The ash plains stretched for miles, dust curling around boots and hooves like restless ghosts. The first jagged towers of Eldryn's coliseum loomed ahead, red stone catching the sickly dawn light.
Mazen rode near the front of the Howling Pact's column, the Fire Serpent's mark burning like an ember beneath his skin.
Behind him, Nermin kept pace with Emberfall's vanguard, eyes locked forward, refusing to look at the man she'd promised herself to ignore.
However, fate never allowed them to keep those promises.
At a narrow ridge, the path tightened. Mazen reined his horse aside as Nermin came up hard beside him.
"Move aside," she muttered.
He didn't.
A long, heavy silence hung between them.
Then — without turning — Mazen spoke, voice rough and low.
"I came for you that night."
Nermin stiffened, the words hitting like a stone to the ribs.
"What?"
He finally glanced at her, and for the first time, the sharp, cold mask cracked just enough to show the shadow of something old, something lost.
"I came to ask you something," Mazen said quietly.
"Something important."
Her heart kicked against her ribs. Every instinct screamed it wasn't possible — that Mazen was dead or gone. But his voice, his eyes, even buried in this killer's face… it felt like him.
"And what was so important you risked your life to ask me?" she forced out.
A beat.
And then he looked away, a ghost of a smile twisting his mouth.
"Doesn't matter anymore."
He spurred his horse forward.
Nermin sat frozen, the wind curling around her like a mocking hand. The ache in her chest burned hot, sharp, merciless.
Why did it feel like losing him again?
Why did it still hurt?
And ahead, the coliseum waited.
The coliseum rose like a wounded giant: stone walls stained red, towers of triumph and lament etched against a broken sky. The scent of old blood and wet stone hit Mazen and Nermin as they entered through rival gates.
Mazen's view:
He paused at the Howling Pact entrance. Warlords from across Vortrex stood behind him—banded mercenaries, cloaked elementalists, and hooded sorcerers. Eyes calculating, muscles tensed, all waiting for the blood-lust to begin.
Khan Duren stood at his side, steady as a mountain.
"Remember this," he murmured, voice low.
"Control the fire—don't let it burn you."
Mazen nodded, hand twitching against the vial in his pocket.
Nermin's view:
She walked through Emberfall's gate with Ishra at her side, teeth grit tight.
Walking past was Azeneth the Glass Seer, eyes flicking toward Nermin and Mazen without acknowledgment.
A sharp tremor passed along her spine, but she'd learned not to trust a whisper of fate.
Farther up, Ragnar Bloodscale loomed—crimson-armoured and massive, his serpent eyes scanning the crowd for prey, not competitors.
Lightning crackled behind Nermin's shoulder as a magical display erupted — elementalists launching fireballs and wind vortices into the sky, a pre-match show.
The stands shook.
Nermin's heart hammered.
On the dust-choked floor, the announcer's chant echoed through whispered amphitheater walls.
"Mark Arkios! The Black Tear of Vortrex!"
A roar shattered the air from the Howling Pact side. Mazen took a step forward, fire building at his fingertips.
Then:
"Nermin of Emberfall. The Wind Feather!"
The Emberfall contingent matched it with savage cheers.
Mazen glanced over and locked eyes with Nermin for a heartbeat too long.
She looked away, wind tangling her hair, a single tear—black or clear—sliding down her cheek before she stamped it away.
The pits themselves lay between them—thirty feet of bloodstained sand.
Two worlds, two paths, one damn war.
And above them, history's eyes were on the floor.
The Bloodpits floor baked under the noon light, the sand stained brown from battles no rain had ever washed clean.
Mazen flexed his fingers. The Fire Serpent's mark burned under his skin like a coiled flame waiting for the order to strike.
A voice boomed from the towering gates.
"Mark Arkios, step forward!"
The crowd's roar slammed against the walls, warlords and rebels alike hungry for blood.
