Sorn departed the training grounds alongside Oden, glancing back at Crystal. He chose to ignore the others, alongside everything that had just occurred, focusing instead on the future. Oden had mentioned pressing matters to discuss, and Sorn was intrigued. Serene had stayed behind to train with the other Marauders, who, despite their earlier scuffle, were now regrouping in the training ground, battered but enthusiastic.
As they walked toward the Marauder Hall, Oden began to talk. "The Tournament roster is finalized," he began. "Fifty top students from the Academy will participate, including you."
Sorn nodded.
"There are twelve contestants from the Spears and nine from the Marauders," Oden continued. "The numbers aren't in our favor."
"I expected that to be honest," Sorn said.
Oden's eyes narrowed a bit. "What's more concerning is Keilan's inclusion. He's meant to be sacrificed immediately after the Tournament. He has no reason to participate, so he must have an ulterior motive."
Sorn recalled Keilan's earlier conversation with Crystal. "He mentioned needing to tell Crystal something."
Oden sighed. "Whatever it is, just stay vigilant. There'll be twelve people after your head already, and Keilan will be one of the worst if he's also after you."
They walked in silence for a moment before Oden spoke again. "The Tournament is structured as a race. The course will be unveiled once the cylinder disappears, but the goal will be to get from the top to the bottom as fast as possible."
Sorn glanced toward the distant monolith of ice. It remained as imposing as ever.
"There are five sections, each overseen by a Council member," Oden said. "I don't know who manages each part, but my uncle told me secretly that he will handle the final section in the Royal Palace."
Sorn didn't even want to imagine what Bjorn or Varian's challenges might be. As Oden concluded his explanation, Sorn's gaze drifted upward, settling upon a solitary figure perched atop a nearby rooftop. The boy appeared in his mid-teens, with textured hair partially veiling his face as he stared pensively at the sky. A gentle breeze tousled his bangs, occasionally revealing a solitary, contemplative eye.
Noticing Sorn's attention, the boy's expression hardened into a frown, silently conveying a clear message: "What are you staring at? Move along." Accustomed to unwelcoming receptions, Sorn averted his gaze, choosing to continue without confrontation.
Oden observed the brief exchange with a hint of amusement. "That's Varian's only son," he remarked, piquing Sorn's curiosity.
"What?" Sorn blurted out.
"His name is Kaen," Oden continued, "he's often called 'The Spear's Disappointment.' Despite being the sole blood of the most formidable Spear, at fifteen, he has yet to manifest even a single spear. In the Fortress, such failures are typically relegated to the outer regions. Yet, he's been entered as the youngest participant in the Tournament, despite being nowhere near the top fifty. He keeps to himself, and I can only imagine the scorn he endures within the Goblet, especially with the select harsh words I hear Spears use for him. It's hard not to feel sympathy for the kid."
Sorn pondered this for a moment. "If he lacks abilities, how is he expected to succeed in the Tournament?"
Oden's tone was somber. "He isn't. Varian likely hopes his son meets his end there, erasing the only blemish on his legacy. But truthfully, I'm uncertain."
While Oden spoke with a hint of difference, Sorn found himself having empathy for the boy. Their circumstances, though different, shared the common thread of isolation and expectation. Sorn vowed silently that if their paths crossed during the Tournament, he would extend a helping hand to Kaen.
They stopped right before the Marauder Hall, and as Sorn began to walk towards the entrance, he turned around to see Oden standing still.
"I've got some business to attend to," the Marauder said. "You go on ahead."
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
Oden halted before his destination. Before him stood tall ice-reinforced walls encircling a singular structure—the stronghold of the Dancing Blade. This fortress within the Fortress stood as a relic of a bygone era when the first members of the Dancing Blade had defied the Council's disdain for their unconventional combat techniques. Their rebellion had culminated in the construction of this bastion, signaling their intent to secede and form an independent nation, incurring the Council's wrath.
War seemed unavoidable, but the Fifth Emperor, utilized his influence and he brokered a truce. Much to the anger of the Spears, he removed one of them from the Council. securing that seat for a representative of the Dancing Blade, cementing their influence that remained to this day.
Approaching the main gate, Oden acknowledged the guard with a nod. The guard stepped aside, permitting entry without inquiry. The palace within was modest compared to the Marauder Hall, around half its size, yet its complex corridors were far more easy to get lost in. However, Oden's frequent visits and innate sense of direction guided him unerringly.
Ascending a flight of stairs, he encountered Toren alongside Aira, the deaf outcast from the Turtle Clan. Their silence was laden with unspoken tension. Once, Oden and Toren had been close, but as Toren matured, pride had driven a wedge between them. Now, they passed each other as strangers.
Oden proceeded to a vast bookshelf, settling against it with a tome in hand, feigning absorption. Berten, his special confidant, approached discreetly, slipping a folded parchment between the pages. This exchange had become routine over the past three years. Initially, Oden's visits were driven by a genuine appreciation for the Dancing Blade's literary works. That changed when Berten, professing allegiance to the Marauder ethos, began supplying intelligence. His role as a custodian afforded him access to privileged conversations, which he dutifully relayed.
