As Lord Ishidore's roar faded, the stadium lights blazed to life, scattering every lingering shadow.
A single, spectral beam sliced through the roar of voices, focusing on one remote section of the grand arena—where six figures lounged in cold, unyielding detachment.
All eyes snapped toward them.
Below, a man in his thirties jabbed a trembling finger at the group.
"It's them!" he shouted, breathless. "They didn't just survive—they made it impossible to ignore what true power looks like."
Whispers swelled like storm-tide.
A burly, low-ranked warrior hefted his brutal weapon, grinning with raw bravado.
"They're slaughterers," he growled. "Ten years since the last festival, and we don't even have eight finalists—just seven. Ruthless as beasts, they crushed their opposition."
His companion sneered, eyes hard with fear.
"Just wait. That girl—Sherliey, is it? She'll die for sure. One of them even smiled while killing. Creepy as hell."
A familiar girl's voice—shrill from earlier—spoke up, softer now, her tension palpable:
"Don't talk like that about Prince Allerick and Lucian. They're just caught with the wrong crowd. They aren't all monsters."
A tiny, fierce twelve-year-old stared up at the spotlight.
"Lord Aiden's innocent too. Weaklings deserve what they got. If they can't protect themselves, how could they protect others?"
The light intensified, carving those hidden figures out from the shadows—faces hard as marble, untouched by the commotion.
For a heartbeat, memories flashed through me—a thousand moments crashing at once. My pulse raced; my chest squeezed tight. Panic mixed with a sensation of something intruding on my spirit, a strange pressure neither painful nor hostile.
I opened my eyes.
A ribbon of red light streamed out from my heart, looping lightly around my hand, threading its way into the crowd.
I blinked; the string didn't hurt, but its presence unsettled me.
Where the thread led, six faces appeared—older, their auras too loud to ignore. The very air around them seemed heavier, richer.
Suddenly, Lord Theodore's voice broke the awed silence:
"This is your fate string—the mark of goddess Astrelle's will. You seven are bound together; your journey toward power and authority begins now. When death claims one, the bond breaks—and the chance for the Crown ends there. Strengthen your bond, and you may gain unimaginable power. Choose poorly… and this thread becomes a lifelong curse."
His gaze settled coldly on me, each word ringing with warning. I wasn't welcome; I was simply tied to the group by Fluke, not belonging—yet.
Ishidore lingered, then vanished, leaving a drifting fragment of blue crystal sparkling in the air—a token of divine witness.
I stared at the six—mostly older, thirteen or fourteen, save for Keith and myself, the youngest at just nine. Their combined presence pressed down, each an unknown who would shape, or perhaps shatter, the destiny carried by the red string.
In that moment, the path ahead felt less like promise and more like peril.
The first figure, the one whose eyes I'd locked with while racing toward the portal—
He was striking, ethereal almost, with pale blond hair cascading in unruly waves that caught every shimmer of light. His face was sharp and handsome, cut with delicate, almost aristocratic lines: a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth set in a perfect, enigmatic calm.
But it was his eyes that held me: cool, silvery-blue—ancient and knowing, as if they could cut straight through my heart. Confidence flickered there, but no warmth. He didn't move, didn't blink; his expression barely changed, unfazed by victory or defeat. He watched, and it felt like being measured by destiny itself.
Suddenly, something clinked by my boot—a coin flashing with the symbol of fire.
I followed its arc, and my gaze landed on the second figure: Keith—the mad dog of the dome, the red-haired bastard whose flames devoured his opponents.
Keith stood out at once, a wild contrast to the others. His hair was a mess of bright red, spiked in all directions and impossible to ignore. At around fifteen, his sharp chin and mischievous jaw hinted at youthful defiance. His golden eyes sparkled with reckless energy—confident, daring, and always ready for trouble. Even seated, his every movement and cocky grin showed he wasn't afraid of anything or anyone.
His mouth lifted into an arrogant smile, taunting as he leaned closer.
"So you finally survived, Miss Rabbit," Keith drawled, voice lazy but laced with amusement. He clapped his hands, mock applause echoing over the arena, and the grin that spread across his lips made my bruises itch.
"Your terrible struggle looks terribly funny. Entertain me a bit more, would you? Until we meet again—try not to die."
With a bold little bow and another flashing smile, Keith vanished into the crowd, leaving the mocking laughter hanging in the charged air.
Michael vanished without a word, slipping away as quietly as a shadow at dusk. He didn't spare me a glance—not a single flicker of those dark, melancholy eyes in my direction. It was as if he hadn't seen me at all, or chose not to.
Only in that fleeting instant as he left did my gaze catch him properly—a pale, withdrawn figure whose indifference hung around him like mist. Black hair framed his delicate face, unreadable and untouched by the chaos unfolding around us. For a heartbeat, I saw the enigma he carried: a boy never moved by victory or defeat, a mystery walking between worlds.
Then he was gone, as if he'd never really been there at all.