The winds carried the echoes of yesterday's victories, and still the Gauntlet thundered on. Beneath the chants, beneath the cries of triumph and anguish alike, deeper movements stirred. Not in the arena. Not on the battlefield. But in hearts, in minds. In conviction. Step by step, Saevan's hand crept beneath the grand veil of Artherion.
This was no longer about steel.
It was about belief.
And belief could crumble nations.
Saevan stood beneath the tower of banners where heralds issued challenges and called names for the arena. From this overlook, the royal pavilions were visible, the merchant's tier, the noble galleries, all arrayed in their glory beneath the noonday sun. His gaze did not drift to the battles. He watched the onlookers.
And he was not alone.
Captain Laertes, commander of the Goldwind Sentinels of southern Artherion, stood beside him. A knight of twenty-five campaigns. No man under his command had ever fled the field. He was rigid, square-jawed, draped in ceremonial bronze. His eyes, though, were beginning to shift.
"They cheer," he muttered, nodding toward the audience. "But they do not understand what they see."
Saevan folded his hands behind his back. "They cheer because they are afraid. And awe is the twin of fear. It soothes them. Pretends that what they witness is spectacle, not revolution."
"You think this tournament is rebellion?" Laertes scoffed.
"I think this tournament is revelation," Saevan replied. "And revelations, when denied long enough, become revolution."
Laertes looked at him sideways. "You speak too cleanly. Too smoothly. You remind me of serpents."
"Serpents speak in lies. I speak only what men already whisper in their own souls."
Laertes hesitated.
Saevan pressed, "How long have you watched your lordship bow to decisions made by cowards in court? How many times have you bit your tongue when your warriors were sent to die for a crest that did not bleed with them?"
Laertes didn't answer.
"I offer nothing that has not already taken root in you," Saevan said. "I only give you the chance to call it truth."
The captain turned away.
But he did not walk far.
And Saevan watched.
Elsewhere, in the courts below the Colosseum's grand stands, I carried a tray of sealed letters. The couriers demanded haste, every noble in the realm wanted word of the match results, and the scribes could barely pen fast enough.
As she crossed one of the gilded corridors, her steps slowed.
There he stood.
Riven.
Leaning against a pillar of onyx-veined marble, arms crossed, sword sheathed across his back. A statue of midnight made flesh.
She could not help but glance.
He did not look at her.
But he spoke.
"You're the one with the rose."
Her feet stopped before her mind told them to.
"Y-yes."
A long pause.
"Strange. I didn't think roses grew in soil like Artherion's."
She blinked. "This one didn't."
He turned, finally. His eyes were dark, but not empty. Like wells filled with unspoken storms. "Where, then?"
"Dravenguard," she whispered.
Their eyes locked. Neither knew it, but history shifted slightly in that moment.
Riven tilted his head. "You're not afraid of me."
"I... don't know if I am."
"I do," he said.
And walked away.
But I did not breathe for some seconds after. My heart pounded hard, long and it continued for a while.
The arena that day saw no greater bout than the duel between Sir Callen of Artherion's Highvale and the infamous Knight-Vagrant Larkos, the Ironhowl.
They clashed like titans. Steel roared. Shields broke. The sand turned red with effort, not blood.
But the victory went to Sir Callen, barely, on a whim. A moment of clarity, a feint met with an upward strike, and Larkos was down.
The crowd roared.
But Saevan did not cheer.
He had work to do.
He met Lord Brennos that night. In the Shadowwine Hall beneath the pavilions. The lord was already drinking.
"I saw you," Brennos said. "You're the one who speaks of councils and thrones broken."
"I speak only of elevation."
"You speak of war."
"No. I speak of correction."
Brennos slammed down his goblet. "I was knighted by King Elyrion himself."
"And you have served with honor."
"I owe him everything!"
"You owe yourself the truth," Saevan said softly. "That your house could lead. That your army could rule. That the crown listens to your loyalty and offers only ceremony in return."
"You want me to rebel."
"I want you to rise."
Brennos stood.
But he did not leave.
Saevan leaned forward. "You saw Riven fight. Do you think he fights for Elyrion?"
"No."
"And yet you cheered."
Brennos said nothing.
Saevan smiled.
The roots ran deep.
Later, in the quiet hours, I stood on the Colosseum's balcony. The moon bathed the stone in silver.
I thought of Lucien. Of his touch. Of his vow.
And yet, I saw Riven in the shadows now shadows of my thoughts. The blade that did not gleam. The man who did not need to speak to shake the earth.
She sighed.
And didn't notice Riven standing in the shadows below.
Watching.
Just once.
The next morning, three more knights swore fealty to Saevan, secretly, silently.
And in the highest tower of the Gauntlet arena, the banner of Dravenguard fluttered in a wind that moved the clouds...