The forge sat low beneath the division's inner ramparts, its ceiling blackened by years of smoke and heat. The air inside was thick, heavy with iron and ash, each breath tasting faintly of rust.
Modred stepped in without hesitation.
The blacksmith barely looked up at first. He was an old man—broad-shouldered despite his age, arms like knotted stone, beard scorched at the ends. His eyes were sharp beneath a permanent scowl, the kind that suggested he hated fools and tolerated silence.
"What do you want?" the man grunted.
"Two swords," Modred said.
That earned him a look.
The blacksmith studied him from head to toe, lingering on his hands. "You don't look like a collector."
"I'm not."
Modred placed a rough sketch onto the workbench. Simple lines. No ornamentation. Utility over beauty.
"They need to hold under pressure," Modred continued. "I prefer, Dark steel."
The old man snorted. "Dual wielding chews through blades if the user's sloppy."
"Then don't make them sloppy."
Silence stretched between them. Then the blacksmith smiled faintly, the expression sharp and humorless.
"Three days," he said. "Don't complain if they bite back."
Modred nodded once and turned to leave.
He arrived late to class.
Again.
The door slid open with a quiet scrape, and a few heads turned. Someone scoffed. Another muttered something under their breath.
Modred ignored them and took his seat.
A moment later, Sol entered.
The room quieted instantly.
Sol didn't waste time. His gaze swept across the class once before he spoke.
"The inter-class competition begins tomorrow."
A murmur rippled through the students.
"It will be held in the training grounds," Sol continued. "And it will not be a closed event."
That drew attention.
"The First Prince of Elaris will attend," he said calmly. "Along with the Premier. Magnus Liam will also be present."
That name landed heavier than the others.
"The rules are simple," Sol went on. "Anything goes—except killing. You may challenge outside your class. You may fight dirty. You may fight smart. Only the result matters."
He paused.
"Make your choices carefully."
With that, he turned and left the room.
The corridor outside the lecture hall was still loud with dispersing students when Modred spotted them.
Arthur stood near one of the stone pillars, arms crossed tight against his chest, jaw clenched in irritation. As class president, he usually carried himself with calm authority—but that composure was cracking now. Dante stood opposite him, axe resting casually against his shoulder, posture relaxed to the point of disrespect.
Modred slowed his steps, watching.
Arthur spoke first, his voice low but sharp.
"You chose Class Two yourself," Arthur said, voice tight. "You didn't have to."
Modred looked back at Dante, surprise flashing across his face. "Class Two?"
Dante didn't react much. He simply shrugged.
Arthur continued, irritation slipping into his voice. "He just told me. Decided on his own."
Modred studied Dante for a moment, then asked, "Why?"
Dante waved it off, unconcerned. "Because fighting on the same team won't prove anything."
Arthur snapped back, "This isn't about proving anything. This is about—"
"—finding out who's stronger," Dante cut in calmly.
Arthur glared at him. "There are other ways."
Dante met his eyes without flinching. "Not ones that matter."
Modred let out a short breath, then grinned. "So that's how you want it."
Dante glanced at him. "Problem?"
"No," Modred said, smile widening slightly. "Just don't lose."
Arthur frowned. "You're encouraging this?"
Modred's eyes stayed on Dante. "If he's going to do it, might as well do it properly."
Dante turned away, already done with the conversation. "Finals."
Arthur watched him leave, frustration written all over his face.
Modred spoke without looking at Arthur. "Guess we'll see then."
That evening, the rosters were posted.
Students crowded around the board, voices overlapping as names were read aloud. Modred pushed through until his eyes found his own.
First match.
Modred Vayne vs Julius — Class One.
A few students glanced his way. Someone whistled quietly.
Julius Liam.
"Damn."
Modred exhaled slowly.
The next day, the arena was bustling.
The training grounds had been cleared into a wide circular battleground, reinforced stone beneath their feet, arcane barriers shimmering faintly along the perimeter.
