The Shattered Crowns

Daenys and Nirme stepped into the town hall, and it was already abuzz with activity. The large building had been transformed into a fitting venue for the Blood Tourney. A single circle dominated the center of the hall, surrounded by rows of mismatched chairs for spectators. Long tables had been arranged along the walls, laden with kegs of ale and trays of roasted meats and bread, though some of the food was still being prepared by servants scurrying to keep pace. A smaller, raised platform sat off to one side, bearing the seats reserved for the Gahkars.

Nirme took one of the central chairs on the raised platform, motioning for Daenys to sit slightly behind him. She shifted uncomfortably as the room filled with the quiet murmur of warriors, their anticipation thick in the air. The hall smelled of sweat, spiced meats, and damp leather.

"I would like your thoughts on each Gahkar after the Blood Tourney," Nirme said, his voice low and even.

Daenys raised an eyebrow, confused by the request. "Shouldn't you be the one speaking of the Gahkars? You command them, do you not?" she asked. To her, a good leader ought to know their subordinates—how they acted, what they valued.

"They serve in name only," Nirme replied, leaning back in his seat. His gaze swept across the growing crowd. "Each one has their own ambitions. Some seek power. Others crave fame or fortune. Their loyalty to Estil is secondary to their own desires."

"That seems... inefficient," Daenys remarked, frowning. If the Gahkars were so divided, how could they hope to lead an army?

Nirme chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "We are the descendants of slaves, Daenys. Would you expect a unified hierarchy from such a history?"

Daenys tilted her head in thought. "Yes," she said eventually. "There's strength in unity, and without it, Estil seems..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "... fractured."

"Yet it does not fall apart," Nirme countered. He turned to look at her directly, his eyes sharp. "Tell me, Daenys, how would you motivate a people like us?"

She considered the question carefully. Her mother would have said that people acted out of self-interest, doing what they must to survive. Her father, on the other hand, believed in the potential for kindness and cooperation, that people could rise above themselves for the good of others. She wondered which answer would satisfy Nirme—or if either would.

Finally, she said, "People act when they gain something in return. Show them a common enemy, a threat to unite against, and they will follow like a pack of karnen wolves."

Nirme raised an eyebrow, impressed by the answer. "A pragmatic view. I would disagree, however. Every Gahkar thinks they have the answer to Estil's problems, but it is the leader who decides what is best. And it is the leader who will be judged for their decisions."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a tall, lanky man who approached the platform with a quiet confidence. He carried two taloned daggers on his hips and moved with a grace that belied his plain appearance.

"They certainly charge relentlessly," the man said, picking up the thread of their discussion as if he'd been part of it all along. "It makes my task all the easier."

Nirme rubbed at his temple and let out a long sigh. "Gahkar Varn. It has been some time since we last fought together."

"Aye, it has, Old Wolf," Varn replied, taking a seat on the platform. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the room with the precision of a hunter assessing potential prey. "Hopefully this Blood Tourney will strengthen the bonds between us before the siege of the Pickette."

Varn's restless demeanor did not go unnoticed. He tapped the arm of his chair rhythmically, his sharp gaze darting from one warrior to another, weighing and measuring them. Daenys couldn't shake the feeling that he saw more than he let on.

Nirme smirked faintly. "You seem on edge tonight, Shadow Walker. I thought the Outsiders of the Light thrived in chaos."

Varn leaned back, his lips twitching into a faint grin. "There's no chaos here, only predictability. Your raid was a test for the Deadites, was it not? Letting them take the town while the rest of us observed—it wasn't hard to discern your intent."

"You are the only Gahkar who seems to understand that," Nirme said, though his tone lacked warmth.

Varn chuckled softly. "I am not so easily fooled, Old Wolf."

The hall continued to fill as warriors and their Gahkars arrived. The low hum of conversation grew louder, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter or the clink of tankards. Kadikar, the Gahkar of the Deadites, made his entrance with the subtlety of a crashing boulder. Estil warriors stepped back to make way as the massive man strode in, his golden shoulder marks gleaming like small suns. He held a mug of ale in one hand and bellowed, "Is this what Blood Tourneys have come to? Where is the drink? Where is the food?"

Servants scrambled to bring him what he demanded. Kadikar filled his mug from a keg, the dark red liquid sloshing as he took a long drink before slamming the mug onto the table. He seated himself beside Nirme, his presence casting a long shadow over the proceedings.

"Looks like the humble shadow has finally decided to get some sun," Kadikar said, his booming voice aimed squarely at Varn.

"Seems you've drunk enough for the both of us, Kadikar," Varn replied smoothly. "Perhaps this time you'll finally fall on your back and stay there."