His opponent emerged — a towering man wreathed in crackling lightning. Bolts arced from his gauntlets, the air around him hissing with the sharp tang of ozone.
"Rendor of the Stormcloaks," someone muttered nearby.
A killing name.
Shadow caught Mazen's shoulder before he stepped out.
"Don't hold back. You're not fighting for pride, Arkios. You're fighting to live."
Mazen gave a thin, crooked grin.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They met in the center circle.
Rendor sneered.
"You're the one they call Black Tear? I was expecting someone taller."
Mazen shrugged.
"I was expecting someone alive."
The bell sounded.
Rendor moved first — lightning spearing toward Mazen's heart. Mazen rolled, heat building in his palm. Fire coiled around his knuckles.
He countered with a burst of flame, driving Rendor back, searing away cloth and skin. The crowd howled.
They traded blows — lightning against fire, power cracking the ground beneath them.
In the end, it was close.
Rendor lunged, lightning surging.
Mazen ducked low, fire erupting from both palms, catching the man mid-stride. The scream was brief. The charred corpse hit the sand smoking.
Silence.
Then the Howling Pact side exploded in cheers.
Mazen stood over the body, breathing ragged.
His fire bent to his will… barely.
He didn't wait for the declaration.
He just turned, walking toward the tunnel, the Fire Serpent's heat thrumming behind his ribs.
One down.
Too many to go.
The tunnels stank of blood, sweat, and old fear — narrow, dim, and restless.
Mazen rounded a corner fast, nearly shoulder-checking someone coming the other way.
Nermin.
They both froze.
She scowled instinctively.
"Careful, Arkios. I don't owe you a healer if you fall on your face."
Mazen smirked, not sharp this time — almost easy.
"I've had worse run-ins."
She moved to brush past him, but his voice followed.
"I came to Mirra's camp for you."
It stopped her cold.
She turned halfway, glare sharp.
"Why?"
He shrugged, but his gaze didn't waver.
"Wanted to ask you something. Thought it mattered."
A beat. The flicker of old weight in his voice, but lighter than before.
"Turns out… I found my answer."
She clenched her jaw.
"And what answer was that?"
He gave a small, crooked grin.
"That some ghosts don't want to be chased."
And he stepped past her, leaving only the scent of scorched air behind.
Nermin stood still, heart pounding harder than she liked.
Not because of anger. Not quite.
It was something she didn't have a name for.
Didn't want one.
Stop it. You don't even like him.
And yet her wind stirred in a way it never had before.
The horn sounded — one long, low note that vibrated through stone and marrow alike.
The Bloodpits gates opened.
Mazen stepped into the arena floor, the weight of every eye in Eldryn pressing down like a hammer. Heat shimmered off the sand, stained rust-red and black. The Fire Serpent's mark burned hot, eager.
On the opposite side, Nermin appeared with Emberfall's fighters, face hard, the wind curling around her ankles.
Neither looked at the other.
Yet both felt the pull.
The announcer's voice rose over the amphitheater.
"By decree of Rhys III, let the Free Clash begin — no titles, no allegiances, no rules."
A roar from the stands.
Warlords. Elementalists. Mercenaries. Madmen.
Dozens of armed killers poured from all sides.
And just like that — the bloodletting began.
Steel clashed. Fire screamed. Lightning cracked overhead.
Mazen ducked a spear thrust, his palm igniting, sending a whip of flame into the attacker's chest. The man dropped.
Across the pit, Nermin twisted aside from a blade, wind snapping around her, sending her opponent flying.
Their paths circled.
Closer.
And closer.
Until it happened.
The mob parted for a heartbeat — and there they were.
Face to face in the chaos.
No disguises. No masks. No rules.
Mazen raised a hand, fire wreathing his knuckles.
Nermin's wind hissed in answer.
The crowd screamed for blood.
And in that split-second, neither moved.
Not yet.
But both knew.
One way or another — this was going to burn.