The cell was suffocatingly dark, its air thick with dampness and decay. Seeker sat on the cold stone floor, his back pressed against the uneven wall, his legs stretched out before him. His dark eyes, nearly black in the dim light, stared at the faint sliver of illumination filtering through the narrow slit in the iron door. It was just enough to highlight the jagged edges of the stone, to cast faint shadows on the cold iron shackles that bound his wrists. He barely noticed the chill of the stone pressing against his skin. Pain, discomfort—these things had become background noise, swallowed by the weight of his surroundings. What truly gnawed at him was the hollow void where his past should have been.

The memories he did have were fragments, fragile and fleeting.

The farm. The girl. Her laugh.

These were the only pieces of his life that remained, and he clung to them desperately, as if they were all that kept him from disappearing entirely. He didn't know how long he had been trapped in this dungeon, how many fights he had endured in the arena, or how many lives he had taken. But he knew the girl. He knew the farm. They were real, even if the rest of his life had crumbled into nothingness.

Her laughter haunted him the most. It was warm, light, and teasing—a sound that didn't belong in the world of blood and chains he now inhabited. He clung to the sound of it, repeating it in his mind until it blurred into something softer, like a lullaby. He remembered her face, the way her eyes sparkled with curiosity when she had asked him about the Shard, the way she had smiled when he had helped her haul water from the well or tended to the animals on the farm.

The farm itself was a vivid image in his mind. The creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his feet, the smell of freshly cut hay, the soft glow of lantern light spilling through the open barn door—it was all so clear. It had been peaceful there. Quiet. Safe. He had spent his days working alongside her and her parents, his body growing stronger as he learned the rhythms of the land.

But the peace hadn't lasted. It never did.

The fire. The screams. The way her lifeless body crumpled to the ground, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Seeker clenched his fists, the iron shackles biting into his wrists. The chain between them rattled faintly, breaking the suffocating stillness of the cell. The sound echoed, harsh and hollow, a reminder of his confinement. Of the unyielding weight of his chains. Of the moment he had lost her.

It wasn't just the physical pain that tormented him; it was the emptiness. The absence of identity. He didn't know who he was before the farm, why he had woken in the Shard, or why the girl's death felt like a wound that would never heal. The farm had become his sanctuary, the girl his anchor. And now they were gone, leaving behind only the hollow ache of loss.

The questions plagued him, circling endlessly in his mind like vultures over a dying prey. Why had the Shard opened? Why had it brought him to that cave? And why had he survived when she hadn't?

The faint light filtering through the iron door caught on the manacles around his wrists. He raised his hands slightly, the movement slow and deliberate. The iron was heavy, its cold bite a constant reminder of his captivity. He flexed his fingers, feeling the rough edges of the calluses that had formed from wielding the arena's crude weapons. These hands didn't feel like his own anymore. They were tools now, shaped by survival, roughened by desperation.

He lowered his hands back to his lap and let his gaze drift toward the slit of light once more.

The Shard. That was where it had all begun.

He could still see it, glowing faintly in the darkness of the cave. Its jagged surface had shimmered like liquid crystal, fractured but perfect, with veins of golden light threading through it. The symbols etched into its surface had glowed faintly, their meanings lost to him, yet they stirred something deep in his mind, as though they were a language he should have known.

He could still remember the hum it made as it opened, low and resonant, a sound that vibrated through his very bones. The mist that spilled out of it had been cool and sweet, carrying the scent of fresh rain mingled with something sharper, like the air after a storm.

She had been there, her eyes wide with wonder as she stared at the Shard. He remembered how she had reached out to touch it, her fingers trembling as they hovered over its surface.

"What is this?" she had asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He hadn't known what to say. He hadn't had the answers then, and he didn't have them now. All he knew was the Shard had opened for him, its jagged edges parting like petals to reveal a cocoon of light. When he had stepped out, unsteady and confused, the girl had been waiting. Her presence had grounded him, her warmth cutting through the strangeness of his awakening.

But the Shard's light had dimmed. Its veins of gold had faded to black, its warmth dissipating into the cool air of the cave. It had become lifeless, like a hollow relic left behind by something far greater.

Through the narrow slit in the iron door, Seeker could just barely see the faint glimmer of light filtering in from the outside world. It wasn't much—a mere sliver of pale illumination that cast faint patterns across the jagged stone walls. But it was enough to remind him of what lay beyond these suffocating walls.