Their exchange drew laughter from the assembled warriors, though it was cut short by the arrival of two more Gahkars. The first was a man clad in dark green and white armor, his helmet adorned with antlers. A massive spear rested on his back, its polished shaft glinting faintly in the firelight.

The second man was a stark contrast, dressed in flowing royal blue robes embroidered with intricate animal motifs. A live snake coiled lazily around his shoulders, its scales catching the light as it flicked its tongue.

The man in blue raised his chalice in mock salute. "Shall we wager on whether a Deadite will succumb to Drema's Rage tonight?" he asked his companion.

The green-armored Gahkar scratched his chin thoughtfully. "We may yet see it," he replied. "I would be a fool to take that bet."

Kadikar grinned, revealing teeth that looked more suited to a predator than a man. "None of my Deadites would lose to those who hide in shadows," he boasted.

Varn leaned forward, his dagger twirling lazily in his hand. "Would you care to put that claim to the test?"

As the Blood Tourney neared its beginning, the air in the hall grew electric. Warriors paired off in the circle, grappling and wrestling as the Gahkars watched. The matches were fierce, each one a showcase of skill and brute strength. Cheers and jeers echoed through the building, accompanied by the occasional thud of a body hitting the ground.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. A new arrival entered the hall, and the buzz of conversation dwindled into uneasy silence. The man who entered was monstrous in size, his long silver-streaked beard and weathered face exuding an aura of quiet menace. His gray, ragged hair framed a face that looked more skull than flesh, and his blindfold—a bloody strip of cloth—only added to his haunting appearance. Four muscled arms crossed over his chest, each hand resting lightly on a weapon.

The Gahkar stepped forward, his gait slow and deliberate. The sound of his boots on the wooden floor was the only noise in the room. When he finally reached the platform, he stopped and spoke a single word in a rasping voice: "Gahkars."

The silence stretched on as he took his seat, his presence a weight on the hall. Daenys felt the air grow heavy, like the hush before an arrow loosed from its bow. Her instincts screamed at her, warning her of danger, but she forced herself to remain still.

Nirme broke the silence, his voice calm and steady. "I am glad to have your company, Berm."

A crooked smile tugged at the corners of Berm's lips, but he said nothing more. The other Gahkars exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to challenge the man's unsettling aura.

The hall pulsed with energy as the Blood Tourney began in earnest. The grappling matches were an explosion of motion—warriors locking arms, slamming bodies, and straining against each other as cheers and insults rained from the crowd. The first matches tested strength, endurance, and guile, and although the fights weren't bloody, they carried a primal intensity.

Daenys watched closely as men and women were thrown to the ground, their bodies twisting like wrestlers in the throes of a hunt. Some victories were swift, a sudden twist or trip sending an opponent tumbling out of the circle. Others dragged on as fighters grappled like beasts, sweat and sand matting their skin.

Nirme leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Pay attention, Daenys," he murmured, his voice low enough to avoid distracting the other Gahkars. "Even in the grappling, you'll see the spirit of each warband. These matches are more than displays of skill—they reveal how a warrior thinks under pressure."

Daenys nodded, her eyes fixed on the wrestlers in the circle. Each warrior fought with a style unique to their warband. The Drome warriors relied on brute strength, using their thick limbs and raw power to overpower opponents. In contrast, the Outsiders of the Light displayed cunning and dexterity, slipping through holds and turning their opponent's strength against them. The Deadites were vicious, their techniques rough and unrelenting, often toeing the line between grappling and outright combat.

Her attention was drawn to one Deadite in particular—a towering man with five jagged black marks carved into the bone of his shoulder armor. His movements were brutal but precise, and his victories came quickly, often with his opponent gasping in the dirt.

"That's Michael," Kadikar said with a booming laugh, noticing her gaze. He clapped a meaty hand on the armrest of his chair. "One of my finest captains. He's earned every one of those marks—and he'll earn more before this night is through."

Daenys raised an eyebrow. "You seem confident."

Kadikar grinned, showing teeth like a wolf. "Confidence is the currency of war, girl. Without it, you're just waiting to die."

Nearby, Varn smirked. "Confidence doesn't win battles, Kadikar. Strategy does. Your Deadites may be strong, but strength alone won't carry them past the Pickette."

Kadikar bristled at the remark, but before he could reply, a roar from the crowd signaled the end of another match. A Deathless warrior had thrown a Drome to the ground with a thunderous slam, drawing cheers and applause from the spectators. The victorious Deathless stood tall, his gleaming armor catching the firelight as he raised a hand to acknowledge the crowd.

