Emmet watches as Lord Dorian and his slave approaching the gates. With a low whistle, he signals two gladiators, who intercept the nobleman. The slaves give pleads to his wealthy ears on matters only known to them.
Emmet, seizing the opportune moment, discreetly slips past to convey words to Dorian's servant.
"Woman. Tell your master that if he is interested in acquiring the two slaves without the knowledge of Lord Barabas, he should reach out. We have a way" he says to her.
"Hey, you two. Clear the path, give way for the lord" a guard bellows, his voice cutting through the throng. Emmet takes this as his cue to withdraw, his message delivered.
He sways away and blends back in with the rest of the slaves.
The morning bell tolls, Grimstones' way of summoning gladiators to the ludus for the daily grind of training. The slaves converge towards the source of the sound, procession of weary bodies answering the imperious call.
Amos, the Doctore, stands sentinel at the ludus gates, his whip a silent threat, his gaze scanning for inevitable delinquents who would dare to mock the sanctity of punctuality.
They make haste to the gates, slipping into a shadowed alcove, concealed from vigilant gaze of the guards.
Emmet is suddenly thrust against the cool stone, his struggles futile against the superior strength of his captor.
Braga, a figure of imposing presence, holds him captive against the walls, his gaze unwavering as it descends upon the half-elf.
"Your friend has been elusive for some time now. You are the one that is available. I saw him use his magic, I know it was his magic that he used in the arena the other day and not the demon's" Braga says into his ears.
"He should reach out or you are going to be hearing from me" he says and buries a heavy blow into Emmet's gut.
Emmet feels his feet leave the ground as the force lifts his body, he drops on his knees and the champion of the arena walks away, back turned to Emmet, indifferent to the fallen brethren.
CONTINENT OF IGNIS
ROLANDIA
A celestial beacon, a nascent star dominates the Rolandian sky, its presence impossible to ignore.
Bathing the empire in an ethereal glow, it instills a sense of tranquility in those receptive to its influence.
Its gentle hues suffusing the soul with a sanguine serenity.
But as usual there are those who see potential in harnessing powers beyond their own, that is the way of the world. Those who seek out power will eventually have to rip it up out of the hands of others.
Even trample on the innocent.
Duke Clarion, accompanied by a select contingent of his guard, are formally received in Rolandia as an emissary from Merdona. However, the sincerity of his intentions remain a subject of considerable speculation.
Before the resplendent King of Rolandia, enthroned in a riot of colour and crowned with regal splendour, Clarion bows.
"Your majesty", he implores, "we beseech your consent to join your esteemed party of sorcerers and scholars to investigate the moon that hangs over Rolandia.
Such collaboration will serve as a beacon of unity between our kingdoms" the duke says.
The king, brows furrowed in contemplation, plucks at his beard. His advisor, a figure of hushed counsel, leans close to whisper into his ear.
Behind him, the Rolandian throne looms, shrouded in crimson velvet curtains.
"I see you came with only five members of your guard" the advisor, speaks out. "Of course, Lord Harbrand. Being in a nation of allies there is no need for me to walk with a dozen men for protection. I trust the empire" he says.
"My people will summon you shortly and you can investigate the moon" "Thank you, your majesty" he bows before leaving the court.
Malice, who stands as one of his guards, walk close to him, "You have ways of reaching places without staining your hands.", she states, "Of course. like I said, we are a government, we have real power" he chuckles under his gruff moustache.
BACK AT PYRRHUS
Scorching heat greets the feet of the gladiators as they dance in their routine steps of morning training.
Doctore giving out instructions to the more experienced batch of gladiators while another gladiator trains a new set of slaves.
Kane walks by, free from Barabas attention. He walks with shaky feet while hugging the walls for support.
The men in training set eyes on him and make jest, while a few pity him for even they know it would be difficult to not have fallen for the unfortunate incident that put him in Memnuh's gaze.
After all, many lay eyes on the mistress of Grimstone but none dare speak words of it, for the walls have ears.
"Why don't you come over and join us", an invitation rings out from a boisterous gladiator, his clique erupting in raucous laughter.
"Leave Kane, take rest. You are of no use in the arena in your current state" Amos advises, his tone firm.