The moons hung in the night sky. He could tell by the quality of the light, soft and ethereal. He couldn't see them directly from his cell, but he knew they were there. Arithal, the larger moon, would dominate the heavens tonight with its pale, silvery glow. Its light was steady, calm, almost soothing, casting long shadows across the fortress above. Lunara, the smaller and swifter moon, would be trailing behind, its cool blue hue a faint counterpoint to Arithal's serene brightness.

He had spent enough nights staring at the sliver of sky to know their rhythms. The moons ruled this world as surely as the sun, their phases marking the passage of time in a place where days and weeks blurred into one endless stretch of monotony. Arithal, with its unyielding presence, symbolized strength and endurance. Lunara, restless and fleeting, was said to govern change and unpredictability.

The moons were part of life here, woven into the very fabric of the world. Their cycles influenced the tides, the weather, even the subtle ebbs and flows of magic. On nights when both moons were full, the air itself seemed to hum with energy, and the glow of enchanted runes would intensify across the land. Those were the nights the guards spoke of in hushed tones, warning each other of awakening storms that could rip through the sky without warning.

Even in his cell, Seeker felt their pull. He couldn't explain it, but the moons seemed to stir something deep inside him, something that had no name but felt like a quiet, insistent call. It wasn't the power—that was something else, something fierce and consuming. This was different. It was a whisper, faint but constant, tugging at the edges of his awareness.

The fortress above, where the nobles and their guards reveled in opulence, sat perched atop a jagged hill that overlooked the surrounding plains. Beyond it stretched a vast expanse of land, broken by rolling hills, dense forests, and winding rivers that shimmered like veins of silver beneath the moons' light. The world outside was alive in a way the cell could never be—dynamic, untamed, and full of possibility.

Seeker closed his eyes and tried to picture it. He thought of the wind brushing against his skin, carrying the scents of grass and earth. He thought of the way the light would catch on the leaves of the trees, making them shimmer like they were dusted with silver. He thought of the sound of water rushing over stones in the river, a sound so gentle and soothing it felt like a balm for the soul.

He remembered the farm, too, and the way the lantern light had flickered in the evenings as the girl prepared their modest supper. The memory was sharp and vivid, but it was also painful. The farm was gone, burned to the ground, and with it the last place he had felt any semblance of peace.

The sliver of light reminded him of what he had lost, but it also reminded him of what still existed. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world continued. People went about their lives, oblivious to the bloodshed in the arena or the suffering in the cells below. Somewhere, the rivers still flowed, the trees still whispered to each other in the wind, and the moons still cast their pale light over a land untouched by the horrors of this place.

On nights when the sky was clear, Seeker liked to imagine the stars. He couldn't see them from here, but he remembered them well enough. Tiny points of light scattered across the vast expanse of the heavens, they had always seemed impossibly distant, like fragments of another world entirely. He had spent hours staring at them from the fields of the farm, wondering if they held answers to the questions he couldn't even articulate.

The stars had always been constant, unchanging, a quiet reassurance that no matter how small or lost he felt, he was part of something greater. But now, trapped in this cell, they felt as unreachable as the life he had lost.

The world outside was a dream, a tantalizing glimpse of freedom that felt as far away as the stars themselves. Inside this cell, the walls pressed in, cold and unyielding. The sliver of light was the only proof that the outside world still existed, but it wasn't enough. It couldn't banish the darkness that had settled over him, the heavy weight of his chains, or the suffocating sense of confinement that threatened to crush him.

He shifted against the wall, his shackles clinking faintly. The sound echoed in the silence, a harsh reminder of his reality. The moons and the stars might have been beautiful, but they were useless here. They couldn't break these chains. They couldn't erase the blood that stained his hands. And they couldn't bring her back.

The sliver of light began to fade as a cloud passed over the moons, and the cell grew even darker. Seeker let out a slow breath, his gaze falling to the floor. The world outside would have to wait. For now, all he could do was survive.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the stone corridor outside, sharp and deliberate, accompanied by the faint clinking of armor. It was a sound that never failed to send a cold shiver down Seeker's spine, no matter how many times he heard it. It wasn't just the footsteps themselves—it was what they heralded.

Seeker tensed, his body stiffening instinctively. In the oppressive silence of the dungeon, the sound carried like thunder, growing louder with each measured step. The air seemed to grow heavier, charged with the anticipation of violence, of pain, of whatever fresh cruelty was waiting for him this time.

