The Gauntlet raged on.
Spectators flooded the seats of the Colosseum, hearts drumming with anticipation and breath caught on the precipice of violence. Today was not merely another trial, it was an execution in suspense. For whispers had passed through the galleries like wind, that a challenge had been issued.
To Riven.
A knight not of Artherion's noble houses, but possibly from an ungoverned frontier, where storms whispered names and shadows obeyed no laws. He wore no crest. No house claimed him. Yet none denied the weight of his presence. Tall, silent, eyes like glacial obsidian, he was like a myth forged from steel and war.
The challenger was Sir Caldus of House Braeven. A known general. A lord of mountain strongholds and granite oaths. Proud, massive, armored like a walking tower.
"I will not kneel to ghosts and wanderers," Caldus had shouted across the sand. "Come, shadowborn. If you dare."
Riven had stepped forward.
And nodded.
The herald called no formalities. The court fell still. Even Lucien, seated in the royal booth beside the king, said nothing. His eyes burned with something between curiosity and caution.
The trumpet did not blare.
Riven drew.
It was no ordinary sword. The blade was black. No reflection clung to it. It was not edged, it was absence. A void given form. The air hissed when it left the sheath, not from sharpness, but hunger.
Sir Caldus bellowed and charged.
His mace, engraved with storm-forged runes, came down with thunder.
But Riven was no longer there.
He had already moved.
A blur. A wind. A nightmare between heartbeats.
He reappeared at Caldus's flank. A flash of the black blade.
Caldus roared, spinning, only to find his right pauldron had fallen. Cloven. Cleanly.
No one had seen it.
The crowd leaned in. Whispers trembled in the silence.
Caldus attacked again. Swinging, faster now. Wild.
Riven did not step back.
He advanced.
Each blow from Caldus struck only air, and every time he struck, a piece of his armor vanished, cut, split, falling like ash.
A gauntlet. A greave. A chunk of breastplate.
Until the great knight of Braeven stood panting, his strength waning.
And Riven had not moved beyond a five-foot circle.
Then, Riven vanished.
The next moment, he stood behind Caldus, his blade lowered, no longer even in a stance.
Caldus staggered. His shoulder twitched.
Blood bloomed from his back in a perfect line.
And he fell.
Dead.
The crowd erupted in stunned silence.
Not even cheers.
Just awe.
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
But far above, beneath the shade of stone gargoyles, Saevan watched with calm satisfaction.
The trap had sprung.
Later, in the shade of the Colosseum's inner sanctum, Saevan met with six captains. Each had once stood as second sons to greater lords. Each now watched Riven's battle and debated over and over. They desired such a power as Riven had displayed.
"You saw it?" Saevan asked.
They nodded.
"You felt it?" he continued.
One answered, "He fought like a being not of this world."
"He is," Saevan said. "He fights for a future that no longer waits on kings to move. He answers only to purpose."
"And that purpose?"
"To restore dominion to those who command it by merit, not bloodline. To lift the sword with truth, not permission."
"And what do you ask of us?"
"Only this: that when the signal comes, you stand on the side of history."
Another long silence.
Then, a nod.
Then two.
Then all.
And far below, Riven walked from the sand without a word, as the winds of Dravenguard began to shift.
But the Gauntlet was far from over.
The next bout was already declared. And its announcement sent a tremor through the stone seats of the arena.
Sir Roben of the Duskmire was called. A knight clad in ebon-gray, his armor tinged with lavender reflections, like the last breath of twilight before a storm. His helmet bore no plume. No sigil. Just the bare mark of a crescent moon embedded in a vertical slit of starlight metal.
His opponent: Knight-Commander Desmoth of the Eastern Wing. A hero of the Magefront Wars. Veteran of a thousand skirmishes, lauded in Artherion's chronicles.
The arena bristled with expectation.
Desmoth raised his spear and ignited it with runic fire. His aura lit the sands.
"Let us see what legends are made of," he bellowed.
Roben remained silent.
Then moved.
It began with a sidestep. A feint. A blur.
The spear slashed where he had stood, but he was already beside Desmoth.
His sword never screamed. It whispered.
A flicker. A tap.
Desmoth's gauntlet split. The rune flame on his spear dimmed.
Another blow.
The shaft of the spear bent. Not broken. Folded.
The audience leaned forward.
Roben didn't press. He danced.
Like a shadow cutting through dusk.
Desmoth attacked with everything, summoning chains of fire, launching wind blades, teleporting in flashes.
But Roben never flinched.
When Desmoth came behind him, Roben spun.
The sword hummed.
And Desmoth's shoulder plate exploded.
He staggered back. Breathing heavy. Fear visible now.
Roben walked forward. Calm. Intentional.
A heartbeat passed.
Then he moved faster than vision.
His blade slid between Desmoth's ribs. Gentle. Precise.
Desmoth froze, his eyes wide, a gasp stillborn on his lips.
Roben held him.
And said only one word:
"Rest."
Then withdrew the blade.
Desmoth collapsed. Not violently. Not theatrically.
Like a statue laid to sleep.
The crowd, stunned yet again, erupted, not in screams, but reverent awe.
Two duels. Two deaths.
Two monsters awakened.
And in a chamber beneath the Colosseum, Saevan met with two new faces.
They had not spoken before. High Commanders of lesser realms. Witnesses to strength.
"I thought Artherion had the strongest knights," one said.
Saevan smiled. "Strength belongs to those willing to shed the skin of yesterday."
"And tomorrow?"
He turned to them.
"Tomorrow belongs to those who move before the dawn."