The stone walls loomed with such oppressive height that the shadows seemed to fold into themselves, escaping the reach of man. Within the chamber, the lamp's flame danced a frantic jig, yet the light remained coy, refusing to graze the faces of those gathered.
The "Holy Seven" sat in a grim semi-circle, their antiquity the only thing the dimness yielded.One of them cracked a knuckle. The sound was sharp, a dry snap that echoed through the vault like a splintering femur.
"A single year remains," he murmured, the words heavy with the scent of old dust. "The 11th Arena of Thrones."
A hollow silence followed, the kind that suggests the listeners are weighing the speaker's soul rather than his words. Then, a voice filtered through the gloom.
"Indeed," it drawled. "A proclamation is tradition. Even if the commoners already smell the blood in the air."
"Knowledge is a blunt tool; a reminder is a whetstone," another countered, his tone clipped.
"We do not announce it because they are ignorant," a third voice rasped, sounding like iron dragged over gravel. "We do it because they are desperate to forget."
A thin, silk-wrapped chuckle stirred the air. "Heh. Memory fails when a Sovereign outstays his welcome."
A murmur of assent rippled through the dark. Then, a fresh voice emerged. "The Grand Emperor yet breathes. Lycian Bloodlion maintains his seat."
"Breathing," the first voice snapped, "is a biological function. Ruling is an art. The two are rarely synonymous."
The lamp flickered as if the very air had grown cold. "Our purpose is not to topple the throne," a steady voice intervened. "Our purpose is to preserve the Law."
He paused, letting the word hang like a noose. "The Law dictates that after thirty-five years, the Arena must be cleared. The Law dictates that power must not be allowed to putrefy in a single set of hands."
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hum. "The Law dictates that the strongest shall ascend. And the rest? The rest shall learn the geography of the floor."
The silence returned, pregnant with ambition.
"Issue the summons," the leader commanded. "On every parapet of Vhalrion, in every salt-stained port, and upon every blood-soaked field. The 11th Arena begins in one year's time."
The Anahari Desert was a vast, indifferent expanse under the yoke of the Ashuli Empire. Scattered along its scorched fringes lay villages that clung to the earth like grit. It was evening,the hour of the 'Cruel Light.' The sun still in heat, no coldness only dying glare. The sky bled from copper to crimson, then bruised into a deep violet.
Across this desolation, a rider moved with a singular, quiet urgency. His white robes snapped in the wind, masking the man beneath. Only his eyes hard and watchful, were visible. Strapped to his back, a longsword swayed in a rhythmic, metallic breath.
A smudge of dust appeared on the horizon. It resolved into eleven riders, their horses kicking up plumes of sun-baked grit. Sacks were slung across their saddles, and the air seemed to hold the faint, ghostly echo of a child's sob. Bandits.
The rider pulled his mount to a halt. He had found them.
The marauders didn't notice him until they were nearly upon him. Their leader, a man with shoulders like an ox and a black cloth knotted at his throat, reined in.
"Tell me, wanderer,"
the leader called out, his voice a jagged blade of sarcasm. "Is it bravery that brings you here alone, or merely a lack of imagination?"
Laughter, dry and brittle, erupted from his men. One leaned forward, eyeing the stranger's burden.
"That sword is an oddity. Too long for a man of your slight stature, surely?"
The stranger remained silent, his gaze moving over them with the cold detachment of a ledger-keeper.
The leader dismounted, his boots crunching into the shifting floor.
"I'm feeling uncharacteristically pious today," he said, his voice dropping to a mocking purr.
"Hand over the steel, the water, and the horse. We might let you keep your skin. We haven't spilled much wine or blood today."
The stranger finally spoke, his voice a calm ripple in the heat.
"You grant lives now? How generous."
The leader's brow twitched.
"On occasion. Provided the tribute is sufficient."
"And the tribute for your lives?" the stranger asked, tilting his head. "What is the market rate today?"
The laughter died instantly.
"Strip the sword from him," the leader barked.
The man in white reached back. With a soft, mechanical click, the harness released. He brought the blade forward. It was an impossible length of steel, its edge catching the dying sun and glowing with a predatory red hue.
One of the bandits paled.
"No… that's not possible."
Another swallowed hard, his bravado vanishing.
"Ishpal… The Longsword."
The leader's eyes narrowed, recognition curdling into hatred.
"So, the ghost finally shows his face. You're the one who's been thinning our ranks. My men have been hunting you for months."
Ishpal lowered the tip of the blade to the sand.
"I know. I sought you in the village, but it seems I was… delayed."
"You warned them!" a bandit screamed.
