"A-Serenity... A-Strength..." Ezmelral murmured, the names rolling off her tongue like echoes from a half-remembered dream. Their cadence—and even their appearances, serene foliage entwined with unyielding bark—hinted at something deeper, a hidden symmetry she couldn't yet grasp.
To confirm her suspicion, she turned to Raiking.
"Why do they both have such..." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully as her gaze drifted toward the stands, where the two sat like living embodiments of harmony and might. "...unusual names?"
Raiking's crimson eyes lingered on them. When he finally spoke, his tone was even, like a storyteller unspooling an ancient truth.
"To understand that, we must first understand their origin."
Ezmelral said nothing—her wide eyes alone urged him onward.
"Aserenity and Astrength hail from a woodland species in the southern Cosmos," he began, his voice calm, deliberate. "They have no name for themselves. What we know is this: they come from two separate worlds—planets orbiting each other, locked in an eternal dance."
"Like yin and yang?" she asked, recalling parables from the old village scrolls—stories of balance born from contrast.
"Precisely."
He gestured toward the heavens as if sketching their orbits across invisible sky.
"Every hundred years, the dance pauses. During that stillness, a bridge forms between the twin worlds. The planet of Aserenity—home to all females—invites the males of Astrength's world to cross. For a short season, they..."
He trailed off, glancing at her with subtle hesitation, his words hanging like an unfinished bridge, searching for the right phrasing in the face of her innocence.
"They do what?" she asked, tilting her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes like starlight on water.
"Once they've given birth," he continued carefully, skipping ahead, "if the children are female, they remain on Aserenity's world. Males return to Astrength's."
A pang tugged at Ezmelral's heart, her thoughts drifting to her own parents—their warm embraces, the laughter that filled their humble home. "I couldn't imagine being split from my parents like that," she murmured, sorrow softening her voice.
Raiking placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch a grounding weight that stilled the turmoil within her. "Do not mourn for them, Ezmelral," he said, his voice low and calm. "Their measure of family is not ours. Their bonds, their traditions—they are their own. We do them no honor by draping their lives in our own notions of joy or sorrow."
"I see..." she murmured, her mind turning to the kaleidoscope of species she'd glimpsed in the tournament—their alien customs, histories etched in forms and rituals so far from her own. Even Eden's ecosystem pulsed with its unique rhythm, a world unto itself. Imposing her logic on theirs would breed only confusion and judgment, a cage of misunderstanding. So, shifting her focus, she posed the next question: "Then what about their names?"
Raiking's gaze followed hers, his voice measured as he unraveled the thread. "At birth, a seer delves into the Cosmic secrets of Fate and Time. Depending on the path they're destined to walk, they're assigned a name that echoes their journey. It could be Ablade—for one unmatched with the blade—or Akind..."
"For the kindest?" she finished, her eyes lighting up as the pattern clicked.
Raiking nodded in agreement. "Precisely."
She tilted her head. "And if many share the same path? Wouldn't their names repeat?"
"Their population is sparse," he explained. "They focus now on rebuilding. What happens when they multiply, none can say—not even the seers who name them. Perhaps the Cosmos itself will choose."
Her curiosity deepened. "Are they... special? Favored by the Will, as the Entities once were?"
Raiking's expression dimmed to thought. "Some believe so. That they are balance incarnate—whispers of fate given form."
Ezmelral, now grasping the depth of their history and traditions, followed his gaze to Astrength. He sat motionless among his kin, a looming figure wreathed in silence. His armor was an ancient relic, blackened plates latticed with faint green veins, as though the forest itself had reclaimed the metal in a slow, inevitable conquest. A tattered pelt draped over one shoulder, its edges frayed into rootlike strands that writhed faintly in the still air, like whispers of life refusing to fade. From beneath his helmet's crescent crest glowed a single red eye, cold and patient, the ember of a fire that had burned for eons without dimming.
But it was his right side that commanded every gaze—the armor there warped into living wood, bark twisted into the grim shape of a skeletal visage clinging to his shoulder like a parasitic curse, its hollow sockets smoldering with the same crimson light, as if sharing his unquenchable vigil. Vines slithered across his form, threading through joints and greaves like veins of forgotten growth, pulsing faintly with inner vitality. Even his sword bore the mark of decay, its edge dark and uneven, yet it exuded the quiet promise of a strike that would never falter, never forgive.
He was less a warrior than a remnant of something primordial—a knight forged from rot and rebirth, teetering between nature's cradle and death's embrace, waiting for the moment to claim which half of him would devour the other.
---
When the last echoes of the crowd faded, the arena stirred to life once more. The ring stood restored—its shattered surface reformed into seamless stone, the glowing repair runes dimming back into ancient sleep. Anticipation rippled through the air like pressure before a thunderstorm.
A crack of static split the silence. Shona appeared at the ring's center in a flash of blue-white light, lightning residue crawling across his armor like restless spirits. He stood tall, five arms folded in calm defiance, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
Across from him, Astrength rose from the spectators' tiers. He leapt skyward in a single bound that shook the platforms, then descended like a falling meteor. Stone splintered beneath his landing, cracks webbing outward as he straightened, his red eye locking on Shona in silent challenge.
The Keeper of Balance stepped forward, her ten arms moving with tranquil precision, her voice resonating like the chime of cosmic scales.
"The rules remain unchanged," she declared. "No mercy—until one yields or falls."
Her eyes, deep pools of measured calm, swept over both warriors. Seeing their mutual resolve, she inclined her head once.
"You may begin."
Astrength was the first to move. His legplates groaned, fracturing apart in sharp bursts until the metal fell away entirely. Beneath, his limbs were no longer flesh and armor but living trunks—bark twisting, roots burrowing deep into the ring with a low, seismic rumble that made the entire arena quiver. He stood anchored, immovable, like the heart of a forest that refused to bow before any storm.
Shona answered the challenge. He raised one arm, palm open. The heavens responded. A bolt of lightning tore down from the clouds, striking the ring with a deafening crack—and from its light emerged his spear, humming with contained wrath. He caught it mid-descent, twirling it once in a blinding arc before lowering into stance. The weapon crackled and hissed, eager for the coming clash.
Then, with deliberate grace, he slid the spear behind his back, a faint, eager smile tugging at his lips. His front hand rose slowly—four fingers curling upward in a wordless beckon.
A silent dare.
A storm calling the mountain to move.
The parted red sea below began to churn, and the arena held its breath—two forces poised at the edge of chaos, ready to decide whether roots could withstand the sky's fury.