The guards always walked with that same rhythm, their boots striking the uneven stone floor in perfect, deliberate cadence. It was as though they wanted their prisoners to hear them coming, to feel the weight of their approach. The sound was a reminder that the guards owned this place, that they held power over everyone within these walls.

Seeker shifted against the wall, his muscles coiled like springs. He couldn't see them yet, but he could imagine them well enough. The heavy armor, the cruel sneers barely hidden beneath their helmets, the glint of torchlight reflecting off their weapons. They never came empty-handed. Whether it was a whip, a cudgel, or a set of shackles, they always carried something to remind him of his place.

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied now by the faint scrape of metal against stone. There were two of them, Seeker guessed. He had learned to distinguish between their numbers by the weight of their steps and the pattern of their movement. One had a heavier stride, his boots striking the floor with a dull, deliberate force. The other moved more lightly, his steps quicker and more erratic, like a man who enjoyed his work too much.

Seeker closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He could feel his heart beating faster, a low, steady drumbeat in his chest. It wasn't fear—not entirely. Fear was there, yes, a constant undercurrent that came with living in this place. But there was something else, too. A spark of defiance, buried deep beneath the layers of exhaustion and resignation.

The footsteps came to a halt just outside his cell. There was a pause, the kind that stretched uncomfortably long, as though the guards were savoring the moment. Then came the familiar sound of a key turning in the iron lock, the grating noise loud and jarring in the stillness.

The door creaked open, spilling weak torchlight into the cell. Seeker squinted against the sudden brightness, his eyes adjusting slowly to the flickering light. The guards stepped inside, their faces half-obscured by the shadows cast by their helmets.

The first guard carried a cudgel, its wooden surface worn smooth from years of use. His armor was dented in places, the metal scratched and tarnished, but it was still more protection than any of the prisoners could ever hope for. His expression was one of bored disdain, as though this task was beneath him but necessary nonetheless.

The second guard held a torch, its flames casting long, dancing shadows across the rough stone walls. Unlike his companion, this one seemed to relish the moment. A cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his eyes swept over Seeker, lingering on the chains that bound him to the floor.

"Get up, slave," the first guard barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

Seeker didn't move immediately. He sat in silence, his dark eyes meeting the guard's with an unsettling calm. The guard's jaw tightened, his grip on the cudgel shifting as though he was considering using it.

"Did you not hear me?" the guard growled, taking a step closer. "I said, get up."

Seeker rose slowly, his movements deliberate and measured. Even in chains, his lean frame exuded a quiet strength. His hair, dark and slightly wavy, fell over his forehead, framing sharp, angular features. But it was his eyes that unsettled people—eyes like the void, calm and fathomless, as if they held secrets even he didn't know.

The second guard chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Think he's trying to be intimidating," he said, nudging his companion with his elbow. "Too bad those chains don't make him look very dangerous."

"Shut it," the first guard snapped, though his gaze remained fixed on Seeker. "Move."

The second guard shoved Seeker roughly toward the door, the chains on his ankles rattling against the floor as he stumbled forward. He caught himself before he fell, straightening slowly as the guards flanked him on either side.

The corridor outside was as grim as the cell, its stone walls stained with the grime of countless years. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint smell of mildew and something metallic—blood, old and new, mingling in the cracks of the floor. Torchlight flickered in iron sconces along the walls, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow.

The guards marched him forward, their boots striking the floor in perfect unison. The clink of Seeker's chains added a discordant note to the rhythm, a constant reminder of his captivity. He focused on the sound, letting it ground him, even as the weight of his surroundings threatened to crush him.

The distant roar of the crowd reached his ears, muffled at first but growing louder with each step. It was a sound he had come to know well—the bloodthirsty cries of people who had come to see death, to revel in the spectacle of violence. The arena was their playground, and he was just another pawn in their game.

As they turned a corner, the light grew brighter, the air warmer. The narrow corridor widened into a larger passageway, its walls lined with iron gates and barred doors. This was the holding area, where prisoners waited for their turn in the arena. Seeker could feel the tension in the air, a palpable mix of fear and anticipation. He didn't look at the other prisoners as they passed. He didn't need to. Their stories were the same as his—lives reduced to chains and bloodshed.

