that don't belong to us anymore."
The ball pulsed gently between them.
And for that one quiet morning, there were no duels. No tournaments. No fragments or ancient languages.
Just two warriors beneath the early light.