To First Blood

The Devanic Coliseum dominated the horizon like a giant of stone.

Beneath the pale morning sky, its stands already roared with the murmur of hundreds of voices, the steady rhythm of drums marking the event’s beginning. At its center, the circular arena resembled a hollow eye awaiting spectacle, the sands swept clean for battle.

Daniel arrived at Lord Juncuso’s private box moments before the first trumpet blasts signaled the start of the day’s contests. The traveler from another world wore elegant attire, adapted to the warmth of Castra Devana’s summer climate.

A long black wool coat with silver buttons, high collar, and narrow sleeves; beneath it, a dark gray waistcoat and a white linen shirt with a stiff collar and discreet cuff links. Black trousers fastened into polished leather boots completed the ensemble. No extravagance, yet refined enough to stand out among the crowd.

At his side, Lais Ambrosio played the role of bodyguard for the day. The magus had set aside her usual dresses for practical clothing: dark trousers, knee-high boots, and a light overcoat with hidden inner pockets, its sleeves rolled to allow quick access to the runic bracelet at her wrist.

Lord Juncuso, in contrast, seemed intent on presenting himself as a respectable, traditional aristocrat of Ordinem Finis — mindful, perhaps, of the coming elections. He wore his finest white tunic with a purple sash draped from shoulder to waist, secured by a gold brooch. A broad toga fell over it in heavy folds, and the crimson mantle carried the embroidered crest of his house in gold thread. Leather sandals with perfectly aligned straps completed the senator’s appearance.

His private box occupied a prime spot in the Coliseum’s eastern wing. Polished marble floors, columns carved with scenes of military triumph, and deep-red curtains shielding guests from the sun gave the space its air of wealth and status. Cushioned seats surrounded a low table of dark wood laden with wine jugs and a platter of fruit. A colorful mosaic on the floor depicted legendary champions slaying mythological beasts.

As Daniel entered, Juncuso raised an eyebrow at the sight of Lais.

“You’ve changed your guard, Master de Lio?” the candidate for consul asked, his voice calm but tinged with suspicion.

“Sallustia will fight today” Daniel explained, taking a seat on a cushion beside Juncuso and lowering his voice. “At Notibus Ravia’s request. We’re losing ground in the Outer Ring, and today’s duel will serve as a message to Prebito.”

Juncuso nodded slowly.

“And I suppose those aren’t your only pieces of bad news?” he asked darkly.

Daniel shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the arena below, his voice dropping even lower.

“Do you remember the witch we saw in the First Citizen’s private box? On debate day?”

“Yes” Juncuso frowned, sifting through his memory. “Madame… Umbra, was it? What of her?”

To introduce the subject, Daniel recounted what Lais had explained to him at Tinuso: that no magus was permitted to wield more than one or two thaumaturgic foci without risking aether instability. The Lord Cohortes showed no surprise.

“I am, of course, familiar with the matter” he replied evenly. “I simply chose not to delve into the legal frameworks of aetheric research during your training. I doubted it would serve much practical value.”

“I’m not questioning your methods, Juncuso” Daniel answered, his expression grim. “What I am saying is that Madame Umbra wasn’t merely wielding multiple foci — she was employing True Exchange. Lais witnessed it clearly, and we’re certain now that the Swords’ rituals and killings aren’t isolated acts.”

“We’ve lost good allies this past week” the lord muttered bitterly. “Old friends of the Coins party, and of the Convergence as well… I suppose they already suspect the two are linked.”

Lais had remained silent until then, watching Lord Juncuso with unusual intensity.

“It’s an honor to meet you in person, my lord” she said finally, her voice carrying unexpected warmth, her usually cold eyes softening as they met his. “I’ve read all your treatises on Advanced Thaumaturgiae. Your work is essential for any magus wishing to survive the manipulation of the invisible. I never thought I’d see you here, so close…”

The senator lifted his chin, pride glinting in his gaze. A faint smile curved his austere features — subtle vanity from a man unused to open admiration, savoring the recognition of decades of scholarship. Perhaps it was only intellectual pride, but Daniel noticed how Juncuso’s eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary upon the magus before answering.

“I’m pleased to know my research has served your studies” he said, his voice lowering slightly, almost confidential. “It is a pleasure to meet someone with your… brilliance, my lady.”