The iron gate at the end of the passage loomed ahead, its bars smeared with the grime of years. Beyond it, the light of the arena spilled through, harsh and unforgiving. The roar of the crowd was deafening now, a beast demanding its next sacrifice.

The guards shoved him forward, and the gate creaked open. Seeker stepped into the light, his bare feet sinking into the coarse sand of the arena floor. The crowd erupted into cheers, their bloodlust palpable.

The roar of the crowd struck him like a wave as Seeker stepped into the arena. It was a sound that consumed everything else—a cacophony of cheers, screams, and jeers that made the walls of the amphitheater tremble. The very air seemed to vibrate with the intensity of their bloodlust, a relentless demand for violence and death.

The amphitheater was a crude construction of stone and iron, its walls darkened by years of blood and smoke. The lower tiers were packed with commoners, their faces wild with excitement, their voices rising in chaotic chants. Higher up, the nobility lounged in ornate private boxes, their laughter and jeering a sharp counterpoint to the drunken shouts below. Silk banners bearing the duke's sigil fluttered in the faint breeze, their bright colors stark against the grimy stone.

The arena floor stretched wide and open, a barren circle of coarse sand and gravel stained a dull, rusty red. Scattered patches of darkened ground told of recent fights—places where blood had soaked into the earth, leaving permanent scars on the battlefield.

Seeker's bare feet sank into the gritty sand, sticky with fresh gore. He could feel the uneven texture beneath him, the way it clung to his skin. The chains around his ankles rattled faintly as he moved, the sound swallowed by the roar of the crowd. He scanned the arena, his dark eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the harsh light of the torches and the midday sun.

Across the pit, another gate groaned open, its heavy iron bars sliding upward with a deliberate slowness meant to heighten the crowd's anticipation. From the shadows emerged a massive figure, stepping into the light with the heavy, deliberate gait of a predator.

A Bikovac.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the Bikovac stepped into the arena. Seeker stared at the creature, his heart heavy with dread. This wasn't just a beast. This was a warrior—a soldier of the northern Bikovac tribes, one of the fiercest defenders of their homeland in the war against humanity.

The Bikovac towered over him, its bull-like frame casting a long shadow across the blood-soaked sand. Every inch of its massive body was a testament to the endless battles it had fought: jagged scars crisscrossed its leathery hide, some old and faded, others fresh and still raw. Deep glyphs carved into its skin glowed faintly in the torchlight—marks of the earthshaper magic that had once allowed it to bend the mountains and tundra to its will.

Steam rose from the creature's flared nostrils as it snorted, its glowing yellow eyes scanning the arena. In its massive hands, it held a war hammer so large it seemed absurd, yet the Bikovac wielded it with ease. Each step it took sent tremors through the ground, its hooves leaving deep imprints in the sand. The crowd roared louder as it turned to face Seeker, its gaze locking onto him with an intensity that made his breath hitch.

To the nobles above, the Bikovac was just another spectacle—a captured enemy forced to fight for their amusement. But to Seeker, it was something far more dangerous: a reminder of how close humanity was to losing everything.

The war had raged for thousands of years. Humanity was not the aggressor; they were the survivors, fighting tooth and nail to hold onto their dwindling territory. The Elves, masters of magic and strategy, had seen humanity as a blight to be eradicated, an infestation to be purged from their lands. The Zoomorph tribes were no different. To them, humanity was prey, a weaker species to be subjugated or destroyed.

The northern battlefield was a place of endless suffering. Stretching across frozen tundras, jagged mountains, and dense forests, it was the domain of the Zoomorphs. The Bikovac tribes were its juggernauts—massive, bull-like warriors who could smash through fortified lines with their raw strength and earthshaper magic. Alongside them were the Fenri wolf clans, experts in guerrilla warfare, and the venomous Serpanti, whose venomcraft and illusions sowed terror on the battlefield.

Humanity's northern kingdoms were crumbling. Each year, more fortresses fell to the relentless Zoomorph assaults. The Imperium's soldiers were spread thin, fighting not just the enemy but also the unforgiving cold and starvation. And while the Elves waged their surgical campaigns in the East, humanity had no time to regroup. Every day was a battle for survival, every inch of ground paid for with blood.

This Bikovac was no mere creature of magic. It was a soldier—a warrior ripped from its battlefield, enslaved, and paraded as a trophy. But the war it had fought was far from over. Its people were still out there, breaking human strongholds and driving survivors further south. Every scar on its body was a testament to humanity's desperation and the Bikovac's unyielding strength.

