Tradegy

Blair walked with Mikrom along the Capital’s main avenue. Here—where the city breathed the loudest—Zeknier’s black standards waved like a constant shadow. Amid the merchants’ cries rose a colossal structure: the Imperial Coliseum, still scaffolded yet already as imposing as a stone cathedral.

Broad, brutal letters hung on planked boards:

“IMPERIAL TOURNAMENT. GOLD AND GLORY FOR THE CHAMPION. THE SLAVE OF LIGHT FOR SECOND PLACE.”

Blair’s face hardened as she read. A chill ran through her—not for the promise of gold, but for those last three words.

—It’s an insult —she said, low but edged with fury—. “The Slave of Light”… as if she were a trophy.

Mikrom, wearing his usual easy smile, studied the placard.
—Not an insult, cousin. It’s a trap.

Blair looked at him.
—A trap?

—Of course. Think about it. —Mikrom leaned in, dropping his voice—. Zeknier knows bearers won’t sit idle. If he offers a bearer as a prize, other bearers—and even other kingdoms—will feel compelled to move. The tournament isn’t just spectacle; it’s bait.

Blair clenched her fists.
—So… he wants to gather us.

—Exactly. —Mikrom smiled, but there was no joke in his tone—. He wants to measure us—who shows their face, who exposes themselves. And once they do, he’ll have a neat map of his enemies. What I don’t get is why he’d hand over a bearer. He must have something else in play we don’t know yet.

Blair fell silent. Zeknier’s plan was diabolical in its simplicity.

They headed to an improvised office where pre-registrations were being taken. A line of fighters of all ages snaked along: mercenaries, gladiators, farmhands with more muscle than sense.

From a lectern, a scribe shouted the requirements:

—All applicants must present valid identification from the Capital or one of the five kingdoms of Azoth! All applicants must pass the combat pre-selection, to be held tomorrow at dawn in the Eastern Square! The use of magical weapons is prohibited except those listed on the official roll!

Mikrom clicked his tongue.
—See? Even to die in the arena, there’s paperwork.

Blair didn’t smile. She was parsing every word.
—Then Asori…

—Exactly —Mikrom cut in—. He needs that ID. And more, if he enters, he can’t show the air.

Blair arched a brow.
—Why not?

Mikrom leaned closer, unusually serious.
—Because the Air Orb hasn’t had a bearer in a long time, and it’s known that few can fight with air using the Astral. If Zeknier sees it, he’ll know almost instantly who Asori is. And believe me, he won’t let him leave that arena alive—or that’s my read.

Blair swallowed.
—Then… how does he fight?

Mikrom eased back into a looser tone.
—Transformed. Let him lean on strength, tactics and endurance. Air stays secret until we have no choice—unless your boyfriend can use it so discreetly no one notices.

Blair lowered her gaze.
—What if he can’t…? What if he panics and uses it without thinking?

Mikrom met her eyes calmly.
—Then the plan falls apart. But relax—I’m pretty sure your boy will find a way to be discreet. With luck, he might even win.

They walked the quieter side streets. Market bustle mingled with the smell of fresh bread. Blair moved in silence, hood up. Mikrom watched her from the corner of his eye.

—You think about him a lot, don’t you?

—What? —Blair blinked, startled.

—Asori. —Mikrom smiled—. You can’t fool me, cousin. I’ve known you since you were little. You’ve never talked about anyone with that mix of anger and tenderness.

Blair flushed and looked away.

—It’s not that. It’s… complicated.

—Complicated? —Mikrom lifted a brow.

Blair’s fingers drifted to her lips, almost unconsciously.
—It’s just… I know he’s only my friend. Well, I kissed him once to save him and that led to us being bound by the Sweet Kiss, but when I’m with him… I feel strange. Sometimes I’m at peace. Sometimes he gets on my nerves with that sarcasm. And sometimes I can only see how I can be myself when he’s beside me.

Mikrom burst into loud laughter.

—HA! So that’s it. You like the brat.

—It’s not like that! —she protested, red as a flame—. He’s just… different. Asori doesn’t treat me like a princess, or a stranger. He looks at me as if I were… just Blair.

Mikrom softened.

—And that’s what you need.

For a moment, the silence was comfortable.

Trying to change the subject, Blair stopped at a stall selling honey-filled bread. The sweet smell filled her chest.

—Two, please —she said, a small smile on her lips.

The baker handed them over. Blair tucked them away carefully.

—I know you’re a glutton, but two for you? —Mikrom teased.

—For Asori. —Blair smiled, shy—. I want to surprise him.

The Sweet Kiss fluttered within. For an instant, she felt Asori happy and calm. It made her smile widen.

Mikrom noticed at once and couldn’t resist.
—Look at that… a goofy smile. Was it the night in that room? Or is your boyfriend just good for you?

Blair raised the bread to swat him.
—Asori and I haven’t done anything…! —Then last night flashed in her mind, how close their lips had come, and she became very flushed and nervous— You’re an idiot, Mikrom.

But then she stopped. The bond shifted in an instant.

Warmth vanished, replaced by an icy void.

Blair froze, eyes wide.
—Asori…

Mikrom dropped the jokes immediately.
—What is it?

—Something just… happened to him. Like the world collapsed on top of him.

Without waiting, they ran. Blair was led by the Sweet Kiss; Mikrom followed close, sword ready. They tore through streets, markets, alleys, until they burst into a side square.

And there they saw.

Asori knelt on the ground, cradling Lira’s small body. His face was empty, his hands smeared with blood, an apple rolling to one side.

Lira’s grandfather lay unconscious nearby, the vegetable stall in ruins.

Blair’s hand flew to her mouth, her heart tearing in two.
—No… it can’t be…

Mikrom’s jaw set; the roguish smile was gone.

Silence hit like a blow. Only the far-off weeping of the city remained, indifferent to the pain in that alley.

And there, with Lira dead in his arms, Asori’s heart cracked forever, leaving room for only one thought: vengeance.