“If the two of you could leave the pleasantries for later” Daniel interjected, patience thinning, “we have an empire to save. Returning to the point: Umbra seems to be trying to open rifts — blessures — to whatever lies beyond the Aether Veil.”

The senator rested his hands on the arms of his chair, eyes narrowing.

“If your enchanting bodyguard Lais is correct, then the Swords are not merely dabbling with forbidden forces. They’re calling to them. Deliberately.”

Daniel nodded.

“And we’ve not yet reached the most important matter.”

“There’s more?” Juncuso asked, startled.

The roar of the crowd rolled over them on the wind. Then Daniel met the senator’s eyes with a calm that felt heavy, as if weighing each word before speaking.

“I sought out the King of Beggars…”

“The monarch of the gutters? I’ve heard he’s a gang leader from the Outer Ring.”

“He’s more than that. There’s something you need to know” Daniel said, lowering his voice to a near whisper and beckoning Lais closer. He had intended to share this only once the others were ready, but decided both magi needed to hear it now. “And it does not leave this room. The King of Beggars is The Blind Truth.”

Juncuso frowned.

“One of the Nine of the Orthodoxy? Grace, you can’t be serious.”

“I am. But they’re not exactly what the Church claims. That… creature said they were ‘the ones who came before.’ They can’t cross over. Not yet. But perhaps that’s exactly what the Swords are trying to change — bringing back what no longer belongs to this world. According to what The Truth told me, the Burning Voice is no longer in Castra Devana as it should be. He wants to bring his people back.”

The senator fell silent for several long seconds, his gaze drifting toward the arena.

“If what you say is true… we’re not merely dealing with killers, but zealots willing to tear reality itself apart” Juncuso murmured at last. Then he added grimly, “I have no good news either. The First Citizen has disappeared.”

Daniel froze.

“Disappeared?”

“The Unconquered Sun Guard has searched for weeks. No trace.”

Grace felt his stomach sink. He thought of Sallustia — and how the slave-paladin would take the news that Sicario was missing.

“You think Prebito is involved?” the traveler asked quietly.

“I can’t say. But I wouldn’t rule it out. For now, it’s best to deal with him indirectly — until we know who’s moving the pieces.”

“Then hear this” Daniel said, drawing a steadying breath. “We’re seeking alliance with Lord Ciniana. Prebito has him cornered with blackmail, but I’m convinced we can turn him.”

“A wise move” Juncuso admitted. “Ciniana may be quiet in the Senate, but he’s the wealthiest aristocrat in the entire Empire.”

Daniel nodded.

“Beyond the ritual murders at the Docks warehouse, there were also the executions you mentioned — at the Middle Ring’s letter’s house. Soldiers were butchering our allies there. We witnessed it firsthand and fought those men who called themselves the Black Roses. Their leader, a man named Diabolus… even with Sallustia, we barely escaped alive. Two sites, both linked to Prebito. And both drenched in pointless bloodshed.”

Juncuso rubbed his temple.

“Diabolus and the Black Rose soldiers… Do you know where they came from?”

“No” Daniel admitted. “But I heard a name I believe ties to it all: Ultio Fatidica.”

The senator went quiet for a moment.

“Ultio Fatidica” he repeated slowly. “An ancient order. Enemies of the Convergence for over seven centuries. Their leader is Vel’Shaad, and some factions under his command bear the rose as their emblem.”

“Then this isn’t just Prebito” Daniel muttered. “There are far more actors in this play, all preferring to move behind the curtains.”

Juncuso’s brow furrowed deeply.

“There can be no coincidences in this, Daniel. And perhaps I have one more piece of news for you — since you’ve apparently spoken with the gods themselves. A relic has been stolen from the Celestial Sanctuary.”

“What kind of relic?” Daniel’s eyes narrowed.

The senator exhaled slowly, as though doubting his own words.

“Omnem. The God-Sword. The weapon of the Great Hero, kept since time immemorial by the Orthodoxy.”

Daniel fell silent, the distant roar of the crowd echoing through the private box. But before they could continue, the deep pounding of drums rose from the arena floor.

***

The Slender One entered the arena without fanfare.