The Bikovac let out a deep, guttural roar that shook the arena. It raised its massive war hammer, the iron head stained dark with blood. The crowd screamed for blood, their voices blending into a deafening cacophony.

Seeker tightened his grip on the crude sword he had been given. The blade was dull and nicked, its hilt wrapped in frayed leather. It was no match for the Bikovac's weapon, let alone its strength. He couldn't afford to meet the creature head-on. His only chance was to outmaneuver it, to strike where it was vulnerable.

The Bikovac charged, its hooves thundering against the sand. Seeker threw himself to the side as the hammer came crashing down, the impact sending a shockwave through the ground. Sand and gravel sprayed into the air, cutting into his exposed skin.

The creature turned with surprising speed, its glowing eyes locking onto him again. This wasn't mindless rage. This was precision. The Bikovac moved like a soldier, each step deliberate, each swing calculated.

Seeker darted forward, slashing at its flank. His blade bit into flesh, carving a shallow wound, but the creature barely flinched. It bellowed, swinging its hammer in a wide arc that forced him back. The weapon whooshed past him, the sheer force of it enough to unbalance him. He stumbled but quickly recovered, his feet light on the sand.

The crowd roared louder, their bloodlust rising with each exchange. But Seeker barely heard them. His focus was on the Bikovac, on the way it adjusted its stance, the way its eyes never left him.

And then it happened.

It began as a faint hum, low and almost imperceptible, somewhere at the edge of Seeker's awareness. It wasn't the roar of the crowd or the crash of the Bikovac's hammer—it was something deeper, something within. It vibrated through his core, a subtle rhythm that matched his heartbeat, growing stronger with each passing moment. The power, dormant for so long, began to stir.

At first, it was just a flicker, a gentle warmth spreading through his veins. But then it surged, sharp and insistent, flooding him with an intensity so potent it was almost unbearable. His body felt lighter, his senses sharper, as though a veil had been lifted from his mind. The world around him seemed to slow, every detail suddenly crystal clear.

The Bikovac's hammer swung toward him in a massive, sweeping arc, but Seeker saw it as though it moved through water, its motion sluggish and predictable. He sidestepped effortlessly, his feet barely touching the bloodstained sand as he moved. The beast bellowed in frustration, its glowing eyes blazing with fury, but Seeker was already repositioning, his sword raised.

He could feel the power now, fully awake, coursing through him with a ferocity that left no room for doubt or hesitation. It wasn't just strength—it was control. Raw, untamed, and boundless. It filled every fiber of his being, sharpening his movements, quickening his reflexes, and lending him strength he hadn't known he possessed.

The world around him blurred at the edges, the noise of the crowd fading into a dull hum. All that remained was the Bikovac and the rhythm of the fight. He could see everything—the twitch of the creature's muscles, the way its grip shifted on the hammer's handle, the slight change in its stance as it prepared to charge again.

Time itself seemed to bend. Each heartbeat stretched into an eternity, each breath filling his lungs with air that felt thicker, heavier, more alive. The power heightened his senses to an almost unbearable degree. He could hear the Bikovac's labored breathing, the faint creak of its armor as it moved, the dull scrape of its hooves against the sand. He could smell the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of sweat, mingling with the dust kicked up by their movements.

The power demanded more. It urged him forward, pushing him to strike, to dominate, to destroy. It was a voice without words, a primal force that pulsed through him with a relentless rhythm.

Seeker's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. It no longer felt heavy or unwieldy; it felt like an extension of himself, a part of his body as natural as his own limbs. He moved with fluid precision, his strikes faster and more powerful than he thought possible. Each blow found its mark, slicing through the Bikovac's thick hide, leaving trails of dark, oozing blood in its wake.

The beast roared in pain, swinging its hammer in a desperate attempt to crush him. But Seeker was no longer merely avoiding its attacks—he was anticipating them. The power within him guided his movements, his body responding faster than his mind could think. He ducked beneath the hammer's arc, his blade slashing across the creature's exposed ribs. He rolled to the side as the Bikovac lunged, its horns grazing the air where he had stood just moments before.

The crowd's screams became a distant echo, their bloodlust a meaningless noise in the background. All that mattered was the fight. All that mattered was the power.

