The roar of the crowd was muted here, behind glass and gold.
From the royal balcony, the arena looked almost serene—a storm of dust and light moving far below. Nobles reclined in cushioned seats, sipping crystal wine while servants waved fans carved from sunmetal.
At the center of it all sat the Nova.
He wore no crown today, only a circlet of light—an illusion spun by relics above his head. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the carnage below.
Beside him, a tall figure in silver armor leaned forward. "Sorry for the vermin tarnishing the tournament. The rabble however do fight well," said commander of the guard. "Perhaps desperation breeds strength."
"Or foolishness," murmured another, a noblewoman draped in violet. "Look how they flail. Like vermin learning to stand upright."
Laughter rippled through the section.
The Nova did not laugh.
"Even vermin," he said quietly, "bite when cornered."
The words silenced them.
Farther down the line of seats, a young captain shifted uncomfortably. His armor gleamed with the insignia of one of the Twelve Orders, though it carried none of their former honor.
"Your Majesty," he ventured, "there are whispers—some say these tournaments are too lenient. That allowing lower citizens to compete—"
"—keeps them obedient."
"Let them believe glory is attainable. Hope is the cleanest chain."
The Nova's gaze did not move. "You misunderstand me. Hope is not a chain."
The Marshal frowned. "Then what is it, my lord?"
The Nova's eyes glimmered faintly in the reflected light of the arena below.
"It can be a weapon used against order."
---
Down below, two figures—dusty, battered, laughing—stood back-to-back amid the chaos.
Luke and Elias.
The nobles couldn't hear their words, but the display alone drew murmurs. Their mismatched armor, their reckless teamwork, the way they moved with a rhythm that didn't belong to trained soldiers.
"Unusual pair," the violet-draped noblewoman noted. "No crest. No sponsor."
"Street fighters, perhaps," another guessed. "They won't last long."
"Perhaps," said the Nova. His tone held something else—interest, faint but sharp. "Or perhaps they will."
In a dim viewing chamber beneath the balcony, the feeds from relic recorders displayed split angles of the match. Servants adjusted dials, amplifying select scenes for replay in the archives.
"Keep them on radar," another said. "The Nova's eye lingered."
"For what reason?"
"Because," came the quiet reply, "he rarely looks twice."
---
Back in the Undercity, the broadcast continued to flicker and fade, but the cheers hadn't stopped.
Two names passed from mouth to mouth—no proof, only belief.
"Luke and Elias," someone whispered.
"From the mines."
"Fighting up there, under real light."
And for the first time in years, the Undercity didn't just look up in worship.
It looked up in wonder.