On the elevated podium sat the guests.
The First Prince of Elaris leaned forward with visible interest, chin resting on his knuckles. The Premier sat beside him, composed, eyes calculating. Magnus Liam stood behind them, arms folded, watching the arena as if measuring it.
Below, students settled into their seats. Taren leaned forward, anticipation written all over his face. He barely noticed Lysara until she struck the back of his head with a knuckle.
He flinched. "What was that for?"
She smirked. "You looked too serious."
Taren frowned. "Why aren't you participating?"
Lysara shrugged, eyes already back on the arena. "Not my strong suit."
The referee's voice echoed.
"First match—Modred Vayne versus Julius Liam."
A murmur spread through the stands.
Modred stepped into the arena dressed in black, two swords strapped across his back. His posture was calm, almost detached. No wasted movement. No unnecessary presence. His eyes locked onto Julius the moment he entered.
Julius rolled his shoulders, a wide, almost devilish grin stretching across his face.
"Show me what you've got," he said.
Modred didn't answer.
The referee glanced between them. "State your condition."
Modred reached back—and unstrapped both swords, letting them fall to the ground behind him.
The referee blinked. "You're—"
"I won't need them."
The arena went silent.
Julius laughed. "Your funeral."
The signal sounded.
Julius moved first.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as his Physical Enhancement Arcana surged through his body—muscles tightening, veins standing out as he closed the distance in a blink. His fist came in fast and heavy, aimed straight for Modred's head.
Modred caught it.
Bare-handed.
The impact thundered through the arena, air rippling outward. Julius's smile twitched as he felt the resistance.
"So you're not bluffing."
Fire ignited around Modred's arm—not wild, not explosive, but tight, controlled, heat coiling close to his skin like a restrained beast. He twisted, forcing Julius off balance, and drove a knee into his ribs.
Julius slid back, boots carving lines into the stone.
He laughed. "Good."
He charged again—faster this time. Every strike was brutal and direct. No wasted motion. Each punch carried crushing force, enhanced to the limit. Modred met them head-on, weaving between blows, his movements sharp and economical.
A fist grazed his cheek.
Modred responded instantly.
Flames burst from his shoulder as he stepped in, elbow smashing into Julius's jaw. Julius staggered—but didn't fall. He planted his feet and swung, catching Modred across the side.
The hit sent Modred skidding.
The crowd erupted.
Magnus watched closely.
The First Prince smiled.
Julius exhaled, muscles flexing again. "You're fun."
Modred wiped blood from his lip, emerald eyes glowing faintly through the heat haze rising from his body.
"You're slow," he said.
Julius roared and lunged.
They collided in the center of the arena—fire against raw force. Julius drove Modred back with sheer physical dominance, hammering him with enhanced blows, while Modred answered with bursts of flame at point-blank range, heat warping the air between them.
Stone shattered. The arena cracked.
Modred pivoted, flames spiraling around his leg as he swept Julius off his feet.
Julius hit the ground hard—but rolled, surged up, and slammed his fist into Modred's chest.
Both of them flew back.
Silence fell.
Smoke rose from the crater between them.
They stood again—bruised, breathing hard, eyes locked.
Then Julius's legs buckled.
He dropped.
Unconscious.
The referee rushed forward.
"Winner—Modred Vayne!"
The arena exploded.
Magnus exhaled slowly.
The First Prince laughed under his breath.
"Looks like you were right."
Modred turned away without another glance, fire dying down as he retrieved his swords.
The tournament had only begun.
Taren was still staring at the arena floor where Modred had stood moments ago.
"…That wasn't the same guy," he muttered.
Lysara didn't look away from the arena. Her arms were crossed, posture relaxed, confidence unshaken.
"He's grown," she said. "If he keeps this up, we might actually have a chance at winning the Rite."
Taren let out a slow breath, then gave a dry laugh. "Against all those nobles?"
