---
The dawn broke over Dravenguard like a bronze sword pulled from a blood-stained sheath. The city rose in cheers before the sun even reached the spires. Today was no ordinary day; it was the beginning of the famed Gauntlet Run of Blades, the crucible designed not only to test but to unmake knights.
The Valethorne Arena had transformed overnight. Where once lay a simple dueling pit now sprawled a colossus of trial and glory. Arcane engineers, under the clandestine commission of Dravenguard's elite, had reshaped the battleground into a labyrinthine circuit of shifting stone plates, spiraling blade columns, pressure runes, and phantom illusions. Elemental forges sputtered smoke from their chimneys while sigil-weaving mages stood along the upper balconies, their grim task to animate parts of the course through ancient enchantments.
The arena roared with excitement.
I stood along the high gallery reserved for royal servants and attendants. The colour of my garment blended with the stonework around me, but the blue rose tucked by her ear refused to be forgotten. Its glow was faint in the morning sun, but the enchantment it held could be felt, like warmth where there should have been cold.
I kept her eyes low but scanned the faces of the crowd through subtle glances. Knights, noble ladies, foreign dignitaries, commoners, all poured in to watch blood and valor unfold. Whispers still slithered through the walls, whispers about her and the Prince. But they had grown muted now, overshadowed by another name. A name no one truly knew: Riven.
He had not fought again since the duel. But his presence remained like an imprint burned into the arena stone. Rumors clung to his name like burrs to cloth. Some said he was a weapon forged by the gods of war. Others whispered he was no man, but a wraith sent by a forgotten house to reclaim old blood debts.
From the perch where I stood, I saw him step forward.
Riven.
There was no fanfare. He walked without sword raised, no flare, no pride. His armor still as dull and pale as before, bone-white. like under the golden banners of Dravenguard.
The Herald's voice, booming with arcane enhancement, addressed the arena:
"Today begins the Gauntlet Run of Blades, proposed by the King! His highness, King Zeburel Ashkeroth, king of all Dravenguard. Of the fifty knights who step forward, only ten shall pass. The course is death for the careless, and glory for the few."
The knights lined up at the arena's edge. Among them were famed warriors, bright-eyed young challengers, and foreign nobles garbed in exotic steel.
One caught my eye: a knight from the southern coasts, silver-haired and cloaked in robes stitched with sun-magic. Another bore the flaming insignia of a kingdom lost to myth, an unmistakable sigil Saevan had arranged to reintroduce to the world stage.
Below, Lucien stood behind one of the archways in silence. He had said little since Riven's first duel. But his eyes missed nothing. His knight stood beside him, armored in divine silver, his presence vast and unyielding. The knight's helm glowed faintly, ever watchful.
Then came the sound of the first horn.
The Gauntlet began.
The first five knights entered the course.
Massive iron doors clanged shut behind them. Runes on the walls ignited. Blades began to spin. Smoke and colored mist filled the chamber, and creatures bound by shadow and illusion leapt from magical glyphs etched in the floor.
One knight charged forward, slicing through the first barrage of conjured beasts. Another activated a wrong tile and was immediately pulled into a pit of gravity warp, vanishing from view.
The audience gasped.
Sir Kael of Stormmere darted between two collapsing pillars, his blue cape torn as a mechanical harpoon sliced the air behind him. He laughed as he sprinted, delighting in the thrill.
Dame Ilira of Nightthorn, wrapped in shadows and grace, rolled beneath a wall of enchanted fire, her mystic falcon diving ahead to disarm a magic trap. She moved like a story, bending light and steel to her will.
But then came Riven.
He stepped onto the Gauntlet.
And the traps... stilled.
Blades halted mid-spin. Fire gutters sputtered and died. Beasts conjured from glyphs roared, only to falter and slink back into non-existence. The magical fog parted.
He did not run.
He walked.
Straight down the middle.
The audience was silent.
Even the Herald said nothing.
Then one of the gauntlet's final tests activated. A leviathan, stone-forged, scaled in magma. It emerged roaring, the final beast of the run.
Riven raised no shield.
The creature froze before him.
And stepped aside.
He passed the line. The sigil marked him: "VICTOR."
The crowd lost its voice.
In the shadowed booths, Saevan watched with a smile.
He leaned toward a cloaked noble beside him.
"Now the knights of Artherion will question why their gods did not favor them," he whispered. "And they will seek newer gods."
The noble grunted. "You're sure they'll turn?"
Saevan's smile grew. "They already have."
From across the arena, Lucien's gaze turned toward him. No words were exchanged, but Saevan felt the weight of that stare. That divine knowing.
He stood.
And bowed slightly.
I shivered. Not from the cold. But from the silence that followed.
Riven had crossed the line.
And so had something else.
To be continued...