The night before the second match, the House of Nūr's camp lay in silence, except for the low hum of magical wards Shaia was weaving in the air. Nael stood at the edge of their boundary, gazing into the desert's darkness. He could feel something watching — not just the Hollow Flame, but something deeper.
He touched his eye again.
Golden-white. Like a sun on the verge of collapse.
Inside the tent, Rayyan meditated, hands on his knees, his white-blue eye glowing faintly under the shadows of flickering candlelight. Unlike Nael's, his eye never activated from emotion — it required alignment. A calm mind. A just cause. Only when he acted for others.
He whispered, "Guide me, Mother… let me not burn what I swore to protect."
---
The Arena of Silence
The next morning, the battleground was different. The arena was made of black stone, circular, and surrounded by murals of warriors kneeling in ash. No crowds, no cheers. Just priests and recorders. The Hollow Flame allowed no noise in their matches.
Their enemies arrived in total silence. White-robed, barefoot, with tattoos of closed eyes on their foreheads. Their leader wore no armor — only a single pendant shaped like a charred feather.
The match began with no horn.
No war cry.
Only motion.
The Hollow Flame moved like ghosts. No anger. No breath.
Shaia was the first to cry out, "Don't speak! They feed off sound!"
But it was too late. Zafir grunted in pain, silenced mid-charge, his blade caught in a field of warped air. His thoughts became sluggish. He was drowning in stillness.
Sabrin leapt forward, spinning daggers drawn, but one of the monks caught her mid-air without touching her — locking her in place with a finger raised in silence.
---
The Brothers Awaken
Nael's body tensed. His heartbeat echoed like a drum inside him. This silence isn't holy... it's control.
A burning sensation crawled from behind his eye.
He clenched his fist — and light erupted from his iris, golden-white, shimmering like a dying star.
He screamed — and the scream shattered the monk's hold.
Glass cracked.
Stone bent.
Rayyan moved instantly. His white-blue eye flickered with calm intensity. But he didn't attack.
Instead, he walked forward, hands open, assessing the field like a prophet surveying ruin.
One of the monks raised his palm toward him — and that's when Rayyan thought.
He thought of justice. Of mercy. Of protecting Zafir's life, even if it meant taking another.
That was enough.
The blue in his eye surged, brightening into a near-divine hue, and he whispered, "This is not judgment. This is preservation."
A wave of divine light burst forth from him, pure and soundless. It didn't destroy — it restored.
Zafir gasped, freed from the pressure. Sabrin dropped, landing safely on her feet.
The Hollow Flame staggered.
The silence broke.
And the monks began to scream — not in fear, but in voices stolen from souls they'd once silenced.
---
Aftermath
The High Priests halted the match before blood was shed. The Hollow Flame leader bowed — not in defeat, but in recognition.
"You are not sons of mortals," he said, breaking his order's ancient vow of silence. "You carry what the world has tried to bury. One born of light — yet touched by fire. One born of balance — but kissed by divinity."
Nael and Rayyan stood side by side.
Their eyes glowed in harmony.
And somewhere in the shadows, a figure with horns watched — cloaked in gray ash, smiling.
"He loves his father," the figure whispered. "But he does not know me."
---
Post Credit - Chapter 15: The Forbidden Tomb