The stadium roared with noise as the dust began to settle. In the heart of the arena, where moments ago magic clashed like titans, a single figure stood victorious—wounded, panting, but undeniably the last one standing.
Miseria stared in disbelief, her usually calm composure broken by wide eyes.
"I didn't think he'd win against Kessia… but despite the odds, he endured. He won."
Edric stood beside her, arms crossed and expression smug with pride.
"I never doubted him. That stubborn idiot always finds a way to crawl back from the edge."
He chuckled. "I told you—power's just one piece of the game. He knows how to survive."
The crowd murmured in waves—first murmurs of awe, then chatter of disbelief, then cheers that crescendoed across the arena. And just as suddenly as it built, a voice silenced it all.
"Attention, competitors."
"Two rounds of the final event in the placement tournament have now concluded. Return to your dormitories and prepare for the final two rounds. They will commence tomorrow morning."
The message echoed across the stadium, and like puppets cut from strings, the students began dispersing. Some limped away, others leaned on friends. Many turned back to catch one last glimpse of the victor—his cloak fluttering in the wind, his expression unreadable.
Edric exhaled deeply. "Tomorrow's going to be a bloodbath. I can't wait."
Miseria, still quiet, finally nodded.
"If this is the level we're seeing already… the final rounds might change everything."
Deep beneath the gilded surface of the capital, the King's chambers were shadowed and silent. Here, away from prying eyes and the judgment of his court, the King met his guest in a stone-walled basement that smelled faintly of moss and iron.
A single lantern flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across the table. Across from the King sat an elf with skin like moonlight and eyes sharp enough to cut stone.
"So," the King began, fidgeting with a golden ring on his finger, "perhaps we could… reach a compromise? Trade? A treaty, maybe peace?"
Naviam tilted her head slightly. Her long, white hair glimmered softly in the dim light.
"I'm not here to barter. Humans speak of peace the way wolves speak of friendship—only when their bellies are full."
"So that's a no?"
She rose slowly, almost theatrically, and crossed the room in silence.
"You're not worth a war, King. But I won't call you an ally. You've not earned that word."
The King's face twisted with frustration.
"Damn knife-eared—" he muttered under his breath.
Naviam's eyes flared.
"What was that, pig?"
"N-nothing. Just clearing my throat," he said quickly.
"Let me remind you of our deal: As long as your soldiers remain leashed and your ambitions restrained, I'll refrain from turning this capital to cinders."
She turned to leave, then paused.
"Let history mark this as yet another meeting wasted—on your part."
As she ascended the stone steps, her steps echoing in the silent chamber, the King clenched his fists.
"Just you wait, Naviam. Your arrogance will bury you one day."
He stared at the lantern flame, its flickering reflection dancing in his eyes.
"And when it does… I'll be the one to snuff it out."
The castle doors opened to reveal a bustling market square, flooded with the golden light of the afternoon sun. Children ran between vendors, aromas of spiced meats and freshly baked bread filled the air, and laughter echoed through the stone corridors of the capital.
Naviam walked slowly, her silver-lined boots gliding across the marble steps. The guards stared. The vendors paused. Few had seen an elf this close. Fewer still one who radiated such quiet menace.
She glanced around, unimpressed.
"Human infrastructure is fascinating," she murmured. "So delicate. So temporary."
She crossed a bridge leading into the heart of the shopping district, eyes scanning the crowd. A group of young nobles whispered behind her. One of them tripped.
"Ah—goddammit!" a teenage boy groaned, hitting the ground hard in front of her.
She looked down at him, then knelt.
"Are you injured, child?"
"I—I think I'm fine," he muttered, looking up. His eyes widened. "You're an elf. You're… you're really beautiful."
Naviam's expression turned to steel.
"Flattery is the currency of liars. Go."
Before the boy could respond, another figure approached—older, laughing.
"C'mon, Benjamin. Stop throwing yourself at every woman you meet."
"I wasn't—Mathew! I tripped!"
Mathew clapped him on the back. "Whatever you say, charmer."
Naviam's gaze locked onto Benjamin with new intensity. She rose slowly, her expression unreadable.
"Benjamin, is it?"
He blinked, confused. "Yeah… why?"
She stared at him for a moment too long. A current of wind brushed through the market. The shadows around them grew colder.
"You're cursed."
The words hung in the air like a spell. Mathew looked at her sharply.
"What do you mean by that?"
Naviam didn't answer. She turned and walked away, vanishing into the sea of people as if she had never been there at all.
"Wait, what do you mean !" Benjamin questions, dashing into the crowd before grabbing onto the elf
"Unhand me," Naviam mutters—calm, clear, and cold.
"Seed of that man. Vile vermin."
Benjamin's gaze sharpens. "Explain yourself. What do you mean?"
His voice trembles not with fear, but with a strange blend of anger and curiosity.
Naviam doesn't answer right away. She gently removes his hand from her arm, with purpose.
"I suggest you be on your way… unless you wish to tease death."
She turns.
But Benjamin doesn't heed her words. He reaches again.
Suddenly—a violent pulse of invisible force erupts. He's thrown backward, skidding across the stone path. His chest tightens; he coughs, eyes stinging, heart racing. Groaning, he clutches the center of his chest as a crowd gathers in hushed whispers.
Naviam peers down at him with an unreadable gaze. Her voice is cryptic, yet heavy with knowledge.
"The boy seeks answers… I've merely stirred the sleeping fire beneath his skin. His path begins now."
Mathew, alarmed, moves between them. "What did you do?!"
"The curse already lived in him. I simply reminded it that it was still alive."
She glances back toward Benjamin.
"If he is who I believe he is… then this kingdom may rot with him."
And just like that, her form fades into the wind—her presence wading out of sight.
"I shall be on my way."
Mathew kneels beside Benjamin. "How do you feel?"
Benjamin groans, forcing himself upright on one knee.
"My chest… feels heavy." He clutches at it again, eyes narrowed.
"I feel… different." His hand curls into a trembling fist. There's something alive within him now—old, gnawing, aware.
Mathew frowns. "If you're still standing, that's good enough. We've got a tournament to finish."
But before he can help Benjamin up, a familiar gust bellows through the square. Miseria appears—shoulders squared, brows furrowed in confusion.
"What happened?" she asks, stepping forward.
"An elf did something to him," Mathew replies.
Miseria halts. Her eyes narrow on Benjamin. Her instincts prickle. She smells something—something ancient and wrong.
"Benjamin… what evil has stirred in you?" Her voice is low. Not angry. Not panicked. Uneasy
Benjamin explodes with frustration.
"What is with all these vague remarks?!"
He rises to his feet, fists clenched.
"What do you mean?!"
Miseria's expression twists slightly, conflicted.
"I'm not sure… but I can feel it. Something… old. Something that shouldn't be awake."
She steps back, raising her staff—not in hostility, but in precaution.
"I fear the curse within you has been disturbed, Benjamin."
A pause.
"Apophis…" Miseria asks, almost to herself.
Benjamin goes still.