Lysara smirked. "That's exactly why. They won't see us coming."
The crowd stirred again as the next fighters were announced.
Arthur stepped into the arena first.
Silver armor caught the light—clean, well-fitted, not bulky. It wasn't ceremonial, and it wasn't excessive. Every plate served a purpose. The chest was open enough to allow movement, the pauldrons sharp but elegant. A single sword rested at his side, its presence understated yet confident.
Arthur looked composed. Focused. The kind of calm that came from responsibility, not arrogance.
Then Dante entered.
The contrast was immediate.
No armor on his arms—just scars and muscle. A heavy axe was strapped across his back, double-edged, brutal in design, with a spear-like spike jutting from its center. His uniform was loose, dark, worn like he didn't care who approved of it.
He rolled his shoulders once and grinned at Arthur.
"So," Dante said, voice lazy, eyes sharp. "Class president, huh."
Arthur met his gaze without flinching. "You chose this."
Dante shrugged. "Stop talking and come at me."
A pause.
Arthur nodded once. "Then don't hold back."
Dante's grin widened.
The signal dropped.
Arthur moved first.
Ice Arcana surged through his blade, frost crawling along the steel as he closed the distance in a blur. His movements were clean—precise footwork, sharp angles. He slashed once, twice, each strike carrying freezing pressure that bit into the air itself.
Dante twisted aside, lightning cracking blue across his body as he launched backward, boots skidding across the stone. Sparks exploded beneath his feet.
"So fast," Dante laughed.
He yanked the axe free.
Lightning detonated as he swung—wide, violent, the blow tearing through the arena floor. Arthur blocked, ice surging up his arm as the impact sent a shockwave outward.
Arthur slid back, boots carving lines in the stone, but he didn't lose balance.
Ice erupted behind him.
He dashed forward again, blade flashing, movements relentless—slashes chained together, pressure mounting, frost spreading across the arena like a creeping winter.
Dante answered with chaos.
He leapt into the air, lightning bursting from his body in explosive pulses, crashing down like a living thunderstrike. His axe came down hard, forcing Arthur to guard again and again as the ground shattered beneath them.
Ice and lightning collided violently.
Arthur adapted—his strikes grew heavier, colder, ice forming constructs mid-fight, walls and spikes erupting to control space. Dante smashed through them with brute force, lightning tearing the ice apart in bursts of raw power.
The fight escalated fast.
Arthur's breath fogged. Blood ran down his temple.
Dante's grin never faded.
Then Dante feinted.
Arthur stepped in—just a fraction too late.
Lightning surged.
The axe slammed into Arthur's guard with overwhelming force, cracking the ice instantly and sending him crashing across the arena. He hit the ground hard, armor scraping, breath knocked from his lungs.
Dante was on him in an instant.
Lightning roared as he raised the axe overhead.
Arthur barely managed to lift his sword—
"Enough."
Sol's voice cut through the arena like a blade.
The pressure vanished.
Dante froze mid-swing.
Sol stood between them, expression cold, eyes unreadable. "That would've killed him."
Dante clicked his tongue and stepped back, resting the axe on his shoulder. "Weak," he said casually.
Arthur struggled to sit up, vision blurring. His body screamed in protest—but he forced himself to look up.
"…Thanks," he said, voice strained but sincere.
Dante laughed softly, a sharp, confident sound—then turned away, that unmistakable grin still on his face.
The matches continued without pause.
Names were called. Steel rang. Arcana flared and died.
One fight, however, pulled the crowd into silence.
Riven stepped into the arena.
A scarf covered the lower half of his face, dark fabric pulled tight against his jaw. His eyes were dead calm—empty in a way that unsettled people. No arrogance. No excitement. Just focus.
A halberd rested against his shoulder.
The opponent hesitated the moment Riven looked at him.
That stare—heavy, cold—made his grip tighten involuntarily.
