Vyrrak is looking at the main box, seeing the Headmaster turning his back to the guests that are there--including King Skaernex, Vyrrak's father. The Headmaster steps forward and into the roofless part of the box, waving at the entire arena. At first, not many notice the man, but then, the entire arena suddenly dies out.

  The noise of the arena, a chaotic symphony of shouting students and the murmurs of thousands of spectators, dies instantly.

  “Welcome,” the Headmaster says. His voice resonates and propagates to everybody as if he was speaking barely a few feet in front of them. “Welcome to the end of the beginning.”

  He sweeps his gaze across the sea of faces—Elves, Dwarves, Humans, Infernals, and Dragonkin alike. He pauses on Vyrrak for a few instants longer than everybody else.

  His words sound so ominous, but then he suddenly smiles.

  "I'm joking, I'm joking," he smiles to himself. "This is barely the beginning. I see that many of you suffered through the first six months, endured very demanding courses and Quests. I must recognize your efforts as something that not just about everyone could have put forth."

  The Headmaster lets the silence linger for a few heartbeats longer.

  “You are here because you survived,” he says. “That alone places you above many who came before you.”

  A few nervous chuckles ripple through the stands. Some students straighten in their seats. Others swallow.

  “This tournament exists for a simple reason,” the Headmaster continues. “Potential means nothing unless it is tested. Effort means nothing unless it is measured. Today, we measure both.”

  His eyes shift back to the arena floor. “You will be ranked. You will be compared. Some of you will be disappointed. Some of you will be surprised.”

  He raises a finger. “And a very small number of you will be reminded why the title of Champion exists at all.”

  A murmur spreads at that. Heads turn. Many glance toward the top bleachers.

  The Headmaster’s smile softens. “Do not mistake this for cruelty. Ranking is not punishment. It is clarity. It tells you where you stand, and whether you have the will to climb.”

  He folds his hands behind his back.

  “Fight well. Fight honestly. The first part of the Trial is very simple: we'll conduct a one on one based on randomly extracted contenders. It might be surprising to you, but this means that we might see a few surprises even in the first round!"

  "Vice Principal John will explain the rules of the fighting next," the Headmaster says. Then, he steps back from the edge of the box. “Let the first round of the tournament begin.”

  * * *

  Vyrrak sees Vice Principal John stepping forward as the Headmaster retreats into the box, leaving to the Vice Principal the stage.

  Vice Principal John is even less conspicuous of a person than the Headmaster. His voice doesn't carry quite as easily to everybody, but it's still incredibly audible without carrying any direct-amplification effect.

  “The rules are simple,” he says. “You will fight until surrender, incapacitation, or removal by the referees. Killing is forbidden. Everything else is permitted. As asked by many each year, crippling somebody is not forbidden, but careful--you might ruin your own reputation for a stupid grudge.”

  That earns a ripple of unease.

  “Matches will take place on multiple platforms,” John continues. “You will be called by name. If you do not answer, you forfeit.”

  He gestures toward the arena floor. Runes ignite along the stone, drawing clear boundaries. The ground shifts slightly, reshaping itself into several identical stages.

  “Healers are on standby,” John says.

  With that, he steps back.

  A pause follows. Then a crystal above the arena flares to life.

  “First match,” a neutral voice announces.

  Names appear in light.

  Students hold their breath.

  Vyrrak barely glances at the display. His focus drifts instead to the entrances again. Still no sign of Jacob. No sign of Dark Champions.

  The crowd begins to cheer as two first-years step onto one of the platforms.

  * * *

  Queen Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal looks at The Sacrifice in disgust. They're outside the arena, inside a sphere of invisibility generated by the Queen herself. The Sacrifice is on one knee, looking at her feet.

  "Where were you when she escaped?"

  "Your Majesty, I was busy gathering information," The Sacrifice lies. In reality, he had been teaching Cecilia. But he's not revealing that detail to the woman in front of him. He knows just how insanely mad she must be that Iskara fled. Yet, they have no idea where, exactly, the Infernal Princess has gone. The Sacrifice has tried gathering intel, but there's absolutely nothing anyone knows, not even her own Squires, all of whom have been jailed and interrogated. But it has appeared very soon that whatever Iskara has done, she's done alone.

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  "Your incompetence is becoming a habit," Maelthra hisses, her voice vibrating with a low growl that seems to drop the temperature within the invisibility sphere. She turns her gaze away from him, looking through the magical barrier at the distant cheering crowd's noise of the arena with utter contempt.

  Yet, Maelthra knows that being angry at her slave makes no sense at the moment. He cannot lie to her and is forced to reveal everything to her.

  "My daughter flees my command, she becomes insubordinate. Yet, she does not take refuge under the wing of that bastard of an Headmaster," Maelthra hisses. "Sacrifice, where do you think she must have gone? Who is so brazen to help her?"