"That's Reman," Nirme said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "One of my younger warriors. He has potential."

"Potential means little without results," muttered Dres, the Gahkar of the Stareaters. His green and white armor creaked as he leaned forward to get a better look at the Deathless. "We'll see how he fares against my Drome when the real fighting begins."

Nirme didn't respond, but Daenys noticed a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She wasn't sure if it was amusement or confidence—perhaps both.

The grappling matches continued, and the crowd grew louder with each victory and defeat. The warriors who remained unbroken moved on to the next round, while the losers slunk back to their warbands, licking their wounds and nursing bruised egos.

It was during this lull that another figure made his entrance. At first, he seemed unassuming—just a man in dark leathers with a crescent blade at his hip. His cloak, stitched with black scales, rippled as he walked, the light from the torches sliding off it like water over stone. Yet despite his lack of grandeur, the air in the hall shifted as he approached. Warriors instinctively made way for him, their conversations faltering.

Daenys' hunter instincts screamed a warning. She couldn't pinpoint why, but there was something off about him—something predatory. Her fingers twitched toward her bow, though she doubted it would do her any good.

The man stopped near the platform, his milky, clouded eyes scanning the room. For a moment, they locked onto Daenys, and her throat tightened. He raised a single finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, his expression unreadable.

Nirme spoke first, his tone even but laced with familiarity. "Hannibal. I was wondering when you'd decide to show yourself."

The man's lips curled into a faint smile as he tipped his hat. "The Great Hunt calls, but I answer other summons as well. I wouldn't miss a Blood Tourney, especially not one with such... colorful participants."

"You flatter yourself," Varn said, though his usual swagger was tempered. He twirled a dagger lazily, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "It's rare to see the First Hunter outside his shadowed woods. Did the Lunar Storms chase you out?"

Hannibal ignored the jab, his attention shifting to Daenys. "And who is this young griffin perched beside the Old Wolf?" His voice was smooth, yet it carried a sharp edge, like the sound of steel sliding free of a sheath.

Daenys straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Daenys Godren," she said, her voice steady. "And who are you to ask?"

The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitched. "A hunter, like you," he said simply. "Though I suspect our prey differs."

Daenys frowned, unsure what to make of the cryptic response. Before she could press further, Kadikar let out a booming laugh, breaking the tension.

"Hannibal, you slippery bastard! Come, sit and watch the Deadites crush your Reavers. Or do you fear they'll lose?"

"I fear nothing," Hannibal replied, his tone calm. He stepped into the light, his presence somehow both subdued and commanding. The crowd murmured as they noticed him, and a ripple of unease spread through the warriors. He was known, it seemed, though not necessarily trusted.

Hannibal took a seat, and the matches resumed.

By the time the grappling concluded, the air in the hall was thick with smoke and anticipation. The remaining warriors—those who had proven themselves in strength and skill—prepared for the next stage: the duels of steel. Weapons clanged as they were drawn, and the crowd roared with excitement.

Sixteen fighters stood ready in the circle, their weapons gleaming under the torchlight. Among them were Reman, Michael, and an Impaler clad in armor that looked like it had been dredged from the depths of the sea. Tubes and latches crisscrossed his suit, and the drills on his arms gleamed menacingly.

Nirme stood, his voice cutting through the noise. "Warriors of Estil, you have proven your strength in the grapples. Now prove your skill in the duels. Let the Blood Tourney continue!"

The crowd erupted as the first duel began: Reman versus an Ironblood. The two warriors circled each other, their weapons poised. The Ironblood's spear and shield moved in perfect tandem, a testament to his discipline, but Reman was faster. He struck like lightning, his spear sweeping low to knock the Ironblood off balance before driving the blunt end against his chest. The Ironblood crumpled, gasping for air.

Reman stepped back, his spear held steady. He looked to Nirme, awaiting judgment.

"The Ironblood has lost," Nirme said. "What say you, Reman?"

"I say his life is not mine to take," the Deathless replied, his voice carrying a note of pride. He turned and walked away, leaving the Ironblood to stagger to his feet.

The next match was longer and bloodier, a clash between a Reaver and a Drome. The Drome's sheer size gave him an advantage, but the Reaver's sickles were faster. They danced around each other, trading blows, until the Drome finally fell to his knees, blood pouring from a dozen shallow cuts.

As the matches progressed, the crowd grew louder, their cheers and jeers shaking the rafters. The energy in the room was electric, a storm of excitement and tension.

The air between the Gahkars was as sharp as the blades drawn for the duels below. Despite the revelry of the crowd, a quiet tension lingered on the raised platform. Each Gahkar sat like a piece on a chessboard, their movements deliberate, their words calculated. Daenys observed them carefully, trying to piece together their roles and relationships.

