Chapter 11
"Mama, what's a Co-lo-see-um?" Elyra asked, her blue gaze drifting thoughtfully toward the cluster of murmuring warriors still lingering across the hall.
I never heard about it back then, Elyra thought to herself.
Before Elina could offer an explanation, Eldern chimed in, his young voice ringing with casual certainty. "The Colosseum is the greatest warrior tournament in the Kingdom of Neltan," he stated, his small fingers adjusting his collar. "It is held once every two years."
Elyra's blinking slowed, her wide eyes reflecting a genuine, childlike innocence. "Evwy two years?"
Eldern nodded. "Every warrior in the kingdom has the right to enter. But only the absolute survivors of the regional selection battles earn the privilege to compete in the main arena at the capital."
Elina folded her arms lightly over her formal gown. "And the winner becomes famous throughout the entire realm."
"More than just famous," Eldern replied, his tone shifting into something heavier, far more mature than his five years had any right to sound. "The champion of the Colosseum earns the ultimate right: to challenge one of the Ten Strongest Warriors."
Elyra tilted her head, her curiosity genuine. "Any of dem?"
"Yes," Eldern answered. "They may challenge Number One, Number Four, Number Ten... or any seat they believe they possess the strength to overcome." He paused, a shadow of pragmatism crossing his features. "Though almost everyone always chooses Number Ten."
"Why?"
"Because it is the only realistic path," Eldern explained smoothly. "The Strongest Warriors are monsters among men. Every single one of them was once a Colosseum Champion in their own right. Reaching their tier is already considered a near-impossible feat."
Elina's green eyes narrowed slightly as she followed his logic. "And if the champion actually defeats one of them?"
Eldern slowly shook his head. "That has never happened."
Elyra blinked, surprised. "Never?"
"Never," Eldern repeated. "Not a single Colosseum Champion in history has successfully wrested a seat away from a sitting Strongest Warrior."
The sheer weight of that truth hung in the air, temporarily silencing even Elyra's sharp inner monologue. So Damnern was once a Colosseum champion? No wonder he beat me so easily... she muttered bitterly to herself, the terrifying memory of that past defeat replaying in her mind like a recurring nightmare that refused to die. A Strongest Warrior was a calamity walking in human skin.
"Then why bother challenging them at all?" she whispered.
"Because it is the only way to join their ranks," Eldern answered. He paused briefly, choosing his next words with care. "If a challenger manages to defeat—or even fight to a dead standstill against—the Strongest Warrior they targeted, the remaining members of the Ten convene to judge the bout."
"Judge?"
Eldern nodded. "They evaluate whether the challenger possesses the true caliber to stand among them. If the other Strongest Warriors grant their unanimous acknowledgment, His Majesty, King Arveth Neltan, officially ratifies the appointment and awards them the seat."
Understanding finally dawned across Elyra's face. "So da odder Strongest Warriors gotta agree?"
"Exactly," Eldern said. "Because becoming a Strongest Warrior isn't simply about luck or winning a single tournament brawl. It means being universally recognized as one of the pillars protecting the kingdom." His gaze drifted slowly toward the vacant space where Damnern had stood moments prior. "But this time... everything changes."
Elina caught the implication instantly. "The empty seat."
Eldern nodded, a flicker of raw excitement catching in his eyes. "Yes. Papa's retirement has left one of the Ten seats completely open." A low, thrilled note entered his voice. "That means the next Colosseum Champion won't necessarily have to defeat a reigning Strongest Warrior outright. If they can push one of them to their absolute limits, survive, and earn the peer review of the rest, that vacant seat is theirs for the taking."
Elyra glanced around, suddenly acutely aware of the feverish tension vibrating through the surrounding nobles and fighters. "So dat's why everyone looks like a pack of wolves?"
"Precisely." Eldern offered a faint, knowing smile. "This upcoming Colosseum will be unlike any tournament the kingdom has ever seen." His eyes sharpened into pinpricks of intense focus. "Every ambitious blade in Neltan will enter, desperate to claim what Damnern left behind."
Elina exhaled a long, measured breath. "In other words... a civil war disguised as a tournament."
Eldern chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not a war." His smile widened just a fraction. "Something far more violent."