The signal sounded.
Riven moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Correct.
The halberd swept low, forcing the opponent back. A feint followed, then a sudden shift of grip—Riven slid his hands along the shaft and struck with the blade's butt, cracking ribs cleanly. The opponent staggered.
Riven didn't chase.
He waited.
The opponent lunged, desperate.
Riven stepped inside the attack, twisted his body, and brought the halberd down in a brutal arc. The blade stopped an inch from the man's throat.
Match over.
Riven didn't react to the applause. He turned and walked out, scarf still hiding his expression, eyes already elsewhere.
The infirmary smelled of herbs and iron.
Arthur lay on the bed, bandages wrapped around his ribs, his sword resting against the wall nearby. His breathing was shallow but steady.
Modred stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.
"You alive?" he asked.
Arthur smiled weakly. "Barely."
There was a pause.
"…Dante's strong," Arthur continued, voice low. "Stronger than I thought."
Modred said nothing.
"But," Arthur added, turning his head slightly, "he showed me something important."
Modred raised an eyebrow.
"That I'm not there yet." Arthur exhaled slowly. "So don't lose."
Modred looked at him, surprised.
Then he smiled—not wide, not cocky. Just sure.
"I won't."
Arthur closed his eyes, still smiling.
The crowd noise grew louder as Modred approached the arena.
Taren jogged up beside him. "You know," he said, grinning, "if you die out there, I'm taking your stuff."
Modred scoffed. "You wouldn't survive five minutes with my swords."
"Wow. So confident," Taren laughed. "Seriously though… win."
Modred stopped.
They bumped fists.
"I will," Modred said simply, then stepped forward.
The arena shifted.
Even the King—who rarely acknowledged the lower divisions—had arrived.
Magnus Liam, patriarch of the Liam household and Commander of the Andes, stood with arms crossed, watching intently. Beside him were high-ranking guards, nobles, and the Premier, who looked thoroughly amused.
Igred Vayne stood nearby, silent.
"Just as fierce as ever," Igred muttered, eyes fixed on Modred. "And still fixed on the dual sword technique."
The Premier scoffed. "You should be proud, you Old bastard."
The arena felt smaller the moment Modred and Dante faced each other. Not because of walls—but because neither man gave an inch.
Dante's axe hummed low in his grip. Lightning crawled along its edges in thin, unstable veins, blue sparks snapping and dying against the stone beneath his boots. His eyes glowed faintly, the same electric blue, sharp and focused—nothing playful in them now.
Across from him, Modred stood with his swords still sheathed.
Steam rolled steadily from his mouth with every breath, faint but constant. His emerald eyes burned—not wide, not enraged—cold, locked onto Dante like a predator measuring distance. Fire didn't explode from him. It condensed, drawn tight beneath his skin.
They stared.
No taunts.
No wasted motion.
The crowd barely breathed.
Then Dante shifted his stance.
Lightning flared louder, reacting to intent more than movement. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them, axe angling slightly forward. The weapon wasn't just heavy—it was built to end fights quickly. Double-edged steel, reinforced spine, the spear-point between blades gleaming faintly as current wrapped around it.
Modred's fingers flexed.
The swords came free in one smooth motion.
Steel whispered as fire bled from the blades—not roaring, not wild—controlled, clinging close like heat around forged metal. The ground beneath his feet darkened, stone cracking faintly as temperature warped it.
That was the signal.
They launched at the same time.
The collision was violent.
Lightning detonated outward as Dante swung first—wide, brutal, meant to split Modred in half. Modred stepped inside the arc instead of retreating, blades crossing as fire met lightning in a deafening crack.
The impact hurled sparks in every direction.
Modred twisted, redirecting the force, sliding past the axe head as Dante yanked it back and brought the spear-point forward in a vicious thrust. Modred barely shifted—one sword deflecting, the other carving across Dante's side.
Dante hissed but didn't slow.