Varn, the Shadow Walker, was relaxed but watchful, his taloned knives glinting faintly as he toyed with them. Kadikar, the towering Gahkar of the Deadites, sat forward in his chair, his broad frame dominating the space around him. Dres, with his green and white armor, leaned casually to the side, but his sharp eyes darted like a hawk's, missing nothing. Augustus, regal in his orange fur pelt and scaled armor, conversed quietly with Wen, who idly stroked the snake draped across his shoulders. And then there was Hannibal, the First Hunter, who remained an enigmatic shadow among them, his milky eyes betraying no emotion as he observed the proceedings.

As the first match concluded, Nirme's calm voice broke the silence. "Reman has proven his skill once again. It seems the Deathless remain as disciplined as ever."

"Discipline only gets you so far," Kadikar grunted, slamming a fist on the armrest of his chair. "The Deadites fight with spirit, with fury. That's why Michael will take the final match—you'll see."

"Spirit?" Varn drawled, his tone laced with mockery. "Is that what you call that berserk rage of yours? Remind me, Kadikar, how many of your Deadites have lost their minds in the middle of battle this year alone?"

Kadikar growled, leaning forward as if to challenge the smaller man. "Enough of them have remained sane to take villages while you skulk in the shadows, assassin."

Varn smirked, unbothered by the insult. "Skulking, as you call it, has kept my Outsiders alive while your warriors die screaming. Perhaps you should learn the value of subtlety."

"Subtlety doesn't win wars," Kadikar snapped. "It's the sharp edge of a blade and the weight of a hammer that carve victory. Your precious shadows can't hold the line when Astad's armies come crashing down."

"A deal then?" Varn asked.

"Name it." Kadikar growled.

"I get access to the temple of Drema, a simple thing really. Nothing that should matter to you." Varn replied knowing it would very much be a problem.

"And if I win?" Kadikar grunted.

Varn smiled, "I'll give you full access to my military knowledge. No loss for you really only gain. Unless you don't trust your prestigious warrior."

Kadikar rose from his chair, "You have a deal snake. Michael win this and you would be one of my personal guard. A true Deadite blessed by Drema himself."

Before Varn could retort again, Dres cut in, his voice smooth but firm. "Enough. This is a Blood Tourney, not one of your squabbles. Let the warriors prove which philosophy prevails."

Kadikar huffed but leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming impatiently against the armrest. Varn, meanwhile, gave Dres a small nod, as if acknowledging a point in an unspoken game.

Below, the next duel began. A Drome warrior, massive and heavily armored, faced a lean Outsider of the Light. The size difference was stark, and the crowd roared as the two fighters circled each other.

The Drome charged first, his heavy mace swinging in a wide arc. The Outsider dodged with ease, slipping past the blow and slashing at the Drome's side with his taloned daggers. Sparks flew as the blades scraped against armor, but the Outsider didn't stop. He darted around his opponent like a shadow, striking again and again, each blow testing the Drome's defenses.

"Impressive," Augustus remarked, watching the duel with interest. "Your Outsiders fight with remarkable precision, Varn. It's almost... artistic."

"Art requires a steady hand," Varn replied, his voice light. "And my warriors are masters of their craft."

Kadikar snorted. "Craft won't save him if he gets caught. One good swing from that Drome, and he'll be paste."

As if on cue, the Drome landed a glancing blow, his mace smashing into the Outsider's shoulder. The crowd gasped as the smaller warrior staggered, but he quickly recovered, darting out of reach before the Drome could follow up.

"Your Drome fights well, Dres," Nirme observed, his tone neutral. "But he's not adjusting to the Outsider's speed."

Dres nodded thoughtfully. "He's used to fighting opponents who stand their ground. This will be a good lesson for him—if he survives."

The Outsider seized the opening, slipping behind the Drome and driving both daggers into the back of his knees. The larger man collapsed with a roar, his legs buckling beneath him. Before the Drome could rise, the Outsider placed a blade at his throat and looked to the Gahkars for judgment.

"The match is yours," Dres said, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment. "Spare him. He'll learn more from this defeat than he would from death."

The Outsider nodded, stepping back and allowing the Drome to be dragged from the circle. The crowd cheered, their bloodlust momentarily sated.

As the fights continued, the conversation among the Gahkars grew more pointed. The upcoming siege of the Pickette loomed over every word, its shadow stretching across the Blood Tourney like a storm cloud.

