Caelvir moved.
And so did his sword.
Not up.
Down.
It struck the sand like a meteor.
Dust flew high, bursting in a golden arc. The blade hit with such force that even the stone beneath seemed to groan.
Silence.
This time, true silence. Hollow. Cold.
Venara's lips parted slightly. Her chest froze mid-breath.
"What is he doing…" she whispered.
Then Caelvir raised his voice, cutting through the tension like a dagger.
"With all due respect, my Queen…" he said, his tone dipped in irony.
"I think you should find your knight elsewhere."
The words burned.
The guards reached for their blades.
Talen dropped to a knee, trembling. "A disgrace! Allow me to cut his tongue, Your Grace—!"
"Unspeakable!" Masquien hissed, rising now. "An offense unseen and unheard of! This must be punished!"
Faron barked, "To reject her majesty's hand? Madness!"
The crowd followed suit, their love turning to fury. Rotten fruit, cups, even boots hurled into the pit. Shouts:
"Disgrace!"
"Off with his head!"
"Tongue first!"
Venara sat motionless.
This… this wasn't the plan.
She had wanted him to reject the nobles. Not this.
Not the Queen…
And yet — had she not dreamed of Caelvir turning his back on all but her?
He had just done more than she imagined.
And it terrified her.
But before the chaos could spark fire, the Queen raised her hand.
Silence fell — not asked, but demanded.
"My lords, my ladies," Queen Selene said calmly, "and the honorable people of the realm…"
She turned her head gently.
"Our rules are sacred. Our tradition must be respected."
She smiled. Dignified. Dangerous.
"Are you suggesting we strip a man of the choice we gave him? The right to raise or lower his blade?"
No one answered.
She continued, voice clear and sure. "I am called Protector of the Realm — and so I protect not just borders, but the law. The custom. The sacred rites. That is my duty."
She turned to Caelvir, then.
"Your choice is respected in my kingdom."
She sat.
All the nobles bowed.
Talen muttered, "Very gracious, Your Grace…"
The crowd changed its chant. Praising the Queen now — her mercy, her justice. How gracious she was to allow such insult without rage.
Venara let out a breath.
A miracle.
Her investment was not lost.
And yet—
Her chest twisted. Not with fear. But frustration.
She had come to offer him her hand. But now?
If she stood, if she made him an offer now — it would be war. It would mean defying the Queen's authority. Claiming that her house could rival royalty.
A political insult.
A dangerous line to cross.
And yet…
Her throat tightened. Her thoughts turned not to politics, not to reputation — but to him. The man below. Still standing in the ring, sand swirling around his boots, a storm in his stance.
He had just done the impossible.
Rejected the Queen. Not politely. Not as a confused man unsure of court customs.
No. He had rejected with certainty. With fire. With finality.
The push of his blade into the earth had echoed like a drumbeat into every soul watching.
He had rejected something more than everything, she thought.
More than she ever dared hope.
And she?
She sat. Frozen. Powerless.
Guilt began to bloom.
She wanted to move. She wanted to stand.
She had told Elowen again and again — she wanted Caelvir to raise his sword for her. Not because it was his only option, but because he wanted to.
And when it came… Venara had been silent.
Her fists ached, balled tight beneath her gloves.
But Elowen leaned closer, whispering through the corner of her mouth, "Don't… my lady."
That quiet, knowing gaze. Elowen had served her since they were children. She had always understood Venara better than anyone else. Perhaps even better than Venara understood herself.
"I know what you're thinking," Elowen whispered again.
Venara turned slightly, just enough to catch her eyes.
"I won't stop you, you're the lady of the House Goldmere," Elowen said. "But if you do it now — the House will fall. Think of your father's legacy."
Venara didn't move.
And when Caelvir turned…
When he turned his head before walking away…
He didn't look at the Queen.
He didn't glance toward the crowd, or the announcer, or even the nobles jeering and throwing curses.
He looked up. Past them.
To her.
Venara felt the gaze before she saw it. Felt the burn of it crawl up her throat and settle behind her eyes.
His stare met hers, and in that moment — it felt as though the distance between them vanished.
There was no arena.
No blood.
No Queen.
Only her and a man drenched in blood.
She didn't stand. She didn't rise. She didn't say his name.
She watched him walk away.
Watched the back of his head move through the sandstorm of crowd's disgust and disbelief. Watched as his shoulders remained steady, as if he hadn't just tossed away everything.
No training.
No support.
No gear.
No sigil.
No name.
He had thrown away everything a Dust-born could hope for — and walked off.
Venara's heart slammed into her ribs. She hated it — this helplessness.
Her thoughts were louder than any voice. Screaming inside her skull. Demanding action. Demanding she do something — anything.
And what did she do?
She looked back.
That was all.
Just stared. Motionless. Wordless. Powerless.