"Maxi, take up stance. You will be sparring with Braga today" he declares, a chilling effect washing over the gladiator's face as he swallows nervously at the mention of the champion's name.
Kane moves with struggle until his weak body reaches his cell, where he falls to hug the sweat-scented sheets of his bed.
The sheets still hold some stains of blood, trickled at night after Kane's back bled from whip's sting.
He lies on his belly as mind begins to torment him, "I did it again. At the arena. I teleported. But how, what activates this power that dwells in me? How do I use it?", he thinks as with each passing day, the hunger for freedom intensifies.
A sudden headache comes over him and he grits his teeth, using all the willpower in his body to hold his pain. He has screamed enough for two days, he must endure.
Eyes closed, he squeezes the sheets between his fingers as visions intrude his tortured mind.
Mani, hangs above in the sky, giving off a sensation unknown, it's light are of soft colours and welcoming embrace but Kane only feels pain, contrary to what Mani's imagery suggests.
Suddenly his vision changes, the map flashes before his eyes and the continent he saw in his dream appear before him. A brief moment, it stays but vanishes along with the ache in his head.
He gasps for breath as sweat drips down his back and face. His vision becomes blurry but he fights to hold consciousness.
"You need to rest", a soft voice murmurs. Kane slowly turns, meeting the gaze of an elf. Like himself, one of Barabas' slaves, he recognises her - a quiet spirit, much like Emilia.
Her skin is fair and smooth, her hands surprisingly unmarred by the hardships one would expect a slave to go through.
Her gaze shares the sea with his, deep in their blue colours. She kneels beside his bed with a piece of cloth and a small bucket of water, "Please relax, let me massage your wounds" she says.
She wets the piece of cloth and begins to clean the wounds on his back, gently and slowly.
"Why? Why do you help me?" "I am sure Emilia would do it if she were free of the master's grip. I saw her, she looked sad when you left Lord Barabas' chambers. I understand how she feels, I was once his favourite, you see" she says.
"I am Kane" "Saphina" she introduces herself. Her long hair falls forward, letting their obsidian strings tangle with his silver strands of hair.
She adjusts her hair as she reaches his lower back.
One hand cleans and the other traces the scars gently, giving him a sting and forcing his voice out in a groan of hurt.
She brings out an ointment which hangs in a shell, she pours some on her hands and rubs them together before rubbing it on Kane's back.
He groans as he feels the sting, "Shush, it will help you heal faster", her words delicate as her touch on his back.
She massages his back gently with the ointment, watching him wriggle from time to time while his wounds soak in the oils.
"How did you become a slave Saphina?", Kane engages in talk to shift mind of brewing pain, "I come from a kingdom in constant peril of war, in Atheria. I was captured as a spoils of war" she says, "You were a warrior?".
"No. My brother was, he taught me the sword for a while but I was no warrior. Our lands were invaded shortly after a recent defeat.
They raided our town, killed my family before my eyes and brought me to Pyrrhus" her voice grow softer with her words.
"I am sorry" "Thank you", she wipes her eyes and continues to apply the ointment.
"Like most of us, I was purchased at Slave Harbour by one of Lord Barabas' men, that is how I came to be slave in Grimstone", she leans in forward to get the other side of his torso. Hands brushing clumps of hay at the edge of his bed.
Softness, pushed to his face as she massages whip marks around the back of his neck and left shoulder.
Kane's eyes become filled with something to lust for, a distraction from the pain as her bosom rests upon his face, "Pardon me, I will be done shortly" she says.
"No, take your time", his true nature speaks beneath harsh injuries.
He hears her giggle as she massages his back and steps away, denying him the softness that caressed his face, "I guess even White Death is a man after all" she says, "White death? Who is that?".
"It is you.", a deep voice says as a towering figure enters his cell. "The people of Pyrrhus have awarded with such title after your exploits in the arena".
Kane groans, struggling to an upright position as Braga looms before him, their proximity mediated only by the slender figure of Saphina.
"Leave us, woman", Braga commands.
Saphina offers a warm smile to Kane, her lingering on Kane's pained expression, "I shall return to tend to your wounds", she promises then withdraws, leaving the men alone.
The two men stand in silence for a minute, assessing each other as eyes meet, "Finally you shall answer, dog".