I had long stopped dwelling on the past and everything that happened in Artherion. The dance and all that. People however, didn't let it stay in the past, It lingered, like a Lucien effect.
It's been weeks however and something else has stirred more interest amongst nobles and common folk. A convergance. The convergence of blades.
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The roar of the crowd within Valethorne Arena thundered like waves against a mountainside.
The Valethorne was no mere colosseum. It was a relic of the ancient world, stone and spell, myth and muscle. Towers rose like spears into the sky, each carved with the names of former champions, and at their peaks flew the war-pennants of participating kingdoms. On this morning, no color flew higher than the crimson and obsidian banners of Dravenguard, rippling with power as the horns sounded the official beginning of the Convergence of Blades.
This was the summit of all knightly trials, the place where power was measured not in blood alone, but in endurance, tactics, nobility of form, and spirit.
There would be no second chances.
Inside the marble-clad corridors beneath the arena stands, knights assembled row by row, clad in armor that gleamed like wrath held in check. The clang of greaves, the low murmur of prayers, the metallic scent of oiled steel and sweat, it created a cathedral-like sanctity.
The tournament was not just to entertain.
I felt it had a hidden purpose despite the fact that it is a culture.
By ancient accord signed after the last Great Reconciliation War, the kingdoms each sent their finest to prove their worth. The chosen victors would earn access to the Circle of High Command, the most sacred advisory rank beneath kings, and the right to train at Artherion's Sanctum of Flame, where it was said even time bent to discipline.
But above all, they would carry the honor of being just below Prince Lucien of Artherion in international rankings, the man who had, only weeks ago, defeated Prince Alaric of Dravenguard in single combat and shattered every old belief of superiority.
Lucien's battle had become legend before ink touched paper.
Some entered this arena to reclaim pride.
Others, to see if he bled like a man.
The first fanfare split the air like a lightning cry.
Then came the Herald of Flame, robed in silver and gold, his voice echoing through the arcane sound-runes engraved around the arena's crown.
"By command of His Sovereign Majesty, King Zeburel Ashkaroth, Lord of Dravenguard and Keeper of the Iron Flame, let the Convergence of Blades commence!"
The crowd roared.
"Let every warrior who bears steel and oath now step forward, and by might, mind, and mastery, declare his banner!"
The great gates opened.
From the east, Ashendell's knightly order entered first, twenty men and women on obsidian-black warhorses. Their armor was sleek, made not of steel but woven scales of liquid glass and reinforced dusk-metal. At their front rode Knight-Captain Vel Asemir, with twin sickle-blades at his back, known for severing a wyvern's head mid-air.
Behind them came the Sunfire Riders of Sol'tavarel, glowing faintly from their enchantments, faces masked in ceremonial light-veils. Each carried a spear tipped in starlit crystal.
Then the knights of Valthorne, heavier in build, thundered forward in rows of seven, bearing mauls and hammers, dragging spiked shields across the sand. Their very presence bent the tension of the arena downward like a storm-cloud.
And then—
Artherion's knights.
The crowd quieted.
Four riders alone emerged through the northern gate, but their approach silenced even the drums.
At their head rode Sir Caelen of the Silver Flame, rumored to be chosen directly by the throne of Artherion. His armor glowed with etched runes that pulsed gently like a heartbeat. His blade—Verdiel—was said to be bathed in the breath of a slain dragon.
Behind him, three knights bore no sigils, only cloaks of starlit sapphire. They moved in perfect unity. Some whispered they were not knights at all, but former guardians of the White Flame sanctum itself.
Lucien was not among them.
He had already proven himself beyond the rite of selection.
But his absence was more commanding than any presence.
The crowd watched, breathless. Some nobles stood. Even the other kings leaned forward in their sky-balconies. One man's reputation had upended centuries of hierarchy. Knights today would fight not just to win—but to escape comparison to a prince no one could surpass.
On a raised throne at the arena's heart, King Zeburel sat, eyes glimmering like dark opals beneath his horned crown. His voice, slow and regal, filled the sky.
> "By my hand, and the blood of my ancestors, I declare this tournament blessed. Let its victories be true, and its defeat untainted by cowardice. Let no hand rise in deceit, and no sword draw for vengeance. This is not war—this is memory forged in motion."
At his right, Princess Vaeloria sat veiled in crimson, her gaze unreadable.
And far behind the royal canopy, nearly hidden from view, Mirelleth stood in the shadows—no longer holding Vaeloria's gown, no longer tending to perfumes or trays. She was stationed now as a silent chamber aid. But her eyes saw everything.
Each knight. Each formation. Each gaze turned toward Artherion.
And she noticed it first—a knight in bone-white armor, bearing no crest. He had not entered with the others, yet now stood among the ranks, head bowed, hands gloved in etched silver.
She tilted her head.
There was something... wrong. Or perhaps too perfect.
This knight—he didn't belong. He moved too quietly for a man that large. His posture didn't match the weight of his armor.
But then the crowd surged again, and her thoughts were drowned in sound.
Below, the Herald raised both arms. A procession of priests entered from the four elemental gates—earth, wind, fire, and water—carrying relics from the Fourfold Pact that had once founded the alliance of the kingdoms.
Each relic was blessed in turn.
An emerald leaf from the tree of silence.
A white flame in a glass urn.
A dagger of glacial silver.
A stone engraved with the language of storms.
The Herald touched each and then recited the ancient vow:
"Let steel sing,
Let truth bleed,
Let oaths bind,
Let victory rise.
We begin."
The trumpets screamed.
The sand shifted beneath enchantment.
And the first duel was announced.