09:00 – Obsidian Spire, Level 108, The Grand Atrium
The atrium had once been a ballroom for dragons.
Now it was a crucible.
Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen comets.
The floor was a single slab of living obsidian that remembered every footstep ever taken across it.
Today it bled violet light in slow, deliberate pulses—
the rhythm of nineteen rescued hearts beating in perfect synchrony.
Five hundred Takers filled the tiered balconies.
Some wore academy greys.
Some wore the brass feathers of the rescued.
Some wore nothing but the brands Jonathan had carved and Arya had shattered.
Their eyes—
candle-flame, storm-blue, dawn-gold—
never left the dais.
Arya stood at the centre,
halo rebuilt from six crowns and Jonathan's burning wound.
The black rose in her chest had become a crown of thorns,
each spike tipped with a rescued soul's name.
Velira's twin dagger rested against her thigh,
silent,
final.
Behind her:
seventeen lovers in perfect crescent—
Alexander's storm runes blazing white,
Solara's wings dimmed to candle-flame,
Cogsworth's brass heart ticking 6/8 time,
Lira and Calen holding hands so tightly their knuckles glowed.
The Choir children floated above the dais,
six tiny voices braided into a single chord that made the chandeliers weep starlight.
High Arbiter Seraphine's hologram flickered into existence—
six wings folded,
six mouths silent.
The vote was called.
09:05 – The Opening Arguments
First speaker: Magister Veyne, Level 710,
former head of Void Studies.
He wore Jonathan's old cloak—
now patched with academy greys.
His voice rolled across the atrium like funeral bells.
"Jonathan Andrew is the storm we invited.
He holds the final six arenas.
He holds the Cup.
He holds the continent's leash.
Submission is not surrender—
it is survival.
Kneel,
and he spares the dorms.
Fight,
and he burns the sky."
Half the balconies lit crimson—
the colour of submission.
Second speaker: Ryn Violet-Storm, Level 52,
rescued three nights ago.
His violet hair still smelled of dungeon glass.
He stepped forward barefoot,
storm runes flickering like dying embers.
"I was branded for twelve hours.
I felt every second.
Jonathan does not spare.
He collects.
He will brand your children.
He will brand your dragons.
He will brand the sunrise.
There is no leash short enough."
Half the balconies lit gold—
the colour of war.
The atrium trembled.
09:15 – The Neutral Chorus
Third speaker: Archivist Lyria, Level 680,
keeper of the Cup's ancient rules.
She floated on a cushion of levitating scrolls,
voice soft as dust.
"The Cup forbids open war between champions.
Jonathan is still a contender.
Declare war,
and the arenas collapse.
The continent loses the Cup.
We lose the sky."
A third of the balconies dimmed to grey—
the colour of paralysis.
Arya felt the thorn-crown tighten.
She tasted rust and honey.
09:20 – The Fracture
The atrium split.
Crimson balconies began to chant:
"Kneel. Kneel. Kneel."
Gold balconies answered:
"Burn. Burn. Burn."
Grey balconies stood silent,
scrolls trembling in their owners' hands.
A Level 88 Taker in crimson leapt to the dais.
He drew a void-rune dagger—
Jonathan's signature.
He pointed it at Calen.
"Proof," he shouted.
"Proof he'll spare us.
One kneel,
and the Regent broadcasts mercy."
Calen's storm runes flared.
He stepped forward—
hand leaving Lira's for the first time.
The dagger hovered an inch from his throat.
Arya moved.
Velira's twin dagger flashed.
The void-blade shattered into black glass butterflies.
They sliced the Taker's cheek,
drew three drops of blood that spelled MINE on the obsidian floor.
The atrium gasped.
09:25 – Arya's Silence
She did not speak.
She walked the dais until she stood beneath the weeping chandeliers.
She raised her hand.
The thorn-crown bloomed.
Nineteen rescued souls rose from the balconies—
Lira, Calen, Ryn,
sixteen others—
naked,
unashamed,
brands shattered into starlight scars.
They formed a circle around her.
Their heartbeats became a drum.
Cogsworth stepped forward.