"The Pickette will be our greatest test yet," Augustus said, his voice steady but grave. "If we can take it, Astad's forces will be fractured, their supply lines severed."

"And if we fail?" Mox, the Gahkar of the Ironbloods, interjected. His golden hair gleamed in the firelight as he fixed Augustus with a piercing gaze. "What happens then?"

"We don't fail," Kadikar growled. "The Deadites will see to that."

"Overconfidence is a dangerous thing, Kadikar," Wen said, his tone as smooth as the snake coiled around his shoulders. "Astad's defenses are formidable. Their King won't surrender the Pickette without a fight."

"They don't need to surrender," Kadikar replied, baring his teeth. "They just need to bleed."

"And how much blood are you willing to spill?" Varn asked, his voice quieter than before. "How many of your warriors will you sacrifice for a tower?"

Kadikar glared at him but said nothing. The silence was heavy, the unspoken question hanging in the air: Was the Pickette worth the cost?

Nirme finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "We don't have the luxury of second-guessing ourselves. The Pickette must fall, and every warband will play its part. This is the price of freedom—of survival."

"Spoken like a true general," Mox said, though there was a faint edge of skepticism in his tone. "Let's hope your plan is as strong as your resolve."

The next duel was one the crowd had been waiting for: Michael, the Deadite captain, against a Reaver warrior. The Reaver's curved sickles gleamed under the torchlight as he squared off against the Deadite, whose jagged bone blade looked more like a weapon forged for beasts than men.

"Michael will tear him apart," Kadikar said confidently, leaning forward in his chair.

The fight began with a clash of steel and bone. The Reaver was fast, his sickles moving in intricate patterns as he tried to slip past Michael's defenses. But the Deadite was relentless, his strikes heavy and unyielding. Every blow drove the Reaver back, forcing him to give ground.

"You train your warriors well, Kadikar," Augustus admitted. "But Michael fights like a man possessed. I can see why you've marked him for succession."

Kadikar grinned. "He's earned it. Michael isn't just strong—he's disciplined. A rarity among the Deadites."

The fight reached its climax as Michael feinted, drawing the Reaver in before delivering a crushing blow to his chest. The sickles clattered to the ground, and the Reaver fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Michael stood over him, his blade poised to strike.

"Will you spare him, Michael?" Kadikar called out, his voice booming. "Or will you send him to Drema?"

Michael hesitated, his blade trembling for just a moment. Then he lowered it, stepping back as the crowd erupted into cheers.

Kadikar nodded approvingly. "Good. A true leader knows when to show mercy."

As the matches wore on and the finalists emerged, the Gahkars turned their attention back to the looming siege. Nirme outlined his strategy, his voice steady but firm.

"The warbands will attack together, overwhelming their outer defenses before Astad can regroup," he said. "The Deathless will lead the charge, supported by the Deadites and Ironbloods. The Reavers and Outsiders of the Light will flank their positions, while the Sengus provide cover fire from a distance."

"And the mines?" Varn asked. "Astad's soldiers will retreat underground if we push too hard. They'll use the tunnels to strike back."

"The Chalicebreakers and Impalers will handle the mines," Nirme replied. "Their expertise in tight quarters will be invaluable."

"And what of the Pickette itself?" Augustus asked. "The tower is heavily fortified. It won't fall easily."

"That's where the Deadites come in," Nirme said, his gaze shifting to Kadikar. "Their rage and ferocity will break through the tower's defenses. If anyone can take the Pickette, it's them."

Kadikar grinned, his teeth gleaming like a predator's. "Good. Let the Deadites lead the way. We'll show Astad what it means to fight Estil."

The matches continued below, the roars of the crowd punctuated by the clash of steel and the thud of bodies hitting the dirt. Each duel carried the weight of Estil's warring traditions—pride, honor, and blood soaked into the very ground. Above it all, the Gahkars remained on their raised dais, watching with keen eyes, every word spoken between them layered with subtext.

As Daenys observed, she began to see what Nirme meant. The Gahkars were not just generals or warriors; they were symbols, larger-than-life figures who held the warring factions of Estil together. Yet, despite their shared cause, it was clear that unity among them was tenuous at best.

"Your man fights well, Kadikar," Varn said, his voice dripping with mockery as Michael, the Deadite captain, won his match. "Though I wonder how much of that is skill and how much is… Drema's little blessing."

Kadikar's broad shoulders tensed as he turned to face the Shadow Walker. "Michael fights with discipline and strength—qualities your sneaky little rats wouldn't recognize if they stabbed them in the back."

Varn grinned, unbothered by the insult. "Discipline and strength are all well and good, but tell me, Kadikar, how often do your Deadites lose themselves to their rage? I hear whispers that one of your warriors killed his own men in a frenzy just last week."