"Naturally," Ishpal replied. "Predators usually prefer the dark. And they usually start with the small and the weak."
The leader ground his teeth.
"We take what we please. It is the only rule of the sands."
"Rules," Ishpal said, taking a measured step forward. "The rules are changing in a year's time. Haven't the whispers reached your holes yet?"
The wind rose, whipping sand into a frenzy. The first bandit lunged with a guttural cry. Then, there was only the scream of steel and the muffled thud of things falling. When the dust finally settled, eleven bodies lay cooling on the red sand and Horse are scattered.
Ishpal sat back upon his horse, a singular, thin line of crimson staining the hem of his robe. He wiped the blade with practiced indifference and turned his horse toward the plumes of smoke on the horizon.
The village was a portrait of ruin. The scent of charred timber fought with the copper tang of fresh blood. Ishpal Rethan rode through the wreckage, his robes now the color of ash.
He dismounted as a cluster of children emerged from the shadows.
"Ishpal! You came!"
"They took the grain!" a girl cried, her face streaked with soot. "They took everything!"
Ishpal knelt, his hand steady as he rested it on a boy's head.
"How many?"
"Twelve,"
the boy spat, his eyes burning with a premature hardness.
"And did you give them a proper welcome?" Ishpal asked softly.
"We caught one," the boy said, a dark pride in his voice.
"We burned him. He killed the baker, so we gave him to the fire."
An elder approached, leaning heavily on a staff.
"You are late, Master Ishpal Rethan," he said, his voice brittle with fatigue.
Ishpal stood. "The survivors are in the western trench, between the twin peaks. Your silver and your grain remain with them. As do their corpses."
The elder blinked. "Dead? All of them?"
"They won't be returning," Ishpal said. "If you hurry, you can reclaim your life before the moon rises."
"You won't join us?" the old man asked.
"If I stay, you will rely on my sword," Ishpal replied, turning his horse.
"If I go, you will learn to rely on your own."
He led his horse to the village tavern a sagging structure with a scorched sign. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sour ale and shame. The patrons went silent as he entered.
He took a seat in the furthest corner, leaning his greatsword against the wall. "A glass," he commanded.
The tavern-keeper, his hands trembling, poured the drink.
"They don't come when you're in the village,"
someone muttered from the shadows.
"But you're never here long enough, are you?"
another added bitterly.Ishpal swirled the liquid in his glass.
"I am a traveler, not a gargoyle. I cannot sit on your gates forever. Find your own teeth."
From the corner, an old man's voice rasped,
"Aye. One more year. That's all we have."
He looked up, his eyes milky with cataracts.
"Does the Grand Emperor see any of this? The borders are alight, the roads are infested, and his soldiers are ghosts. 'The Bloodlion' indeed. The beast has lost his claws."
"Careful," the keeper hissed. "Walls have ears, even in this gods-forsaken hole."
"Let them listen," the old man growled. "The Arena is coming. We need a man who knows how to rule, not just a man who knows how to bleed."
Several pairs of eyes drifted toward the corner table. Toward Ishpal.
"And what of you?" someone ventured. "You have the steel for it."
Ishpal drained his glass, the firelight dancing in the amber liquid.
"I am not built for crowns," he said, his voice flat.
"You know how to fight better than any man in the Empire," the voice persisted.
"That is precisely the difficulty,"
Ishpal said, rising to his feet.
"Any fool can wield a sword. But a man who has held one knows that a crown weighs far more than a hundred leagues of steel."
He doesn't say anything else. The flames of fire are reflected in his eyes.
Inside the tavern, the murmurs gradually returned. Some voices were low, some bitter, some merely tired.
Yet, amidst the noise, another figure sat at the very edge of the counter. He was a plain-looking man, blending into the shadows in a tattered cloak. He sipped his drink slowly, one mouthful at a time. Before the tavern-keeper could place another glass before him, the man raised a hand to stop him.
"Finished," he said quietly.
He placed his coins on the counter. The sound was soft, yet the metallic ring was sharp enough to echo. The owner gathered the money without even looking at the man's face. The stranger stood up; his boots made almost no sound on the wooden floor as he pushed the door open and left. No one even noticed.
Outside, the night was absolute. He walked past the edge of the village into the darkness. His shadow stretched long, then vanished.
At a certain point, he stopped. He pulled a small metal tube from his belt and took out a thin slip of paper. There was no moonlight, yet he wrote with the ease of long habit. The lines were brief:
"Ishpal the Longsword does not stay in one place."
He folded the paper. A dark bird descended with a light rustle of wings. The man tied the message to its leg, and the bird took flight. Then, he stepped back into the dark and disappeared.
Behind him, the tavern lights continued to flicker.