Lightning surged.
He countered instantly, driving his shoulder into Modred's chest, Arcana reinforcing the blow. Modred skidded back, boots scraping stone, heat flaring to stabilize him before he could fall.
They didn't reset.
Dante pressed.
The axe moved fast for its size—chops, hooks, sweeps—each strike backed by lightning that cracked the arena floor where it landed. Modred ducked, parried, slipped through angles that shouldn't have existed, fire flashing tight around his blades as he struck back.
Steel rang.
Heat screamed.
Lightning snapped.
Modred cut low—Dante leapt back. Dante lunged—Modred pivoted, fire bursting briefly to propel him sideways. Dante slammed the axe down, lightning exploding outward in a circular shockwave.
Modred crossed his blades and took it head-on.
Fire surged—not outward, but inward, compressing around him. The shockwave shoved him back several meters, boots carving trenches through stone, but he stayed upright.
Smoke curled from his shoulders.
Dante grinned.
Then Modred moved.
He didn't charge blindly.
He stepped forward, measured, fire rolling off his swords in slow waves. Each step increased the pressure—heat warping the air, Dante's lightning reacting violently as opposing Arcana collided without touching.
They closed again.
This time, Modred struck first.
A rapid series—left blade high, right blade low, fire snapping with each cut. Dante blocked with the axe shaft, sparks exploding as metal screamed under the strain. He countered with a knee reinforced by lightning.
Modred took it to the ribs.
Bone cracked.
He didn't stop.
Modred drove his forehead into Dante's face, fire flaring on impact. Dante staggered back, blood mixing with sparks as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Lightning surged harder now—less controlled.
"Good," Dante muttered. "Finally."
He roared and charged.
Lightning erupted fully, crawling up his arms, down the axe, tearing chunks from the arena floor as he closed the distance in a blur. Modred met him head-on, fire finally spilling outward—not wild, but violent, the heat oppressive, suffocating.
They clashed again.
This time neither yielded.
Steel locked against steel.
Fire burned against lightning at point-blank range. Modred's emerald eyes burned brighter as he pushed forward. Dante growled, muscles straining, lightning flaring erratically as the ground beneath them fractured.
Then Dante twisted.
The axe slipped free and slammed into Modred's shoulder.
The blow sent him flying.
Modred hit the ground hard, rolling once before catching himself on one knee. His shoulder smoked, flesh charred where lightning had burned through armor.
Dante didn't give him time.
He hurled the axe.
Lightning screamed as it spun end-over-end toward Modred's head.
Modred crossed his blades.
Fire erupted.
The axe was knocked aside mid-air, embedding itself deep into the arena wall in an explosion of sparks. Modred surged forward immediately, fire trailing behind him in sharp arcs as he closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Dante barely raised his arm before Modred struck.
One blade cut across his chest.
The other slammed into his ribs.
Dante countered instinctively—elbow, lightning flaring—but Modred took the hit and drove a knee into Dante's gut, fire detonating inward.
Both men staggered.
Both refused to fall.
They locked eyes again—bloodied, breathing hard, Arcana flickering violently around them.
Then they moved at the same time.
The final exchange was brutal.
Dante reclaimed his axe and swung with everything he had left. Modred stepped in, blades crossing, fire roaring as he struck simultaneously.
Lightning and fire exploded.
The impact knocked both of them off their feet.
Silence followed.
When the dust cleared, both fighters collapsed.
Unconscious.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the arena erupted.
Applause. Shouts. Disbelief.
Igred watched quietly, lips pressed thin. "…Improved," he admitted. "Still not enough."
Later, Modred woke in the infirmary, pain screaming through his ribs.
Igred stood nearby.
"You broke three ribs," he said flatly. "You'll live."
Modred smirked despite the pain.
"Sit," a voice said.
Firm. Commanding.
Igred Vayne stood at the foot of the infirmary bed, arms crossed, cloak still on like he'd walked straight out of a battlefield and into the room.