The current missive detailed a recent conclave where a sinister plan was unveiled: to use the Outsider to incite discord between the Spears and Marauders, orchestrating mutual destruction, thereby paving the way for the Dancing Blade's ascendancy. Berten lingered by, his anticipation evident. He recognized the gravity of his revelation, and was intent on seeing Oden's reaction.
A subtle smile played on Oden's lips. The information aligned precisely with his expectations.
Because he was the one who came up with that plan.
From behind Berten, a chain of ice wrapped around his neck. His eyes spread wide with panic as he clawed at the chain, desperately trying to regain his breath but to no avail. The cleaner was rendered unconscious. The wielder of the weapon walked into view from behind the man. Cedric, the "Winter's Warden" had a concerned glare on his face as he walked alongside two other Chains. The youngest Council Member pulled his chain back, looking at the Marauder to see the boy with an unconcerned smile. He held up three fingers. Only three more days until the Prophecy.
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
Varian stood at the precipice of the Goblet, a tower whose name is born of its very shape. From this vantage point, the entirety of the Fortress sprawled beneath him. The sun had set, relinquishing its dominion to the night. The first sliver of the moon emerged, and Varian inhaled deeply, savoring the crispness of the evening air. The recent shave left his face exposed to the biting cold, a sensation he found refreshing. Such tranquil moments were rare, and he yearned for them to last forever.
A familiar voice shattered his moment.
"I've brought him."
Suppressing a flicker of irritation, Varian turned to face the intruder. Radan, Commander of the First Division and one of Varian's oldest confidants, stood with an air of casual authority. Their bond, one made in their youth, allowed for a candor few could afford with Varian. Beside Radan stood Keilan, his expression neutral like always.
"Come here, my child," Varian said warmly.
Keilan approached without hesitation, ascending the steps to stand alongside his mentor. Radan, recognizing the need for privacy, retreated into the interior of the Goblet, leaving the two alone.
"Look," Varian murmured, gesturing expansively toward the panorama before them. They had shared this view countless times. To Keilan, it had become a mundane sight, but to Varian, it remained a perpetual source of wonder.
"Why did you involve me in the Tournament?" Keilan asked.
Varian shifted his gaze from the horizon to look down at the young man beside him. The slight difference in their heights, about five centimeters, seemed far more pronounced at this distance.
"Why did I place you in the Tournament?" Varian echoed. "Why would I position a young man, on the cusp of his prime, into the most esteemed competition of our people?" The sarcasm was evident, yet his voice retained passion.
"That's not the reason. A dying man has no need for glory." Keilan retorted, a hint of agitation coloring his words. His fingers absently traced the edge of the wolf fang pendant hanging from his neck. Varian was well aware of this being the boy's subconscious reaction to his own nervousness.
"You are mistaken," Varian said. "The gods have determined our deaths long before our births. The sole distinction between you and others lies in your foreknowledge of the day. Fate has decreed that you shall not meet your end before the Sacrifice. Death is both an inevitable and unpredictable guest; you can try to turn it away, or barricade your door, but it will always find a way in. I might collapse before you now, never to rise again. Yet, my legacy would endure, my name etched into history forever. You, Keilan, as the Last Sacrifice, have yet to inscribe your own mark. This Tournament presents an opportunity—"
"Do you want me to kill the Outsider?" Keilan's interrupted, his gaze fixed steadfastly on the distant horizon.
A shadow crossed Varian's face. The head of the Council could only tolerate so much disrespect. With deliberate calm, he reached out, his fingers gripping Keilan's chin, compelling the young man to meet his stare.
"I expect you to play a role in that, yes. If you have already surmised as much, why then do you ask to see me only to pose such a redundant question?"
"I wanted to hear you say it."
Varian released his hold, a contemplative silence stretching between them. Once, fear of physical discipline had been an effective tool. Keilan had grown out of such a fear long ago. Luckily Varian was well aware, Keilan harbored far greater terrors.
"Perhaps a modest incentive will motivate you."
Keilan's composure faltered, apprehension breaking through. "No—"
"The Princess's life will end by my own hands if the Outsider survives the Tournament, and she will forever be labelled as a deserter, just like the rest of her filthy siblings. From the moment the first course begins, you will hunt him down and end his life. A fair death in the Tournament is imperative to avert civil war and to ensure the success of the Promised Day."
Keilan absorbed the pronouncement, then bowed slightly before retreating into the shadows of the Goblet's interior. He had matured physically, yet his simplicity remained. No matter; his end was imminent.
Turning his gaze skyward, Varian's attention was captured by a rare and wondrous sight: a blue bird with elongated tail feathers, gliding gracefully across the twilight. An undying phoenix, the Gods' own masterpiece.
Unfortunately, even the immortal cannot escape the horns of the Iron Stag.
"O bird of the mountains, why do you reveal yourself to me now? Do you bear an omen, or seek vengeance for your chosen?" A subtle smile played on Varian's lips as the phoenix seemed to acknowledge his words, its wings spreading wide in a final, elegant display—just as the spear of ice reached its target, ending its flight.