But the power was wild, untamed. It surged through him with a ferocity that bordered on overwhelming, threatening to consume him entirely. For every ounce of strength it gave, it demanded something in return. It gnawed at his resolve, whispering promises of greater dominance and victory if he would only let it take more.

Seeker's vision blurred for a moment, the edges of the world darkening as the power threatened to take control. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus, to rein it in. He couldn't let it take over—not here, not now.

The Bikovac lunged again, its massive frame crashing into the sand as it swung its hammer in a wide arc. Seeker leapt backward, his movements impossibly quick, the power coursing through his legs like a second heartbeat. His sword flashed in the torchlight, its blade cutting deep into the Bikovac's shoulder. The creature howled in agony, staggering under the force of the blow.

For a moment, the power roared in triumph, its energy surging to a fever pitch. But Seeker could feel the toll it was taking. His muscles ached, his chest burned with the effort of drawing breath, and his mind felt frayed at the edges, as though the power was burning through more than just his body.

The Bikovac staggered, its strength waning. Its glowing eyes, once blazing with fury, now flickered with exhaustion and desperation. Seeker saw his opening—a narrow window, but enough.

He moved with a speed and precision that didn't feel entirely his own, his blade driving upward into the creature's chest. The Bikovac let out one final, guttural roar, its massive body trembling before it collapsed to the ground. The hammer slipped from its grasp, landing with a dull thud in the blood-soaked sand.

Seeker stood over the fallen beast, his chest heaving, his sword still clenched in his hand. The power within him receded, its roaring tide ebbing back into a faint, quiet pulse. It left behind a hollow ache, a gnawing emptiness that made his knees feel weak. The strength was gone, and in its absence, he felt fragile, like a vessel that had been filled to the brink and then drained too quickly.

The crowd erupted into chaos, their cheers deafening as they celebrated the brutal spectacle. But Seeker barely heard them. His vision swam, his body trembling from the strain of the fight and the power's relentless demand. He dropped the sword, its weight suddenly unbearable, and stared down at the blood-soaked sand beneath his feet.

"What are you?" he whispered, the words barely audible. He didn't know if he was asking the power or himself.

The Bikovac's lifeless body lay sprawled across the sand, its massive chest heaving one final time before stilling completely. The crowd's thunderous roar surged in the background, an unrelenting cacophony of cheers, shouts, and jeers. But to Seeker, it was little more than a muffled hum, like the distant crash of waves against a far-off shore. His world had narrowed to the blood-soaked sand beneath his feet, the faint tremble in his hands, and the hollow ache that filled him as the power receded.

The sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground with a dull thud. His arms hung limply at his sides, his breathing ragged. The surge of strength that had coursed through him moments ago was gone, leaving behind only exhaustion—a bone-deep weariness that seemed to seep into his very soul. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to buckle, but he forced himself to stand upright. Showing weakness here, even in the aftermath of victory, was dangerous.

The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of sweat and fear. The Bikovac's dark blood pooled around its massive form, soaking into the sand. Seeker's own body was streaked with crimson, though he wasn't sure how much of it was his. The dull throb of bruises and cuts made it difficult to tell where the pain began and ended.

Above him, in the higher tiers of the amphitheater, the nobles reclined in their cushioned seats, their laughter and chatter rising like a discordant melody against the blood-soaked spectacle below. They were draped in finery that seemed almost obscene in its opulence—silks embroidered with enchanted thread, jewels that glowed faintly with magical auras, and masks adorned with feathers from creatures rare enough to be hunted to extinction.

Their expressions ranged from detached amusement to thinly veiled contempt, their jeweled hands gesturing animatedly as they wagered on the outcome of the fight. To them, this wasn't a contest between warriors—it was a fleeting diversion, a chance to revel in violence from the safety of their insulated lives. They whispered to one another in conspiratorial tones, their words carrying the faint echoes of disdain for the "lesser" creatures—both Seeker and the Bikovac—fighting for their entertainment.

In the central balcony, the atmosphere was different. The duke sat in a high-backed chair carved from blackened wood, its surface etched with sigils of power. His sharp eyes tracked Seeker's every movement, his lips curving into a faint smile that was equal parts satisfaction and curiosity. He leaned forward, the goblet of wine in his hand catching the flickering torchlight. The crimson liquid swirled within, reflecting the arena's torches like liquid fire.

"Interesting," the duke murmured, his voice low but carrying weight. "He's no ordinary slave."