The massive Gahkar slammed his fist onto the armrest of his chair, causing the entire dais to vibrate. "Watch your tongue, assassin, or I'll cut it out myself. The Deadites' rage is a weapon, one that has crushed more enemies than your pathetic shadows ever could."

"And yet," Varn said smoothly, leaning back in his chair, "your 'weapon' is as likely to cut your own hand as your enemy's throat. I wonder, Kadikar, how many more villages will your men raze before you lose control completely?"

Before Kadikar could respond, Nirme's calm voice cut through the tension. "Enough, both of you. This is not the place for petty squabbles. Save your energy for the Pickette—we'll need every warband at their best."

Kadikar huffed but said nothing more, though his glare lingered on Varn for several long moments. Varn, meanwhile, smirked to himself, clearly satisfied with having gotten under the Deadite's skin.

Below, a new pair of warriors stepped into the circle. One was a Chalicebreaker, his snake-like armor glistening under the torchlight. His weapon of choice was a wickedly curved glaive, its edge honed to a razor's sharpness. Opposite him stood a Drome, clad in thick, layered armor that gleamed like a beetle's shell. He carried a heavy warhammer, the head of which was engraved with intricate patterns of waves.

The crowd cheered as the two warriors squared off, their weapons raised. The Chalicebreaker struck first, his glaive slicing through the air with deadly precision. But the Drome blocked the blow with his hammer, the impact reverberating through the arena. The two clashed again and again, neither giving an inch.

"Your Chalicebreaker fights with grace, Wen," Augustus observed, watching the match with interest. "But I wonder how long he can last against that hammer."

Wen, who had been quietly stroking the snake draped around his shoulders, smiled faintly. "Grace, my dear Augustus, is often underestimated. It's not about how hard you strike—it's about where. Watch carefully. The Drome may be strong, but he's slow. My man will carve him up before he even realizes it."

True to Wen's prediction, the Chalicebreaker began to target the Drome's legs, his glaive slicing through gaps in the armor. The Drome staggered, his movements growing sluggish as blood seeped from his wounds. In one final, fluid motion, the Chalicebreaker swept his opponent's legs out from under him and pointed the tip of his glaive at the fallen man's throat.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the Drome yielded. Wen leaned back in his chair, his expression one of quiet satisfaction.

As the next match was prepared, Mox, the Gahkar of the Ironbloods, turned his attention to Kadikar. "Your Deadites may be strong, Kadikar, but they lack refinement. All that brute strength—it's so... primitive."

Kadikar's lips curled into a snarl. "Primitive? My warriors fight with the strength of our ancestors, the strength that freed us from Astad's chains. Your Ironbloods, with all their polished armor and pretty swords, are nothing more than Astad's lapdogs pretending to be free men."

Mox's blue eyes glinted with cold amusement. "And yet it's our 'pretty swords' that hold the line while your berserkers lose themselves to madness. Tell me, Kadikar, how many of your Deadites will still be standing when the Pickette is won? Or will you sacrifice them all in your quest for glory?"

Kadikar surged to his feet, his massive frame towering over the seated Mox. "Say that again, Blue Blood, and I'll—"

"Enough!" Nirme's voice cut through the rising tension like a blade. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in his tone was undeniable. "We are not here to fight each other. Our enemy is Astad, not each other. Remember that."

Kadikar glared at Mox for a moment longer before sinking back into his chair. Mox, for his part, gave a small, smug smile but said nothing further.

The Blood Tourney reached its crescendo. The crowd had thinned slightly, some warriors slumped at the tables with their tankards, while others leaned against the walls, groaning in drunken stupor. But the final matches commanded rapt attention from those who remained. All eyes were on the last four competitors: Reman of the Deathless, Michael of the Deadites, the hulking Impaler, and the enigmatic Outsider of the Light.

It was a rare sight, seeing such diverse warriors rise to the pinnacle of the Blood Tourney. Each bore the weight of their warband's pride. Their victories were not just personal; they were statements about the strength and resolve of their Gahkars. And yet, the Outsider of the Light had remained strangely quiet throughout, his movements calculated, his face unreadable even when bathed in the roar of the crowd.

The first match of the final round began with Michael, the Deadite captain, squaring off against the Outsider of the Light. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, their loyalty split between Kadikar's ferocious champion and Varn's shadowy, unassuming warrior. Kadikar leaned forward in his chair, gripping the armrests tightly. Varn lounged with practiced ease, though Daenys noticed the slight twitch of his fingers on the hilt of his dagger—a subtle tell that the Shadow Walker was not as relaxed as he appeared.

