Chapter 4: Shadows Behind the Flame
The victors' chambers were carved from obsidian and glass, sleek and elegant, but cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Ten suites lined a crescent-shaped corridor, each marked with a glowing sigil tied to the champion's essence.
Andrew's door didn't glow.
The steward had looked confused when assigning it, muttering something about a "non-registered signature." Andrew hadn't cared. He'd slept in worse. Much worse.
But he didn't sleep.
Not yet.
Instead, he stood on his balcony, staring at the Caedros skyline. Lights blinked along its towers like fireflies caught in crystal. Distant cheers still echoed from below as the crowd dispersed. Valmyra loved its bloodsport.
And it loved its heroes more than it feared its consequences.
A knock at his chamber door broke the silence. Light. Measured.
He didn't answer. The door opened anyway.
Kaelira stepped inside, steam trailing from her silver pauldrons. Her eyes, burning faint blue, narrowed when they found him.
"No locks?" she asked.
"No threats," Andrew replied.
"Yet."
She stepped closer, graceful and deadly. "You fought clean today. Tactical. Smart. You held back."
"I fought to win."
Kaelira studied him for a long moment. Then: "You're not like the others. Not chasing glory. Not backed by houses or kingdoms. So why are you here?"
Andrew met her gaze. "To make the right people watch."
Kaelira smirked, but there was something sharp beneath it. "Well. They are. You've drawn attention."
She turned to leave—but hesitated. "Watch Serin. The storm prince plays at silence, but he's not here for the crown or the crowd. He's here for something else."
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "And what are you here for?"
Kaelira didn't answer. She simply walked out, leaving only heat in her wake.
Later that night, as the glass moons of Valmyra rose above Caedros, a hidden chamber stirred beneath the arena floor. No lights. No banners.
Just shadows.
Inside, robed figures gathered around a scrying pool, watching the day's trial in reverse—Andrew's fights in slow motion. Every movement analyzed. Every breath dissected.
"He's not marked by the Vein," one whispered. "No trace of magic, yet he moves like a relic."
"A sword with no master," said another. "But someone forged him."
A third voice, older. Colder. "Let him win. Let him rise. Then break him where all can see."
They dipped their fingers into the water, and Andrew's image distorted—shifting into a silhouette, a crown of ash forming over his head.