Kael had just finished binding the last of his cracked ribs when the scroll arrived.
It wasn't delivered with ceremony. No horns. No flaming messenger. Just a quiet knock and a grunt as a masked arena scribe shoved the sealed parchment under his chamber door.
The scroll rolled to a stop at his feet.
Kael eyed it warily.
The seal was waxed blood-red, impressed with a gauntlet wreathed in thorns. The veins of crimson shimmered faintly, as if the sigil were still bleeding.
He didn't touch it. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back on the bench and said aloud, "This gonna explode?"
The Knife, resting on a slab nearby, hummed thoughtfully. "Negative. Message wards. Old blood-forged pattern. Personalized challenge. Voluntary response, but heavily implied obligation."
"In other words," Kael muttered, "I can say no, but that's how you get assassinated in your sleep."
"Accurate."
Kael picked up the scroll. The wax seal pulsed once under his thumb. A whisper—not words, just the echo of marching boots on cracked stone—slid into his ear.
He unrolled it.
---
> TO KAEL RIVEN, SCAVENGER AND SURVIVOR:
You've amused the gods. You've unsettled the rules.
I want to know what you are. Not through talk. Through test.
Come to the Hall of War Unwritten at second bell. Bring your blade.
If you leave breathing, I might offer terms.
—Veyra, Crimson Pact-Breaker
---
Kael stared at the signature for a moment. Her name was scrawled in something far too thick to be ink.
He held the scroll up. "Knife?"
"Authentic. She wants blood."
"Mine or hers?"
"Unclear."
Kael stood, rotating his shoulder. Pain spiked, but he smiled anyway. "Then we better make sure it's not mine."
He strapped the Knife to his hip, tucked a pair of volatile memory charms into his coat, and stepped into the corridor.
Outside, the corridor walls pulsed red.
The Arena knew where he was going.
And it approved.