Chapter 88: Chapter 88—Ellarine POV

Ellarine stood at the edge of the barracks rooftop, arms crossed, staring at the arena below where workers still scrubbed blood from the dirt.

The match had ended hours ago.

But she couldn’t stop seeing it.

The moment Atheon’s fist went through the halberd.

The crack of the axe-wielder’s skull.

The way the Fist of Men had moved—not like a soldier, but like some caged monster unleashed.

“Still thinking about it?”

Ella turned.

Corporal Jace stood behind her—one of her squadmates, older by a few years, with the kind of tired eyes that came from too many patrols and too little sleep.

“Hard not to,” Ella replied quietly.

Jace walked over, leaning against the railing beside her. “I’ve never seen an adept lose control like that. Not in Vester. Not anywhere.”

“He didn’t lose control,” Ella said. “He *

chose to let go.”

Jace raised an eyebrow. “That’s a generous interpretation.”

“Is it?” Ella gestured toward the arena. “He stopped. Right before killing Commander Crownhold. That’s not loss of control. That’s acting in moderation.”

“After murdering two people,” Jace pointed out.

“After they crippled someone he cared about—at least, from what I understood of the situation.” Ella corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Jace studied her. “You sound like you’re defending him.”

Ella didn’t answer right away.

Because she wasn’t sure if she was defending the grim hollow adept or just… trying to understand him.

She’d grown up in House Crownhold’s shadow. Learned early that power came from control—over yourself, over others, over the narrative.

But the Fist of men?

He had thrown control away the moment that lieutenant lost her arm.

And somehow, he’d still won.

“I’m not defending him,” Ella said finally. “I’m just… trying to figure out what it means.”

“What what means?”

“That strength without control can still be effective.”

Jace snorted. “Or it just means the adept’s squad is compromised. Commander Crownhold proved his point. The Fist of Men has a weakness. And everyone saw it.”

Ella frowned. “You think that’s what happened? Crownhold won?”

“He didn’t lose,” Jace replied. “The fist of men may have walked out of that arena standing, but Crownhold walked out with information. And information is power.”

Ella wanted to argue.

But she couldn’t.

Because Jace was right.

Vaelith Crownhold hadn’t lost.

He’d just changed the game.

—–

The patrol assignment came the next morning.

A routine perimeter sweep along Vester’s southern border—six hours, standard formation with no expected crawler activity.

Ella’s squad consisted of five fighters:

Corporal Jace—the leader, with his years of experience, and pragmatic thinking.

Ellarine or Ella—a mid-tier fledgling with fast, and precise attacks.

Private Kell—a broad-shouldered tank with an ability core that was focused on defense.

Private Lira— an archer that was quiet, deadly and accurate with a mildly quirky personality.

and some fledgling called Tomas—the newest member of their merry band. He was barely seventeen and was still learning the ropes.

They moved through the forest in loose formation, eyes scanning the treeline, ears tuned to every rustle and snap.

The never ending night drifted lazily in the distance—gray, writhing, and always there.

“Quiet today,” Jace observed.

“Too quiet,” Kell muttered.

Lira said nothing, but her bow was already nocked.

Ella walked near the rear, thoughts still circling back to the match.

The adept’s rage.

The lieutenant’s arm.

Adept Vaelith’s smile.

The way the crowd had cheered—not for victory, but for violence.

“Ella,” Jace called. “Focus.”

Ella snapped back to attention. “Sorry.”

“Save the philosophy for after patrol,” Jace said. “Out here, thinking about anything that doesn’t matter to the moment gets you killed.”

Ella nodded, adjusting her grip on her blade.

They continued for another hour without incident.

Then Lira stopped.

“Movement,” she whispered.

Everyone froze.

Jace raised a fist. “Where?”

Lira pointed toward a cluster of trees ahead. “Thirty meters. Multiple targets.”

Ella extended her senses, feeling for some minute signatures.

Nothing.

Which meant either the targets weren’t human—

Or they were very good at hiding.

Jace signaled. Defensive formation.

Kell moved to the front, shield raised.

Lira positioned herself on a slight rise, arrow drawn.

Ella and Jace flanked left and right.

Tomas stayed in the center, nervous, hands shaking.

The forest went silent.

No birds. No wind.

Just the faint, distant hum of the night.

Then—

*Crack.*

A crawler erupted from the ground beneath Tomas.

He screamed, stumbling backward—

Kell surged forward, shield slamming into the crawler’s skull with bone-breaking force.

The creature shrieked, mandibles snapping wildly.

Lira’s arrow took it through the eye.

It collapsed.

But three more burst from the treeline—they were ugly as hell but, fast, jagged, and looked ready to have a taste.

“HOLD THE LINE!” Jace roared.

Kell braced, shield wall flaring with soul force.

The first crawler slammed into him—*CRACK*— the force was absorbed but not stopped.