Michael raised his jagged bone blade, the blackened marks on his armor glinting ominously in the torchlight. "You fight in shadows and lies, assassin," he growled, his voice thick with disdain. "Let's see how you fare in the open."

The Outsider of the Light tilted his head, his twin talon-daggers glinting as he shifted into a low stance. He said nothing in return, his silence a sharp contrast to Michael's bravado.

The Deadite charged, his strikes vicious and relentless. The Outsider of the Light moved like smoke, slipping just out of reach of each bone-crunching swing. Michael's frustration mounted, his roars filling the arena as he pressed harder. But the Outsider of the Light remained elusive, his movements graceful yet detached, as though he were merely observing rather than participating in the fight.

Finally, the Outsider saw his opening. A well-timed roll brought him inside Michael's guard, his talon-daggers flashing in the firelight. One blade struck Michael's leg, slicing through the exposed joint of his armor. The other nicked his side. The Deadite stumbled, his balance faltering for the first time.

The Outsider crouched low, his daggers poised for a killing blow. But as the crowd leaned forward in breathless anticipation, he hesitated. He stood slowly, his weapons lowering. "I see no honor in this fight," he said, his voice calm yet cutting. "You are nothing but a mindless beast playing at being a warrior."

Michael snarled, trying to lunge again, but the Outsider stepped aside easily, knocking the Deadite to the ground with a calculated sweep of his leg. He planted a dagger against Michael's neck, then turned to the Gahkars. "Yield, or this ends with his blood on the sand."

Kadikar stood, his face a mask of fury. "Michael yields to no man!" he roared. But before he could say more, Michael raised a hand, his breath labored. "I yield," he rasped, his voice heavy with shame.

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers and jeers. Kadikar's expression twisted into a scowl, his pride wounded. The Outsider of the Light stepped back, sheathing his daggers and walking away without so much as a glance at his defeated opponent.

As the crowd buzzed with excitement, the Gahkars began to shift focus, their murmurs cutting through the haze of celebration. Varn, seated with an air of smug satisfaction, leaned back in his chair and gestured lazily to Kadikar, who stood at the edge of the dais, his fists clenched.

"It seems, Kadikar, that my champion has bested yours," Varn said, his tone dripping with false sympathy. "A shame, truly. And now, as agreed, I will take my prize: access to Drema's ancient temple. I trust you won't go back on your word?"

Kadikar's growl rumbled through the hall like a thunderstorm on the horizon. He turned to face Varn, his massive hands gripping the hilt of his axe so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "You think this is a victory, Shadow Walker? My Deadite fell because your snake fights with tricks, not skill."

"A win is a win," Varn said with a shrug. "Perhaps you should teach your warriors to fight smarter, not harder."

Kadikar took a threatening step toward him, the tension between the two Gahkars palpable. "You dare insult my Deadites, you scheming coward? Perhaps I should split your head and end your games here and now."

"Kadikar." Nirme's voice cut through the growing tension like a blade. The Old Wolf remained seated, but his eyes locked onto Kadikar with an intensity that made even the towering warrior hesitate. "Enough."

Kadikar's chest rose and fell heavily as he glared at Varn, his muscles tense. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he slammed his axe into the ground and turned away. "Fine," he growled. "You'll have your damn temple, Varn. But mark my words—if I find your rats digging where they don't belong, I'll gut them myself."

Varn smiled, the expression almost snake-like in its smugness. "I wouldn't dream of disrespecting Drema's sanctity," he said smoothly. "Thank you, Kadikar. I'll make sure to tread lightly."

With Michael eliminated, only two challengers remained: Reman and the Impaler. The Deathless warrior stood tall, his polished spear gleaming even in the dim torchlight. Across from him, the Impaler adjusted the valves on his drill-gauntlets, the eerie whir of the mechanisms sending shivers through the crowd.

Nirme leaned forward slightly, his face unreadable as he observed his champion. "Remember your training, Reman," he said softly, his voice carrying across the dais. "A spear must strike true."

The fight began, and it was immediately clear that this was a clash of opposites. Reman moved with precision and grace, his every strike calculated. The Impaler, by contrast, fought with wild aggression, his drills spinning wildly as he attempted to overpower his opponent. The crowd roared as sparks flew from each clash, the sound of metal against metal ringing through the hall.

The fight was brutal and unrelenting. The Impaler's drill managed to score a glancing blow against Reman's side, tearing through his armor and drawing blood. But Reman retaliated with a precise thrust of his spear, disarming one of the Impaler's gauntlets. The Impaler roared in frustration, but it was too late. With one final, fluid motion, Reman drove his spear into the Impaler's chest, ending the fight.