Modred ignored him and tried again.
Igred flicked a finger.
The bedframe cracked.
Modred dropped back with a grunt. "You always do that."
"You always ignore me," Igred replied flatly. "We're even."
Modred smirked despite himself. "I knocked him down."
"You also knocked yourself unconscious," Igred shot back. "Brilliant strategy."
Modred turned his head. "Did I win?"
Igred snorted. "If collapsing together counts as winning, you'd be king by now."
Silence.
Then—
"…You used pyromancy properly this time," Igred added.
Modred blinked and looked at him.
That was rare.
"Still sloppy at the end," Igred continued. "You let your breathing slip. That's why you got hit."
"Tch," Modred muttered. "You noticed everything, huh?"
"I raised you," Igred said. "I'd be blind not to."
Modred laughed quietly, then winced. "Dante's strong."
"He is," Igred agreed. "But strength without restraint is just noise."
He stepped closer.
"You should prepare," Igred added. "The Rite won't be this forgiving."
Modred looked at him. "I know."
Igred turned to leave.
Dante, leaning against the doorway, chuckled. "You were lucky."
Modred scoffed weakly. "You're still too loud."
Taren stepped between them. "Both of you—rest."
Two months passed.
The changes didn't announce themselves. They settled in quietly—tighter movements, fewer words, eyes that measured before reacting. Training didn't make them stronger so much as it removed weakness.
The night before the rite, the division was given a feast.
The feast had no restraint.
Voices crashed over one another, mugs slammed against tables, laughter spilling as freely as the drink. Long benches were packed tight with cadets from every corner of the division, plates stacked high with food meant to be eaten fast and without manners.
At the center of it all was Modred.
Someone shouted his name.
"MODRED!"
Another voice followed immediately. "Did you see what he did to Julius?"
"That wasn't a fight," a cadet laughed. "That was a lesson."
A third leaned across the table, pointing openly at him. "This year's different. You feel it? Division Four's finally got someone worth betting on."
Mugs lifted in his direction.
"To Modred!"
"To Division Four!"
"To the Rite!"
Modred didn't pretend to be humble.
He stood, planting one boot on the bench, lifting his mug high as ale sloshed over the rim.
"Damn right it's our year," he said loudly. "You think I'm stopping now?"
Cheers answered him immediately.
Someone slapped his back hard enough to nearly spill his drink. Another leaned in close, grinning. "If you fight like that in the Rite, the nobles won't know what hit them."
Modred laughed. "They never do."
He scanned the hall and spotted Taren halfway through trying to disappear behind a group of cadets.
"Oh no," Modred said, eyes lighting up. "You don't get to hide."
He grabbed Taren by the collar and dragged him straight into the circle, shoving a mug into his hands.
"Drink," Modred ordered.
Taren protested weakly. "I didn't even say anything!"
"That's worse," Modred replied. "Drink."
Dante wasn't spared.
Modred hooked an arm around his neck, pressing a mug into his free hand with the other. "And you—don't look so serious. Tonight we're winning already."
Dante scowled. "You're insufferable."
"You're still drinking."
Arthur arrived to the scene just in time to see Taren coughing and Dante glaring murderously.
He sighed. "…This explains everything."
Modred shoved a mug at him too. "You're late."
Arthur hesitated, then took it. "If this goes badly, I'm blaming you."
Laughter rippled through the table
Nearby, Lysara leaned against a pillar with a few other girls, arms crossed, watching the chaos with amusement.
"Boys," someone muttered.
Lysara smirked. "Let them have it."
Then the hall shifted.
Conversations dipped. A few heads turned.
Commander Renald had entered.
He didn't wear armor tonight—just a dark coat thrown over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up like he'd already decided this wasn't going to be a quiet evening. Captain Sol followed beside him, posture rigid, expression already suspicious.
