Chapter 38: Sacred rules

Dearest reader,

The crowd was already half-mad with feverish delight.

From the Commons, thousands pressed shoulder to shoulder on the tiered stone benches, chanting the names of fighters they’d never met, faces flushed with heat and drink. The scent of roasted meat, smoke, and molten wine hung thick in the air. Children shrieked in laughter, perched atop their fathers’ backs, while vendors pushed through the aisles hawking spiced almonds and sizzling skewers.

“Flame-wine! Get yer flame-wine… burns the tongue, warms the soul!” someone cried.

“Ai! Get yet fresh meat stick.”

Drums pounded from somewhere deep in the stands, low, insistent, the rhythm of war.

In the Nobles’ Box, the scene was no less ravenous, only gilded. The city’s elite leaned against golden rails, shouting over one another, wagering fortunes on favored champions.

Silks shimmered, jewels flashed, and a portly lord by the name of Marcellon nearly fainted from excitement as he waved a ledger above his head, betting his estate on a warrior from the Ash District. “He’s quick as smoke!” he wheezed. “A rat with a blade, mark my words!”

Below him, servants darted through narrow aisles balancing trays of fruit soaked in fire-brandy, their faces glazed with sweat from the heat.

And then, dearest reader, our gaze must rise higher still, to the Royal Pavilion.

Ah, what a sight it was. Draped in silk and shadow, its banners of crimson and gold cascaded like living flame. Queen Eris sat upon her throne of volcanic glass, her spine carved from command itself.

To her right sat Caelen, her consort, posture tight as a bowstring. His jaw was set, his knuckles pale on the armrest as though he could will the arena into stillness. Behind him, Lady Ophelia lingered, half veiled behind her fan, half seen, her expression one of quiet intrigue and something sharper beneath.

And to Eris’s left, in the place of honored foreign guest, sat Emperor Soren of Nevareth.

His gloved fingers drummed once, twice, upon the chair’s edge, an idle motion to anyone watching, though one might imagine his thoughts burned elsewhere. Not just on the duel, but on the woman seated a breath away, flame catching in her eyes, and how cruelly beautiful she looked against all that fire.

Above them, the Herald walked into view, a sturdy man with a voice made for storms and ceremony. The wind caught his crimson cloak as the flames to either side leapt higher, bursting in tongues of gold.

He stepped forward onto the raised obsidian platform, his mantle blazing with sequined flame, the braziers beside him bursting alive as though the fire had been waiting for him. His staff, an iron serpent entwined with molten glass, struck the dais once, and the crowd’s fevered chant fell into perfect, breathless silence.

His voice carried like a storm breaking over stone.

“Warriors of the Eternal Flame! Citizens of Solmire! You stand witness to the final day of our sacred celebration, the Duel of Cinders!”

The answer came like thunder, cheers, whistles, fists pounding against stone. Even the air itself trembled, vibrating with delight. The Herald raised both arms, and slowly, the uproar subdued into that taut, expectant hush the city had been built upon.

“Twenty of our finest are chosen to prove their worth before our Radiant Ruler. Three matches. Three trials. And one victor who will earn a single wish from Her Majesty herself, anything their heart desires, granted by royal decree!”

Gasps rippled through the stands. A single wish, such a simple phrase, such dangerous promise. For what could mortals not wish for, when offered the mercy of a queen who ruled fire itself?

Below, the twenty chosen fighters stood in rows. Veterans, knights, brawlers, wanderers, each gleaming beneath the searing light. Sweat beaded on their foreheads. Armor clicked. Heartbeats thrummed.

The Herald turned, eyes burning like twin embers.

“Hear the sacred rules!”

The torches along the arena’s walls flared, their flames turning white-hot.

“The First Match… THE CULLING! All twenty warriors shall enter the Burning Circle as one! You will fight with blade, with fist, with flame itself until the Great Pyre burns to ash! When the final ember dies, only those still standing may advance.

There are no allies. There is no mercy.

Fall, and your trial ends.

Eight shall remain!”

The crowd answered again with a frenzied roar, chanting names, bets, prayers. Somewhere amid the chaos, the nobles leaned forward, eyes bright with morbid fascination. Children stood on tiptoe, clutching their parents’ robes. Even the priests, for all their supposed reverence, could not mask the thrill in their faces.

“The Second Match, THE PROVING! The eight survivors face one another in honorable single combat! Four duels fought before your eyes. The victors then clash again, two more duels, until only two warriors remain! Here, we see not just strength, but skill. Not just power, but will!”

The murmurs spread through the waiting warriors like fire catching silk. You could smell their adrenaline, metallic, raw, thick with anticipation.

“The Third Match, THE CRUCIBLE!”

The words silenced even the restless.

“Our final two champions shall fight until one can no longer stand. This is a battle to the edge of death itself. Victory goes to the warrior who embodies the essence of Solmire, the one who burns brightest when all others are ash!”

A tremor passed through the audience, fear or awe, none could tell.

The Herald raised his staff once more, fire dancing in his eyes.

“The rules are ancient and absolute! No killing in Matches One and Two, those who fall must live to honor their defeat! No weapons of poison! No sorcery! No spells of fire! Anyone who goes against this will face the wrath of her absolute Majesty! Only your strength, your steel, and your flame!

In the Crucible, all restraints are lifted.

Fight as though the gods themselves are watching… for today, they are!”

He brought the serpent-headed staff down, striking the obsidian stone with such force that the earth itself seemed to exhale.

A column of fire erupted skyward, splitting into a hundred streams that rained molten light.

“WARRIORS! TAKE YOUR POSITIONS! LET THE DUEL OF CINDERS BEGIN!”

The gates of the arena swung open.

And through the gaping maw of heat and light stepped twenty souls, men and women whose bodies gleamed with oil and grit, whose eyes burned with resolve.

From her throne of flame and gold, Queen Eris watched them enter, the faintest curve of a smile tracing her lips, the fire around her throne bowing inward as though paying homage.

And high above, in the shadowed balconies, Emperor Soren watched…not the duel, not the chaos… but her.

Only one wicked idea blooming in his mind.

If he could have it…

Dearest reader, the crowd may have come for the spectacle of war…

but our poor Emperor had come, unwittingly, for ruin.

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