Her brass wings unfolded into a halo of gears.
Each gear spun a rescued name.
Alexander's storm runes became a sky of lightning that spelled NEVER AGAIN.
Solara's wings became a dawn that burned crimson to ash.
Morvox opened his rib-box.
Every locked scream became a single word:
RISE.
The Choir children sang a chord that cracked the chandeliers.
Starlight rained upward,
became a constellation of nineteen faces.
Arya opened her mouth.
09:30 – The Speech That Broke the Sky
"I was branded once," she began,
voice soft enough to cradle a dragon's egg.
"Not on my skin.
Here."
She touched the thorn-crown.
Black fire poured down her cheeks—
not tears,
roses.
"Jonathan taught me pain is a language.
I learned to speak it back.
He taught me submission is a leash.
I learned to forge the leash into a crown.
He taught me fear is a mirror.
I learned to shatter the mirror
and build a window."
She walked the circle of rescued souls.
Each one touched her thorn-crown.
Each thorn became a petal.
"Lira taught me hope is candle-flame.
Calen taught me storms can be gentle.
Ryn taught me violet can burn brighter than crimson.
They taught me nineteen is louder than five hundred
when nineteen hearts beat as one."
She stopped beneath the constellation.
"Jonathan wants your knees.
I want your wings.
He wants your silence.
I want your roar.
He wants tomorrow on a leash.
I want tomorrow free."
She raised Velira's twin dagger.
The blade caught the starlight,
threw it across every balcony.
"Neutrality is a balcony with no floor.
Crimson is a grave with a view.
Gold is the only colour left
that still believes the sky can be ours."
She drove the dagger into the obsidian floor.
The slab cracked.
A single fissure ran from dais to ceiling—
perfect,
straight,
final.
Gold light poured through the crack.
It washed over every balcony.
Grey turned gold.
Crimson dimmed to ash.
Five hundred hearts beat as one.
The atrium roared.
09:35 – The Vote
High Arbiter Seraphine's hologram flickered.
Her six mouths spoke in perfect unison:
"By ancient Cup law,
a unified dorm may petition war
against a rogue champion.
The vote is called."
Crystal orbs flared.
Every Taker raised a hand.
Gold: four hundred and twelve.
Crimson: sixty-three.
Grey: twenty-five.
The fissure in the obsidian floor bloomed into a rose of living light.
Its petals spelled WAR.
Seraphine's wings unfolded.
Her voice rolled across the continent:
"Obsidian Spire declares war on Jonathan Andrew,
Void Regent Reborn.
The final six arenas are forfeit.
The Cup is suspended.
The sky is now a battlefield."
The chandeliers exploded into a million crystal doves.
They flew upward,
carried the declaration to every screen,
every heart,
every dragon.
09:40 – The Aftermath
The atrium emptied in perfect silence.
Takers streamed to the forges,
the aviaries,
the war-rooms.
Crimson cloaks were burned in brass braziers.
Grey scrolls were shredded into confetti that spelled RISE.
Arya stood alone on the dais.
The thorn-crown had become a crown of gold roses.
Nineteen rescued souls ringed her—
hands linked,
scars glowing.
Lira kissed her cheek.
Calen kissed her other cheek.
Ryn pressed his storm runes to her palm.
Cogsworth's brass heart ticked once—
tick—
a promise.
Alexander's lightning wrote across the fissure:
FOR THE SKY.
Solara's wings became a second dawn.
The Choir children sang a new chord—
ARYA,
over and over,
until the obsidian remembered it forever.
Level 980.
The cohort surged—
Alexander Level 720,
Solara Level 870,
Cogsworth Level 780,
Lira Level 68,
Calen Level 64,
Ryn Level 58,
the rescued nineteen +10 each and weeping gold tears.
Arya looked at the fissure.
It reflected her face—
crowned in gold roses,
eyes wells of starlight and war.
She smiled—
slow,
sharp,
eternal.
"The sky is ours." She whispered
The obsidian floor sang.
The continent held its breath.
And somewhere in the void,
Jonathan Andrew felt the brand on his heart
burn gold.