The nobles closest to him glanced in his direction but said nothing. They knew better than to interrupt the duke's thoughts. His reputation was not one of patience or tolerance for idle prattle, even among his peers. He was a man of ambition, known to wield both political and magical power with ruthless efficiency.

The duke's realm was one of the eastern kingdoms, a volatile borderland constantly at odds with the Elven armies. While other nobles indulged in decadence, he balanced his luxuries with an unyielding focus on the war. Every decision he made was a calculation, every move a step in the intricate dance of survival. This fight, this arena—it was more than entertainment to him. It was an experiment, a chance to measure strength and weakness, to seek out assets for the endless battles ahead.

Beside him, the magus stood silently, his presence looming despite his gaunt frame. His black robes hung loosely over his body, their fabric shifting subtly with the faint hum of protective wards woven into every thread. The magus was not a man who demanded attention through grand gestures or booming proclamations. His power was quieter, more insidious, radiating an authority that made even the boldest of nobles hesitate.

His face was thin and sharp, a mask of cold calculation. His eyes, sunken but gleaming with a disturbing intensity, never left Seeker. The magus's presence carried with it an unmistakable weight, as though the very air around him was charged with unspent power. Seeker could feel that gaze even from the arena floor. It burned into him, cutting through the haze of exhaustion, igniting a surge of anger that momentarily dulled the pain in his limbs.

That face was etched into Seeker's memory as clearly as the girl's laugh or the fire that had consumed her. It was the face of the man who had brought death and ruin to the farm, who had turned an innocent family into ash and broken dreams. Even from this distance, Seeker could see the faint, imperceptible smirk on the magus's lips—a subtle curl that spoke of disdain and control. He wasn't here to observe. He was here to gloat.

The duke turned to the magus, raising a brow. "You're unusually silent tonight," he said, his tone casual but laced with an edge of command. "What do you make of him?"

The magus's gaze didn't waver. "There's potential," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "More than you realize."

The duke's smile deepened. "And yet you've barely touched the surface of it. If I recall correctly, it was your miscalculation that brought him here."

The magus's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "A momentary... oversight," he replied, his tone clipped. "The artifact in the cave—its power masked his nature."

"An oversight that cost a valuable mana spring," the duke said, swirling his wine thoughtfully. "And yet, here he stands, alive and fighting." He gestured toward Seeker, who had just narrowly dodged a hammer blow from the Bikovac. "Perhaps your error has given us an unexpected boon."

The magus inclined his head slightly but said nothing. He wouldn't openly admit his failure, not here, not before the other nobles. The duke leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting to the Bikovac. "It's a shame," he said, almost absently. "The northern tribes produce such formidable warriors. It's a pity their kind would rather see us wiped from existence."

"The Bikovac is an anomaly," the magus said, his tone dismissive. "Their brute strength is impressive, but they lack discipline. The Fenri and Serpanti are the real threat."

"And yet," the duke countered, his smile returning, "it's brute strength that breaks walls and shatters lines. Imagine a dozen Bikovac, properly trained and under my command. Imagine what they could do to an Elven battalion."

The magus's lips tightened, but he didn't respond. The duke's ambitions were clear. He was playing a long game, one that extended beyond the arena and even beyond the borders of his kingdom. For him, every piece on the board was a means to an end. Seeker, the Bikovac, the magus—they were all tools in a larger plan. The war was no longer just about survival for men like the duke. It was about power—who would emerge from this chaos to shape the world that followed.

After sight of magus, Seeker memory stirred.

The farm had been small and modest, nestled against the edge of a quiet wood. For months, it had been his sanctuary. The girl and her family had taken him in without question, offering him shelter, food, and companionship when he had woken from the Shard. Their kindness had been simple and genuine, untainted by suspicion or greed.

And then the magus had come.

He hadn't come alone. A small retinue of soldiers accompanied him, their armor darkened and marked with the duke's sigil. They had arrived unannounced, their presence unsettling in its cold precision. The magus led them, his dark robes flowing like smoke as he approached the farm.

Seeker didn't know why they had come. Perhaps it was the Shard, still pulsing faintly with residual magic, that had drawn the magus to the cave. Or perhaps it was something else—a whim, a curiosity, or simply the cruel hand of fate. What Seeker did know was that the magus's arrival had shattered the fragile peace of his new life.

The girl had been the first to approach, her wide-eyed curiosity as bright as ever. She hadn't seen the danger in the magus's cold eyes, the disdain in his thin-lipped smile. She had only seen another traveler, another person in need.

