Wind whispered across the heavens as the first light of dawn spilled over the horizon. The clouds parted like veils, revealing the monumental silhouette of the Lazarus Sky Colosseum—a fortress of marble and mirrored crystal suspended thousands of feet above the earth. From a distance, it seemed to float on threads of sunlight, haloed by circling runes that shimmered in gold and silver.
Below, the fleets of the great houses rose one by one through the mist—levitating citadels, dragon-drawn carriages, ships that burned with mana instead of flame. The House of Nasarik led the procession, their banners a deep azure crossed by the emblem of the twin storms.
Eryndor stood at the bow of their vessel, hands tucked casually in his pockets, coat flapping against the wind. He looked almost bored, his eyes half-lidded beneath his dark fringe, though the faint arc of a grin tugged at his mouth. The faint crackle of lightning shimmered along his shoulders, more instinct than display.
Behind him, Lord Aldric Vaelith, his father, watched with a faint smile. "You're supposed to at least pretend to be nervous," he said, his voice carrying over the rushing air.
Eryndor tilted his head. "Why? It's just a friendly competition between demigods and monsters."
Kael, standing to his right, snorted. "You're talking about monsters, and you're including yourself in the audience category?"
"Observation helps one stay humble," Eryndor said, utterly deadpan.
Aldric shook his head. "You sound like my old mentor. He said the same thing before fighting a dragon bare-handed."
The deck broke into quiet laughter, tension easing as the floating colosseum grew larger ahead—its outer walls etched with ancient sigils of containment. Entire nations could crumble beneath the power housed there, yet not a sound leaked beyond the wards.
Lyanna wasn't with them. She had stayed behind at the ancestral manor under the protection of the Ancestor himself, her presence replaced by a quiet, warm thought in Eryndor's chest. He'd kissed her forehead before leaving, whispering, "I'll come back before sunset. Tell our little one to wait for the fireworks."
Now, with the wind whipping past and the looming grandeur of Lazarus before him, he wondered if he'd been joking—or promising.
They docked at one of the sky-bridges that linked the colosseum's tiers. From every direction, families of impossible heritage gathered. Some carried halos of flame above their heads; others bore wings of light or shadows shaped like constellations.
The Main Branch of Nasarik stood in the central dais, a living storm of power and pride. Beside them, the Vaeliths and allied houses assembled with disciplined poise. When the Second Branch arrived, the air vibrated with anticipation—flashes of lightning, bursts of pressure, the flare of mana like heat haze.
"Looks like everyone's early," Kael murmured.
"Except the ones who enjoy an entrance," Eryndor said quietly.
Aldric folded his arms. "And that would be…"
Before he could finish, the sky darkened.
It wasn't the clouds—it was presence. A collective pressure that bent light, pressing down like an unseen ocean. The runes around Lazarus flickered in response, instinctively reinforcing their barriers. Even the most arrogant scions paused mid-conversation, eyes rising to the north.
From the rift in the clouds, they emerged—cloaked silhouettes riding spheres of pure voidlight. Their formation was silent, perfect, and suffocating. The Third Branch had arrived.
Whispers rippled through the stands. Some families straightened in respect; others clenched their fists. None of the younger generation had seen them in person—only heard the stories of their rebellion, their exile, their rumored annihilation centuries ago.
Now they were here, alive, and walking through the air like kings returning to a stolen throne.
The pressure hit the main dais like a wave. Several attendants gasped, knees trembling before their masters' auras pushed back the weight. Elders murmured counter-chants, stabilizing the field.
Aldric's brother Mael Vaelith, tall and broad-shouldered, cracked his neck and smiled faintly. "They always did love theatrics."
But as the Third Branch's leader stepped forward, even his amusement thinned. The figure pulled down his hood, revealing eyes of molten crimson, sharp and ancient. A faint smirk curved his lips.
The man was beautiful in the way storms were beautiful—terrifying, untouchable, alive with destruction.
Eryndor's heart gave a single strong pulse. The blood in his veins responded.
"Interesting," he muttered. The air around him shifted, the faint blue glow of his aura responding to the opposing field.
Kael shot him a look. "Don't you dare."
"I'm not doing anything," Eryndor said, still smiling.
Aldric glanced back just in time to see him tilt his head, grin widening, posture utterly relaxed while others strained under the crushing gravity of the Third Branch's entrance.
Several patriarchs raised their brows. Even the leader of the main family, a man whose presence could shatter mountains, paused for a heartbeat—amusement flickering in his ancient gaze.
Mael leaned toward Aldric. "He's smiling. In that pressure. Is he—"
"Yes," Aldric muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's enjoying himself."
"Does he realize that man could crush half this arena by sneezing?"
"He does. That's why he's smiling."
Kael sighed. "I hate that I understand him."
The head of the Third Branch let his gaze sweep the arena. For an instant, it lingered on Eryndor—the faintest arch of an eyebrow as if he'd noticed something familiar in the younger man's aura.
Eryndor's grin softened into something sharper. "Looks like the fun part's starting."
A gust of wind rolled across the arena, scattering dust and tension alike.