A brief, heavy silence settled between them before Eldern looked back down at Elyra. "So remember this. The Colosseum does not merely decide who is strong." His expression hardened into absolute resolve. "It decides who is worthy of carrying the weight of Neltan." He puffed out his small chest slightly. "...And one day, Eldern will be one of them."
Elyra stared at the boy in stunned silence. The longer he spoke, the harder it was to reconcile his towering intellect with his physical age of five years old. The fluid way he dissected martial politics, institutional traditions, and historical precedent sounded less like a child regurgitating nursery rhymes and more like a seasoned statesman lecturing at a royal academy.
A strange, surreal warmth pooled in her chest. Then, unbidden, a specific memory surfaced from the depths of her mind. "Elyra, come listen to me read this!" Eldern had shouted excitedly a few months ago, proudly dragging a heavy, leather-bound tome across the floor. At the time, she had lazily assumed it was just another illustrated children's fable. Instead, when he flipped it open, she discovered it was a dense, unabridged volume of continental political history. She could still vividly remember her shock as he cheerfully rattled off the geopolitical structures of the six great empires—"This world is ruled by six great kingdoms—Neltan, Nor—"
Before he could finish, Elina had rushed over in a panic. "Eldern, if you're going to read to Elyra, please pick a proper book," Elina had scolded gently, though her eyes had betrayed fond amusement. "She's far too young for historical chronicles."
Truth be told, Elyra had actually been utterly fascinated listening to him drone on. But Elina, desperate to preserve some semblance of a normal childhood for her son, had quickly whisked the academic text away in favor of a picture book about talking rabbits.
Looking back now, it all clicked into place. Of course he knew all of this. He moved through the world with an effortless brilliance, entirely oblivious to how deeply abnormal his genius truly was.
A genuine, softening smile touched the edges of Elyra's lips. No matter how many times she witnessed it, she still found herself utterly baffled. Eldern really was a monster of a genius.
As the grand investiture ceremony finally drew to a close, the cavernous hall of the Neltan Palace remained thick with lingering awe and subdued murmurs. Aristocrats and high-ranking officials began stepping forward in an orderly queue to offer their formal congratulations to the newly minted Count. Some bowed with spine-stiffening reverence, fully acknowledging the immense political weight carried by Willowess's new master, while others masked their bitter envy behind polished, diplomatic smiles, still struggling to digest the sudden rise of the Solv household.
Damnern stood like a monolith, receiving each greeting with his characteristic, unflappable calm. Beside him, Elina moved through the sea of silk and jewels with effortless grace, engaging in light, calculated dialogue with the noble matriarchs. Though her voice remained soft, there was an unmistakable aura of quiet authority radiating from her—she no longer looked like an outsider peering into high society, but a woman born to anchor it. A few senior duchesses even murmured their quiet approval, noting that her composure would make her an exemplary Countess.
News of Damnern's elevation spread through the sprawling capital with the devastating velocity of a wildfire. Within the hour, royal runners and administrative scribes had carried the decree across every quadrant of the palace. Courtiers whispered the news in hushed, disbelieving tones; sentinels exchanged tense glances at their posts; and ambitious merchants scrambled to update their ledgers to reflect the sudden tectonic shift in Neltan's nobility.
When the final round of formal pleasantries concluded, the heavy atmosphere shifted toward departure. A formation of ten elite silver-plated palace guards waited just beyond the grand portico, their armor gleaming beneath the dying embers of the sunset. Their presence was rigid, disciplined, and utterly lethal, assigned to escort the newly established Count and his family back to their sovereign territory.
Only one notable figure was missing from the departing detail. The Fourth Strongest Warrior, Rayyan Bartos, was nowhere to be seen, having already retreated ahead of them.
"It's time to go home," Eldern announced quietly, turning toward Elyra with a soft, reassuring smile.
Flanked by their elite escort, the family moved in unison down the sprawling, pillar-lined corridors. Their footsteps echoed softly against the pristine marble, slowly fading into the quiet grandeur of the Neltan Palace. Outside, the carriage stood ready beneath the evening sky, its polished wooden frame catching the cool, crisp wind of the capital—ready to carry them back to Willowess.
Back to the land that marked the true dawn of Count Damnern's legacy, and the unpredictable, blood-soaked future waiting just beyond the horizon.
To be Continued...