A tall, lean frame with narrow shoulders and sharply defined muscles. Pale skin without a single scar. The face hidden behind a dark cloth mask covering nose and mouth, leaving only cold brown eyes exposed.

Black hair bound tightly in a low knot. A fitted black leather suit reinforced at shoulders and knees, yet free of rigid plates that might slow movement. Over it, a short black half-cloak split down the middle for mobility.

Linen wrappings covered the arms, concealing small hidden blades. Light, soft-soled boots made no sound. Up close, faint dark tattoos marked the backs of the hands and the side of the neck.

An erect posture. Precise, economical movements. Nothing wasted. Everything about the fighter spoke of calculated lethality.

Across the arena, Sallustia entered to raucous applause, well aware she needed to make an impression.

The slave-paladin wore the lightest of armor: a silver-plated metal bustier reinforced with curved plates shaped to her torso, strapped across the back and shoulders with leather ties. Below, a tasset of flexible plates fastened to a broad leather belt.

I swear if Grace dies before this mission ends, I’ll kill him myself for this, she thought bitterly.

Metal bracers covered her forearms, and greaves protected her shins to the knees, leaving her thighs bare. High, fitted boots offered speed and agility.

That day, she wore a silver ritual mask — an ornate piece covering her eyes entirely, its symmetrical leafwork converging on a teardrop-shaped crystal at the center. It clasped to the sides of her head, blending into her braided hair, the traditional mask of the slave-paladins.

Despite the light armor, Sallustia stood tall, determined — more strategy than spectacle.

As she strode to the arena’s center, she caught Daniel watching intently from the stands. Beside him, Juncuso leaned back, murmuring something under his breath.

The judge announced the rules: battle until surrender or incapacity. A drumbeat… and the fight began.

Sallustia raised her right hand, and the ground shuddered as violet lines flared before her, forming a glowing circle. From it, black chains spiraled upward, converging to a single point.

With a metallic crack, a colossal blade formed within the coils, its edge gleaming with purple fire. The chains snapped as Sallustia gripped the hilt, the weapon’s energy vanishing save for the embers glowing along its runes.

She charged first, the greatsword carving a shining arc. The Slender One slid aside with minimal motion, almost rehearsed.

The counter came instantly: three quick strikes from the hidden arm blades, all deflected by Sallustia’s sweeping sword.

Metal clanged. The crowd roared.

Healed by Ravia’s attendants, Sallustia fought at full strength now, no trace of Diabolus’s wound remaining.

She pressed the attack — high, low, alternating cuts driving her foe back. Yet the Slender One never blocked, only slipped aside at the last instant, gliding like a shadow.

Studying my movements. Like Vega said he had done…

She quickened her pace.

Heavy blows rained down, each one meant to break through. The Slender One countered with thrusts aimed at joints and vital points, but Sallustia’s blade met each strike with ringing sparks.

Then she inhaled slowly, lowered her stance, her sword’s tip trailing a slow arc through the sand. Shoulders hunched, weight shifting, posture shedding all formality for something feral, loose, rhythmic.

The first charge came fast — brutal. Her swing split the air, missing flesh but tearing the Slender One’s mask clean away.

The crowd gasped. The cloth fell.

Beneath it — a young woman’s face, sweat tracing her temples.

Sallustia hesitated. A single heartbeat too long.

A kick slammed into her knee, staggering her.

The Slender One struck with renewed speed, spinning cuts driving Sallustia back, one grazing her pauldron.

But Sallustia held.

With a shout, she unleashed a storm of wide, crushing blows, each forcing her opponent back step by step. The woman tried to counter, but Sallustia spun, blade carving across her chest in a spray of blood.

The arena erupted.

The Slender One stumbled, but Sallustia closed in, swordpoint at her throat.

Silence. The woman panted, defiant, but did not yield at once.

From the stands, Daniel exhaled slowly and spoke into Juncuso’s ear.

“Spare her,” the Coins Party leader’s voice boomed over the arena, amplified by thaumaturgy. “I want no needless deaths today. My champion has proven herself.”

Sallustia stepped back, dismissed the sword, and offered a hand to lift her fallen foe.

Some booed, hungry for blood. Others cheered the clean victory.

The Slender One accepted, brown eyes still cold — but now with the faintest glimmer of respect.

Either way, the message to Prebito’s allies had been delivered.