The Deathless stood over his fallen opponent, blood dripping from his weapon. The crowd erupted into cheers as Nirme nodded in approval. Reman had proven himself once again.

With the Impaler defeated, only one match remained. Reman turned to face his final opponent, his spear raised. But the Outsider of the Light did not move. Instead, he stood at the edge of the arena, his daggers sheathed, his arms crossed.

Nirme didn't respond to Reman's victory, his gaze focused on the fight below. But the Old Wolf's expression was unreadable, his thoughts hidden behind a calm exterior.

The crowd fell silent as they realized something was wrong. Varn's lips curled into a small, amused smile as he watched his warrior.

"What are you waiting for?" Reman called out, his voice echoing through the hall. "Face me!"

The Outsider of the Light tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "These Blood Tourneys are a farce," he said finally, his voice carrying a quiet disdain. "You fight for pride and glory, spilling blood for the amusement of your so-called leaders. But tell me, Deathless, what does your victory mean? Will it bring Estil peace? Will it save the lives of the men and women you claim to fight for?"

Reman bristled, his grip tightening on his spear. "I fight for honor! For Estil!"

The Outsider shook his head. "No. You fight because they tell you to. Because they promise you glory and power. But it's all an illusion." He turned his back on the arena, walking toward the exit. "I have no interest in playing their games."

The hall erupted into chaos. Warriors shouted insults and demands, their anger palpable. Reman stood frozen, his spear lowered, as the Outsider disappeared into the shadows.

The Outsider of the Light's departure left a void in the air, a silence so thick it felt suffocating. The cheers and roars that had filled the hall during the Blood Tourney were gone, replaced by the restless murmurs of warriors and spectators alike. The Outsider's disdainful words still echoed in the ears of many, cutting deeper than any blade could. "Farce," he had called it. A word that reduced the Blood Tourney—its pride, its brutality, its storied history—to a meaningless game.

Reman stood in the center of the arena, his spear lowered, his body stiff with rage. Blood seeped from the wound in his side, but the pain was drowned out by the turmoil twisting inside him. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath as his emotions threatened to boil over. The cheers of his brothers and the Deathless were faint now, drowned out by the Outsider's voice playing over and over in his mind.

"I will not fight," the Outsider had said. Those words stung worse than any spear could have. To be denied a final battle, to be denied the chance to claim true victory—Reman felt his honor slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

"I cannot claim this," Reman muttered, shaking his head. "Not like this."

Nirme, seated at the dais above, tilted his head slightly. "And yet you stand victorious, Reman of the Deathless. The crowd has spoken. The other challengers have fallen."

"It means nothing," Reman spat, turning to face his Gahkar. His voice cracked as he continued, louder now, "How can I call myself a champion if my final opponent refuses to stand before me? How can I say I've earned this?"

Nirme's face was unreadable, but his calm tone carried authority. "Victory does not always come in the form of battle, Reman. A wise warrior knows when to accept what is given."

Reman's grip on his spear tightened. "No! I will not have my name etched into the stones of history as a man who won through cowardice—whether it be mine or another's. I will not have this tournament, this chance, sullied by his mockery!" He threw the spear down into the dirt, the clatter reverberating through the hall. The defiance in his voice drew murmurs from the spectators, and even some of the Gahkars raised their brows in surprise.

Kadikar's deep, guttural laugh broke the tension. "He's got spirit, I'll give him that. If only all of you fools fought with the fire of the Deathless!" He gestured to the spear lying in the dirt. "But fire without control is dangerous, Reman. What is it you want, then? If you reject the glory before you, what is it you would have instead?"

Reman turned back to Nirme, his voice trembling but resolute. "I wish for a chance to prove myself where it matters—in battle. Not in this hall, not in this spectacle. On the field, at the Pickette. Let me fight at the front, and let my worth be measured in blood spilled for Estil."

For a moment, the hall was silent. Nirme sat motionless, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he rose from his chair. "Your wish is granted, Reman," he said, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. "At the Pickette, you will have your chance. But remember—battle does not guarantee glory, nor does it spare fools. You ask for blood. Do not complain when it is yours."

Reman bowed his head, his shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of Nirme's words settled on him. "Thank you, Gahkar," he said quietly, his voice raw.

The Deathless in the crowd roared their approval, chanting Reman's name as the Blood Tourney's new champion. But Reman's face remained tight, his jaw clenched. The cheers were hollow to him now. The Outsider of the Light's refusal had left a wound deeper than the spear at his side. It was not glory he carried from the pit, but doubt.