Ella darted forward, blade flashing, carving across the crawler’s exposed flank.

Black ichor sprayed.

The creature twisted, mandibles snapping toward her face—

Jace’s spear drove through its throat from behind.

The second crawler lunged at Lira—

She fired three arrows in rapid succession, each one hitting joints, eyes, weak points.

The crawler stumbled, slowed—

Tomas, desperate as he was, swung his sword wildly.

It connected.

Barely.

But enough.

The crawler collapsed.

The third circled, intelligent, watching.

Waiting for an opening.

Ella’s breath came fast, adrenaline surging.

This wasn’t like the arenas they were paraded through. The vacation ended the moment you stepped beyond the comfort the bastard Republic so generously provided.

There were no rules here. No judges. No yield.

Just survival.

The crawler feinted left—

Kell shifted to block—

It darted right, too fast, mandibles aimed at Tomas—

Ella moved without thinking.

Her blade extended—soul force channeling through the steel—and she *hurled* it like a spear.

It pierced the crawler’s skull mid-lunge.

The creature collapsed inches from Tomas, twitching once before going still.

Silence.

Heavy. Breathless.

Jace exhaled slowly. “Everyone alright?”

“Yeah,” Kell panted.

“Fine,” Lira said, already retrieving arrows.

Tomas just nodded, face pale.

Ella walked over, pulling her blade free from the crawler’s skull. Black ichor dripped from the steel.

“Good instincts,” Jace said.

Ella didn’t respond.

Because her hands were shaking.

Not from fear.

From realization.

Out here, strength mattered.

Speed mattered.

Control mattered.

But most of all?

Decisiveness mattered.

Hesitation got you killed.

Just like the fist of men had hesitated—just for a heartbeat—when Vaelith’s words hit him.

And the lieutenant, his lieutenant had paid the price.

—–

That evening, back at Vester, Ella sat in the mess hall, picking at her food without appetite.

Jace slid into the seat across from her. “You did good today.”

“Thanks.”

“But?”

Ella looked up. “But what?”

“You’ve got that look,” Jace said. “Like you’re chewing on something heavy.”

Ella set down her fork. “I keep thinking about the match. About the adept.”

“Still? Give it a break Ellarine.”

“He hesitated,” Ella said quietly. “When Vaelith was talking. Just for a moment. And that’s when the lieutenant got hurt.”

Jace leaned back. “You think hesitation cost him?”

“I think,” Ella said slowly, “that hesitation always costs something. Out there, in the forest—if I’d hesitated when that crawler went for Tomas, he’d be dead.”

“True,” Jace agreed. “But there’s a difference between hesitating in battle and hesitating because someone’s manipulating you.”

“Is there?” Ella asked. “Because from where I’m sitting, the result’s the same. Someone gets hurt.”

Jace studied her. “What are you getting at?”

Ella exhaled. “I’m saying… maybe Commander Crownhold is right. Maybe attachments are liabilities.”

Jace’s expression darkened. “That’s a dangerous line of thinking, Ella.”

“Why? Because it’s cold?”

“Because it’s his,” Jace replied. “Vaelith Crownhold doesn’t care about people. He cares about dominion. And if you start thinking like him, you become just another tool in his arsenal.”

Ella didn’t respond.

Because part of her wondered if that would be so bad.

—–

Across the mess hall, at a different table, a bulletin board displayed the upcoming match schedules.

Ella walked over, scanning the list.

Her eyes stopped on one entry:

**ARENA MATCH – DAY 7**

**SUNSHINE SQUAD vs. CRIMSON FANG**

She stared at the names.

Sunshine Squad—the ridiculous name, the group she’d underestimated.

Crimson Fang—one of the top squads in Vester. Eight consecutive wins. Zero losses.

Their captain was a silver-haired woman named Seris Vale—a mid-tier initiate with a speed enhancement core and a rare multiplier core that boosted her natural abilities exponentially.

But what made her truly dangerous wasn’t the cores.

It was her weapon.

A long chain with a bladed weight at the end—fluid, unpredictable, and highly lethal.

Ella had watched Seris fight once before.

It had been… mesmerizing.

And terrifying.

The way she moved—like water with teeth—striking from impossible angles, closing distance before opponents realized they were already dead.

Ella looked back at the Sunshine Squad’s name.

Morgan. Duncan. Mara. The others.

They’d beaten good squads.

But Crimson Fang wasn’t just good.

They were elite.

And Seris Vale?

Seris Vale was a killer.

Ella turned away from the board, a strange feeling settling in her chest.

Not quite hope.

Not quite dread.

Just… curiosity.

Because part of her wanted to see what would happen when the ridiculous squad with the ridiculous name faced someone who didn’t make mistakes.

Someone who wouldn’t hesitate.

Someone who moved like death and struck like lightning.

She wondered if that Mara girl was ready for that.

She wondered if any of them were.

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