Modred saw them instantly.
His grin sharpened.
"Oi!" he shouted, waving his mug. "Commander! Four Eyes!"
Renald turned.
Modred raised his mug. "Thought you were going to miss the celebration."
Renald laughed once, deep and genuine. "After the noise you lot made today? Impossible."
Modred hopped down from the bench and closed the distance in a few long strides, moving in perfect sync with Renald without even thinking about it. They met halfway, shoulders bumping like old comrades.
"Drink," Modred said, shoving a full mug into Renald's hand.
Renald accepted it without hesitation. "That's an order?"
"It is now."
Sol stopped a step behind them. "Absolutely not."
Too late.
Another mug appeared in his hand.
Modred looked at him innocently. "Captain. It'd be rude."
Sol opened his mouth to argue.
Renald clapped him on the back. "One drink won't kill you."
It wasn't one.
Minutes later, Sol sat stiffly at the table, coat unfastened, sleeves loosened, glaring into his mug like it had personally betrayed him. Renald laughed freely, already deep into another drink, while Modred leaned back, satisfied.
"I am not competing," Sol muttered.
"You're losing," Modred corrected.
Renald nearly choked laughing.
The hall roared again.
For a few hours, the Rite didn't exist.
Later, when the fire pits burned low and the noise faded into distant murmurs, they found themselves outside.
The night air was cold but clear. A small fire crackled nearby, embers snapping softly. Above them, the sky stretched wide, stars sharp and countless.
They sat in loose silence.
Arthur broke it first.
"Tomorrow," he said.
No one pretended not to understand.
Modred stared upward, eyes reflecting starlight. "Tomorrow," he echoed quietly.
Taren shifted beside him. "Feels strange," he admitted. "All this noise… and then silence."
Dante snorted. "Better than speeches."
Lysara sat opposite them, watching the flames. "This is the last quiet night we'll get."
Modred finally looked at them.
"We're entering the Academy," he said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just certain. "All of us."
Arthur turned his head. "You sound confident."
"I am."
A pause.
Taren smiled faintly. "Then don't die."
Modred smirked. "Annoying as ever."
By the time the summons came, none of them were the same.
Modred stood before the mirror in the armory, fastening the last strap across his forearm. His reflection stared back at him—thinner, harder, eyes carrying a depth they hadn't before. The fire inside him no longer flared recklessly. It simmered, restrained, waiting.
Modred stood before the mirror in the armory, fastening the last strap across his forearm. His reflection stared back at him—thinner, harder, eyes carrying a depth they hadn't before. The fire inside him no longer flared recklessly. It simmered, restrained, waiting.
Two swords rested behind him.
Both black.
Not polished black—absorbing black. The metal drank the light around it, edges faintly etched with arcane channels that pulsed only when he breathed. Dual blades. Balanced for killing, not ceremony.
He rolled his shoulders once.
The pain was gone now. His body remembered it, but it no longer obeyed it.
Outside, the others gathered.
Black combat coats replaced the noise of the feast—cut close to the body, reinforced where blades usually found flesh. Capes were fastened to one shoulder, dark fabric dragging low and silent as they walked.
On the back of each cape burned the mark of Division Four.
A broken spear crossed by a downward blade, bound together with a thin line of crimson thread. Not stitched for pride. Stitched as a warning. The kind of symbol you learned to recognize only after it was too late.
Hoods stayed low. Faces half-lost to shadow.
They were not marching. They were entering.
Ahead, the Phoed Mountains rose like a mass grave carved into the earth—jagged stone clawing at the sky, peaks swallowed by black cloud. The air thinned with every step, cold biting deep, carrying a weight that pressed against the chest instead of the skin.
No one spoke.
Boots struck rock in steady rhythm.
Behind them, warmth and laughter collapsed into memory. Ahead, the land felt old—resentful—like it remembered blood better than names.
And that marked the beginning of the Rite of Ironblood.