Scene: The Infernal Council Arena
The great council chamber had been transformed. Once a hall of judgment, with its obsidian floors and towering statues of Monarchs past, it now stretched open like a coliseum. Torches burned blue along the walls, casting flames that twisted unnaturally, licking upward as though alive. Above the throne that once belonged to Murphy sat a blackened banner, the Infernal crest—half-moon and flame—hanging in mourning.
At the center stood Theodus Nightshad.
A tall, lean man with a crooked grin and sharp, calculating eyes, he radiated an unsettling mix of charm and menace. Much like Hakari, Theodus had a playful, almost mocking tone about life. But where Hakari's mischief was childlike, Theodus' carried venom. Every gesture of his felt like a game—and one that only he knew the rules of.
He raised his hands to the crowd of warriors, nobles, and assassins gathered. His voice echoed, smooth as silk and cold as steel:
"Murphy is gone. The Infernals have no master, no banner to follow, no fist to strike with. But despair is for the weak. We are not weak, are we?"
The chamber roared back, a thunder of voices.
"No!"
Theodus' grin widened.
"Then we shall have strength. We shall have a ruler worthy of Infernal blood. And to choose such a ruler…"
He drew out his words, savoring the suspense, his eyes glinting as if the idea itself amused him.
"…we will hold the Trial of the Crown. A competition not of speeches, nor alliances, but of blood and will. The strongest will claim the seat Murphy left behind. The weak will be forgotten."
The crowd erupted in chaos—cheers, growls, and the clash of steel as warriors slammed their weapons in approval.
From the shadows of the chamber, guards stepped forward with scrolls. Names were read aloud—warriors, heirs, mercenaries drafted by force or chosen by bloodline. Among them:
Damion Snow, his white hair gleaming under the torchlight, his eyes still burning from grief.
Lena, Axel's lover, torn between rage and sorrow, her hand clenched tight on her blade.
Hakari, dragged reluctantly, his playful mask hiding a storm within.
Dylan, still recovering, but forced by fate and honor to stand again, his body trembling but his eyes unyielding.
The four were thrust forward into the arena's heart. The crowd howled for blood, for spectacle.
But Theodus wasn't finished. He lifted a single finger.
"One more. The gods themselves demand a surprise."
The great iron doors at the far end of the arena groaned, their chains rattling as if the abyss itself was opening. Light bled in first, a stark, blinding glow. Then footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.
A figure stepped through, dragging a blade that hissed as it cut stone. His face was shadowed at first, but when the torches flared, the crowd gasped.
Axel Spades.
But not the fractured, crown-maddened reaper. Not the haunted wanderer who walked with ghosts. This Axel stood straight, his eyes clear, his movements steady. His grip on Kinslayer was calm, purposeful—not the desperate clutch of a man drowning in voices.
For a heartbeat, silence smothered the arena. Even Theodus tilted his head, as if amused by fate's cruel joke.
Hakari's jaw dropped. Dylan's body stiffened, disbelief painted across his face. Lena's breath hitched, tears threatening. Damion only clenched his fist, muttering beneath his breath:
"It can't be…"
Then the crowd erupted, chanting his name like a storm.
"Axel! Axel! Axel!"
Theodus raised his arms again, a devilish smirk carving his face.
"Behold. The competition for the Infernal crown begins… and destiny itself has entered the arena."
The iron doors finished groaning shut, their echoes still humming through the obsidian chamber. For a moment, all was still—thousands of eyes locked on the lone figure who had just entered.
Axel Spades.
He stood at the edge of the arena, framed by firelight. His black dreadlocks fell ragged around his face, his grip on Kinslayer relaxed but firm. His eyes—once clouded by rage, guilt, and something darker—were startlingly clear. Calm, almost unnervingly so.
Dylan's heart skipped. His chest, already weakened from the council's battles, tightened as if a hand had gripped it. He whispered hoarsely, almost not believing the sound of his own voice:
DYLAN
"…Axel?"
The name cut through the noise like a blade. Hakari's lazy grin faltered for the first time. He leaned forward on the arena rail, his voice carrying a mix of disbelief and mischief as he muttered, more to himself than anyone:
HAKARI
"Well, I'll be damned… the prodigal brother returns. With better posture than last time too."
Lena's reaction was nothing playful. Her hands trembled against the hilt of her blade, her lips parting but no sound leaving. Tears welled instantly, blurring the man she once knew with the nightmare she feared he'd become.
LENA
"Axel… please… tell me it's really you."
Damion Snow stood silent, his white hair gleaming under the torchlight. His jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck showed. He hadn't grown up with Axel the way Dylan and Lena had, but he knew the stories, knew the weight. His eyes narrowed like a wolf sniffing out prey—or betrayal.
Axel didn't answer. Not at first. He simply lifted his gaze, scanning the chamber, meeting every face without a word. When his eyes finally landed on Dylan, the corners of his mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. Something smaller. Something almost… human.
The silence broke with the restless murmur of the crowd. They shouted, cursed, cheered, their words clashing like blades in the air. But for those in the center of the arena, it all fell away.
Dylan staggered a step forward, his hand clutching his side where wounds still throbbed. His voice cracked, breaking the weight of the moment:
DYLAN
"Were you serious… in our last battle? Do you even remember? I nearly—"
His voice trailed, emotion choking him.
Hakari, unwilling to let the moment drown in sentiment, put on a ridiculous British accent, lounging dramatically on the rail as though it were a couch:
HAKARI
"Oh, do keep your chin up, old sport. Can't have you crying in front of the ladies, now can we?"
He even mimed raising a glass of wine, smirking like it was all theater. But his eyes—sharp, observant—never left Axel.
Dylan snapped at him, his grief boiling into frustration. He whipped around, voice cracking with anger:
DYLAN
"You think this is a joke, Hakari?! I almost died fighting for him!"
The playboy only grinned wider, deliberately refusing to answer seriously. His smirk said what he wouldn't with words: Yes, he remembered. Yes, he was scared too. But Hakari would never admit it.
Axel finally spoke. His voice was low, hoarse from silence, but steady.
AXEL
"I remember."
Just two words. Enough to still even the crowd.
Lena's tears broke free. Dylan froze, torn between relief and dread. Hakari leaned back, his smirk softening, if only a fraction. And Damion… Damion's fist tightened, his teeth grinding as if those words only deepened the storm in his chest.
At the far end of the arena, Theodus Nightshad clapped slowly, his grin sharp and serpent-like.
THEODUS
"Oh, splendid. The boy who drowned in blood walks back with clear eyes. Fate writes better stories than even I could."
He spread his arms toward the audience, his voice booming like a ringmaster.
THEODUS
"Ladies and gentlemen… your contenders stand before you. The Trial of the Crown begins not with strangers… but with family in seven days here will be blood."
The crowd erupted again. But within the circle of light, the air was heavy, intimate, fragile. The past sat between them like a loaded gun.