Seeker had been too far away to stop her. He had been hauling water from the well when the explosion ripped through the air, a blinding flash of light and heat that knocked him off his feet. The roar of flames followed, consuming the farm in an instant.

By the time he reached the clearing, it was already too late. The house was engulfed in flames, the heat so intense it seared his skin even from a distance. The girl lay motionless on the ground, her small frame broken and lifeless. Her parents were nowhere to be seen, their bodies likely reduced to ash in the inferno.

The magus had stood amidst the destruction, his expression as calm and detached as though he had merely swatted a fly. The soldiers behind him had said nothing, their faces blank as they waited for his orders.

Seeker had lunged at him then, blind with rage and grief. But he hadn't gotten far. The soldiers had subdued him quickly, their fists and boots leaving him battered and bleeding in the dirt. When he woke, he was bound and chained, his body bruised and his mind reeling.

"You saw too much," the magus had said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is for your own good."

And so, they had taken him—away from the farm, the girl, and the only life he had known. Away from the Shard and the questions it posed. He had become a slave, his chains a reminder of the secrets he was forced to carry.

That day had marked the end of everything good in Seeker's life. It was the day the power within him had first stirred, a faint flicker of strength that had allowed him to survive the wreckage. It had been the first time he felt the emptiness, the hollow ache that had become his constant companion.

And now that same man sat in the duke's balcony, watching him as though he were nothing more than an animal in a cage. Seeker's hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The pain was sharp but grounding, anchoring him to the present even as his rage threatened to consume him.

The magus leaned closer to the duke, his thin fingers gesturing toward the arena floor. Seeker couldn't hear their words, but he didn't need to. The way the duke nodded, the faint smirk on his lips—it was clear they were speaking about him.

Seeker's chest heaved as he fought to steady his breathing. The world around him slowly began to return, the crowd's roar growing louder, the weight of his exhaustion settling heavily on his shoulders. Before he could fully regain his bearings, two guards strode onto the arena floor, their boots kicking up clouds of sand as they approached.

"Back to your hole, slave," one of them barked, his voice harsh and clipped.

Seeker didn't resist as they grabbed him, one on each arm, and began dragging him toward the gate. His feet shuffled weakly across the sand, the rough texture grating against his raw skin. He could feel their grip tightening, their hands like iron clamps around his arms, but he didn't care. The fight was over. For now, he had survived.

Back in his cell, Seeker sat in silence, his body battered but his mind racing. Every muscle throbbed with a dull ache, his raw hands stinging from the splintered hilt of the crude sword. The air was colder here, a dampness clinging to the stone walls that seeped into his bones. He barely felt it. The power that had surged within him during the fight was now a distant ember, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that gnawed at his core.

He closed his eyes, letting the oppressive silence of the dungeon swallow him. Turning his focus inward, he tried to still his restless mind. The pain, both physical and mental, faded into the background as he reached for the place he had felt so many times before—the ocean.

It was there, vast and untamed. The waves shimmered in his mind's eye, dark yet glistening with a faint, otherworldly light. The waters stretched endlessly, their surface disturbed only by faint ripples and currents that seemed to move with a will of their own. It was closer now than it had ever been, its pull stronger, more insistent. He could almost feel the salty spray on his face, the coolness of the water against his skin.

But no matter how far he stretched, how deeply he reached, it remained just out of grasp. It was as though a barrier lay between him and the ocean, invisible but impenetrable.

"What are you?" he whispered into the darkness, his voice hoarse and trembling with frustration.

The ocean didn't answer. It never did.

Instead, it shifted, its surface churning with hidden power. For a fleeting moment, he thought he glimpsed something beneath the waves—a shadow moving with deliberate grace. It was neither beast nor man, its form indistinct yet radiating a presence that sent a shiver down his spine. It felt familiar, like a memory teetering on the edge of recognition, yet alien, like something from a dream.

The sight vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving the water eerily still. He felt a pang of loss, as though the ocean itself had turned away from him.

But beneath the sense of loss, there was something else. A purpose. A name. The magus.

Seeker closed his eyes, the image of the girl's broken body searing into his mind once more. His fingers twitched at his sides, his nails scraping against the stone floor as his anger simmered beneath the surface.

He had no name, no past, no future. But he had the magus. And one day, that would be enough.