Gaël froze.
The air felt heavy, sticky, as if each breath crushed him under an invisible weight. His breathing, short and erratic, betrayed the tension that paralyzed his body. His heart, a war drum locked inside his chest, pounded in a frantic rhythm, screaming the urgency of a choice he wasn't ready to make.
In front of him, Elioth offered himself to the edge of his blade.
The man, towering and battle-scarred, was kneeling. His neck stretched out in offering, his features marked with a chilling ecstasy, as if welcoming death with the fervor of a disciple finally finding deliverance.
The entire arena held its breath.
A leaden silence reigned, taut as a bowstring about to snap. The spectators, a sea of shadows and faces twisted by bloodlust, waited without a sound. Only their eyes glimmered in the darkness, hungry, famished.
From the stands, Brann watched.
Impassive. Silent.
His presence was an unbreachable wall, a sentence hanging above Gaël. He gave no order, no advice, yet everything in his gray, steel-cold gaze told Gaël there was only one outcome.
'Kill him? Spare him?'
The weight of the choice crashed down on Gaël like a mountain collapsing onto his shoulders. His tense body trembled under the pressure, but he knew one thing: he wasn't here to hesitate. He was here to win. To prove himself worthy of the path he had chosen.
He was following Brann's path.
He was walking the Way of the Severance.
One more step, one deeper breath. He closed his eyes for a moment.
And everything seemed to align within him. The arena's clamor, the shouts, even his own frenzied heart, all faded, swallowed by a crystalline silence.
'I've already made this choice. I've already decided!'
His hesitation evaporated like mist chased away by the dawn. His fingers, clenched tight around his weapon's hilt, stopped trembling. His arm steadied. This was no longer a decision. It was certainty.
'It's not about killing or sparing. It's not about winning or losing. It's about cutting.'
The intention crystallized within him, an invisible blade forged in his mind.
He raised his sword… and cut.
A metallic hiss split the air, a whisper before the storm.
The strike landed clean and effortless. Elioth toppled forward, his body thudding against the ground with a dull sound. His head rolled slowly across the blackened sand of the arena, tracing a scarlet line in its wake. A geyser of blood erupted, lit up by the flickering torches.
The clammy heat of the liquid hit him full force. His chest. His face. His lips.
The acrid taste of iron filled his mouth, a bitterness so harsh it twisted his stomach.
Gaël staggered, breath ragged, and collapsed to his knees.
The world spun around him, but he had done it. Again.He had chosen to cut. And strangely, it wasn't any easier the second time.
'Why? Is this all there is to cutting?'
One heartbeat, two, then the arena erupted.
Thousands of voices surged into a primal roar, a torrent of screams and howls. Fists slammed against the iron bars, gamblers shouted their triumph or ruin. The crowd reveled in the execution, a wild tide screaming for more blood, more violence.
Gaël barely heard any of it.
His hand was still clutching his weapon. His blade was red.
A shiver of horror coursed through him, running down his spine, chased by an insidious pulse, an odd intoxication. Something inside him vibrated, a new resonance between his body and the steel.
'Is this what it means, to draw closer to the Severance? Is this it, Brann?'
He understood a little more now.
Walking the Way of the Severance wasn't just about wielding a blade. It was about becoming the edge of the sword. Being the one who cuts. The one who decides. The one who exists by the cut, and for the cut.
_ _ _
In the elevated stands, hidden behind a wall of darkened glass, a figure watched the scene with icy focus. The chair where he sat, broad and carved from blackened wood with obsidian glints, reigned at the center of a luxurious space reserved for those pulling the strings behind the arena.
The man, draped in a deep purple cloak, lightly brushed the edge of his armrest with his fingertips, a mechanical, absent gesture, while his eyes pierced through the surface of the battle below with the precision of a predator on the hunt.
At his side, a woman had approached. Her stride, smooth and measured, was that of a panther ready to pounce. She was breathtakingly beautiful, but he knew that beneath her delicate features lurked an insidious threat, sharper than the blades wielded by the fighters below.
"Maera, you will not challenge Brann today."
His voice was a whisper of steel, a razor's edge that allowed no argument.
The young woman froze, her golden eyes flaring with a flash of frustration.
"What? But you promised me..."
"The plans have changed."
He hadn't raised his voice, but the weight of his words crashed down on her like an invisible hand tightening around a too-fragile throat.
Maera clenched her fists, her breath quickening with barely restrained anger.
"Why? I've trained for this, facing him can open me to the path of the Severance."
At last, the man turned his gaze to her. A shadow flickered across his expression, fleeting, imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him.
"Another time. We may need him, and I need you."
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the din of the arena. The roar of the crowd, the bloody cheers, it all seemed trivial compared to the tension filling the room.
Maera held his gaze for a heartbeat, then looked away, exasperated.
"Tch. Do as you wish. But don't think I'll stay on the sidelines forever."
With a sharp turn, she pivoted on her heel, her footsteps echoing against the marble floor as she vanished into the shadows of the private lounge.
The man turned his attention back to the arena, where Gaël, still on his knees, was staring at his bloodstained blade.
"An interesting boy… the swordbrothers holds such fascinating secrets. Brann, Brann, it's been so long…"
An imperceptible smile brushed his lips.
_ _ _
Gaël struggled to catch his breath. Every inhale felt heavy, every gulp of air thick with dust and rusted iron, scraping his throat like an invisible blade. His muscles, stiff from exertion, still quivered with the adrenaline of battle.
He had cut. He had decided.Yet an insidious shadow coiled within him, winding around his mind like a serpent whispering in his ear.
'Had he made the right choice?'
Slowly, he lifted his head.The entire arena rumbled, a human sea drunk on blood and violence, screaming his name in a storm of frenzy and fervor. The noise reached him like a distant echo, muffled by the feverish buzzing pounding in his skull.
His fingers remained locked around the hilt of his sword. He couldn't let go.
Then, the air shifted.
An invisible ripple slid down his spine, a subtle yet relentless shiver. Instinct, honed by months of fighting and survival, sent a silent warning through his veins. Something had entered the arena.
Someone.
A figure approached, footsteps whispering over the blackened sand. The stride was slow, controlled, radiating a confidence that left no room for doubt.
Maera the Sanguine.
Her burning amber gaze lingered on him with a flicker of amusement, laced with a faint trace of barely veiled frustration.
"Well…" she murmured, stopping in front of him, a predatory smile flashing rows of white teeth.
She studied him for a long moment, golden eyes drinking in every detail of his sweat- and blood-soaked body. In those eyes danced an insatiable gleam, the look of a predator assessing prey that had just survived the trial by fire.
'Is she going to attack me?'
Gaël tightened his grip on his weapon. The tension between them crackled in the air, stretched tight like a wire about to snap.
But no. She wouldn't fight him. He wasn't her target.
He saw it in the sly curve of her lips, in the way she tilted her head slightly, as if evaluating a freshly forged blade.
"So this is what a heir of Brann looks like?"
She let the words hang in the air, her eyes locking onto his, daring him.
Gaël felt his heart slam against his ribs.This woman didn't even see him as an opponent. She wanted Brann.
He clenched his teeth. The arena was his trial, his moment. He wasn't here to be measured against someone else.
Maera seemed to catch his agitation, and her smile widened.
"You didn't disappoint me."
She stepped closer, leaning in slightly.
"And I think you've earned the crowd's favor…"
Her slender fingers brushed his chin in a fleeting gesture before she stepped back.
"Valérian is pleased. You'll get to meet him."