  The Sacrifice has an answer, but he knows what the Queen's reaction is going to be to it.

  "Your Majesty, this lowly slave does not dare say. It is a rather unexpected development."

  "Unexpected?" Maelthra spins around, her robes whipping like a tail. She steps closer, looming over him. "She shouldn't have the capacity to mask a cough from me, let alone her soul signature. Tell me what you think, now."

  The Queen pushes on the series of oaths that have been made, speaking the last sentence in the Devils' tongue. She leans down, her face inches from his. Her eyes are slits of molten gold, burning with a mix of paranoia and rage.

  He does not raise his head to meet her gaze and simply says in a measured tone, "Princess Iskara most likely followed in the wake of her late brother."

  He feels the ground tremble as the Queen is struck by those words like a physical blow and takes several steps back.

  "You... you don't mean to say... Speak your mind clearly!" Once again, Queen Maelthra relies on the Devils' tongue.

  "I fear that Princess Iskara joined the Cult of Asmodeus. That is the most likely option she had. Champions have been approached by Dark Champions--I have confirmed this myself."

  Queen Matriarch Maelthra walks up to The Sacrifice and suddenly grabs him by his neck, lifting him off the ground.

  The Sacrifice doesn't flinch. He doesn't blink. He simply holds her gaze with the dead, empty look of a broken servant.

  The Queen’s grip tightens.

  For a moment, it seems as if she might tear his head from his shoulders and be done with it. The air inside the sphere warps.

  “Joined,” Maelthra says slowly. “My daughter joined them.”

  The Sacrifice does not answer. He cannot.

  Maelthra bares her teeth. Not in a smile.

  “Asmodeus,” she whispers. The name carries weight, old and bitter. “That filth dares to touch my blood again.”

  She releases him without warning. The Sacrifice drops back to one knee, catching himself on the stone but making no sound. He remains still, head bowed.

  “If this is true,” Maelthra says, pacing now, “then she has declared war on more than me.”

  Then, she turns back to her slave.

  "If the Dark Champions are coming to battle the Champions, my daughter must be coming as well. Without the protection of the Headmaster, I truly wonder what kind of powers she thinks will protect her."

  "Your Majesty--"

  Suddenly, The Sacrifice finds himself belly up on the ground, his head ringing and part of the bones of his face cracked.

  Maelthra stands over him, her foot pressing against his chest. The force pins him in place as if the ground itself has turned solid around him.

  “Do not interrupt me,” she says with hate filling her words.

  The Sacrifice forces the pain down. He does not clutch his face. He does not cry out. He waits.

  “If she truly walks among the Dark Champions,” Maelthra continues, “then, this must be Jacob Cloud's fault."

  She presses the heel of her boot on his face, making his jaw scream in pain.

  Yet, it does not bother him. He's used to this. He has no qualms with this kind of treatment. Not anymore.

  Yet, it does not bother him. He learned long ago how to let pain pass through him without leaving a mark. His body reacts, but his mind stays distant, detached, as if the suffering belongs to someone else.

  There was a time when blows like this would have filled him with fear, or anger, or shame. That time is gone. Those emotions were burned out of him, layer by layer, until only obedience remained.

  If anything, The Sacrifice relishes this pain. He's proud of it. Because he knows that it's not going to be long before he's able to deliver the same kind of pain onto someone else. Then, why be ashamed, why hate it? He's just a one of many communicating vessels. All this pain and humiliation he's receiving, he's just about to pass it onto someone: he can feel it on his skin, Queen Maelthra is about to give him the order.

  Maelthra leans closer, her shadow swallowing him whole.

  “That human poisons everything he touches,” she says. “My son. My daughter. Champions. Even fate itself bends wrong around him.”

  “Jacob Cloud interferes where he should not,” Maelthra continues. “He survives where he should have broken. And now my daughter follows the same path as her brother.”

  Her fingers curl slowly, nails biting into her palm. “I will not allow it.”

  Her foot lifts. The pressure vanishes.

  “Get up and look at me.”

  The Sacrifice rises at once, blood running from the corner of his mouth.

  He does not wipe the blood away. He does not straighten his posture beyond what is required. He simply looks at her, eyes dull and steady.

  Maelthra studies him in silence. Not with anger now, but with calculation.

  She steps closer, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from her skin.

  “I think you're bound to enter the arena with him,” Maelthra says, each word slow and deliberate, “and the moment you do. They won't have enough time to intervene. As soon as you're facing Jacob Cloud in the arena, you will kill him.”

  The last sentence is spoken in the language of Devils.

  The Sacrifice nods once.

  The Sacrifice does not hesitate.

  “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  "I regret that we cannot make him suffer more and that we'll have to throw your life away like this. But you served me well so far. You're a much better slave than your bitch dead sister."

  The Sacrifice doesn't show any emotion on his face and nods.

  "I am glad I could be of use."

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