It was hot.
The smell of blood returned before the sight. Copper, sand, and sweat scorched his nostrils. His skin burned against the sunlit dust. Grit clung to the open flesh on his arms, drying in patches.
Caelvir's vision trembled—blurry shapes, indistinct. Then, gradually, lines formed. Color sharpened. Noise rushed back into his ears. A thousand voices, crashing like a wave.
He was back.
The arena.
The sand was stained crimson, darkened where his blood had soaked deepest. The sky burned above, its brilliance a harsh mockery of what he'd just seen—of a mother, a boy, and a firelit cabin. But now, he lay alone. Flat on his back. A body beside him—still, unmoving.
The crowd roared.
And then, a voice—familiar and loud—spoke through the air like a jester in a storm:
"I plead the audience, do not argue! The winner was stated, the one who killed first. So the bets are final! Although they both are fallen…"
The announcer's voice faltered.
"Wait… THE BLADE KING HAS RISEN… Unbelievable!"
A sharp cry from the crowd erupted into a sea of astonishment.
Caelvir's fingers dug into the sand. With effort, arms trembling, he pushed himself up. His breathing was shallow—but he could move. Strange. Shouldn't he be dead?
His hand instinctively pressed against his side.
Wounds. The marks were there—ugly gashes of flesh torn and stitched by force—but no blood spilled. No gaping holes remained. The pain was still present, dull and deep, but the blood had stopped. As if something had closed the wound from the inside.
He stared down.
Crude flesh. Coarse skin, darker where the blade had cut through. His ribs were marked, not torn. Pain throbbed, yes—but his body was holding. His veins pulsed, and… something inside him moved.
It was unnatural.
A strange sensation—a living twitch under the skin, like muscles realigning themselves without his command. Like a puppet made of meat, held together not by will but by force. He felt alive, but wrong. His body was a vessel, bound tight in a casing of blood and sinew.
A soft vibration rolled through his bones. A heartbeat that was not quite his own.
The crowd gasped again.
"He stands!" the announcer bellowed. "RISEN AMONGST BLOOD AND SAND! Now, I believe—there should be no discussion regarding the winner!"
Cheers erupted. The noise shook the sky.
Caelvir, sword in hand, rose fully, unevenly. His body tilted with strain. And yet, he walked—toward the imperial box. A tradition. A bow.
Even in pain, he performed it—one knee bent, the sword reversed, head low. The sun caught the blood in his hair, turning it to fire.
Up on the imperial balcony, nobles leaned forward.
Lady Venara's breath caught in her chest.
But his eyes did not meet hers.
He looked past her.
To the Queen.
And somehow, that struck deeper than a blade. Venara did not show it. She smiled—she always did—but behind it, a flicker of jealousy crawled beneath her ribs. Unspoken, quiet, but present.
Earlier, she'd been nervous. She remembered.
At the beginning of the clash of blades, her chest had tightened. As blood fell, concern twisted in her gut. When he'd faltered, hesitation slowing his strikes, fear gripped her heart. She'd begged—hurry, she had thought, before it's too late.
And when he'd fallen—when the blade dug deep—her fingernails had broken skin in her palm.
But now… now he stood.
Now he lived.
And that changed everything.
"What happened?" Lord Faron's voice broke the silence among the nobility. "Why is he standing? I thought he was dead."
Lord Eleazar stroked the long white strands of his beard. "Regeneration," he said slowly, eyes narrowed. "An ability most rare. I've only heard of it surfacing in those of old noble blood. Ancient families. Not from the Dust."
Lord Talen scoffed. "Battlefield's full of such tricks. The Bloodborne tribes near Stonefang—half-giant beasts, bastards of Brakh's line—all have it. Flesh seals shut like water over stone."
He nodded once, his voice low. "But I've never seen it in a human. Not one born beneath the dust."
"Of course," Lord Masquien drawled with a lazy smirk. "That would put some of our professional healers out of work, wouldn't it? Right, Lady Venara?" He flashed his teeth. "I'd be worried about the White Vein of House Goldmere losing relevance."
Venara didn't flinch. Her smile was composed, measured.
"Thank you for your concern, my lord," she said sweetly. "But regeneration will never match the precision of high-tier healing magic. Especially not when it leaves scars like that."
Talen scowled. "Please," he snapped, "spare us a duel of tongues in front of her highness."
All eyes turned.
To the Queen.
She had remained silent until now.
Then, with a glimmer in her golden gaze, she spoke. "Such an interesting sight to behold."
Her voice was soft, yet sharp—like a blade dipped in honey.
She turned her head slightly, toward the crimson-haired knight at her side.
"And what do you make of him?"
The Crimson Blade didn't shift, didn't blink. His voice was precise, as cold as steel.
"Lowly, your grace. The body remains crude. Time is needed. The flesh is still fragile."
"I see," she replied, quietly.
Lord Masquien chuckled. "Ah, the Crimson Blade never disappoints. To be a personal guard of her majesty… you'd think men from the Dust were dogs, not soldiers."
"Some are," Talen muttered.
The announcer's voice rang out again, breaking tension like a drumbeat:
"Now! Now! Your grace, my lords and ladies, and honorable people of the realm! A moment of honor before you all! The newborn warrior of the Iron emerges from the Dust, and he shall now be offered a sigil!"
The crowd cheered again. Sand churned with movement. The arena floor rumbled with celebration.
"Place your bets!" the announcer boomed. "Which house shall offer? And which shall he choose?"
Lord Masquien leaned forward in his seat, lips curled. "Well, well… some of us seem very invested," he said, gaze sliding to Venara. "Isn't that right, my lady?"
Venara didn't blink.
She responded with calm steel. "Shouldn't you be, my lord? That man just carved apart a warrior who bore your house's mark."
A beat of silence.
Then Masquien laughed softly, lifting his wine glass.
"Touché."
He took a sip, then leaned forward just slightly, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"But is that all?" he added, lips curling. "One sharp retort and silence to follow? Come now, Lady Venara, you're usually far more poetic when defending your toys."
Venara's smile didn't falter. It never did. But her gaze sharpened, like frost layered over a blade.
He continued, savoring his words like rich wine. "If I were as invested as you, I'd have rehearsed a better comeback. Or perhaps you're holding back… for fear of saying something true."
He sat back, satisfied with himself.
Venara's fingers tapped once—lightly—on the armrest. Her smile deepened by a fraction.
"You're mistaken, my lord," she said, voice cool as silver. "If I ever spoke the truth, it would burn too hot for your house's velvet ears."
Masquien gave a theatrical sigh and waved a lazy hand. "Ah, there's the fire I missed. A pity it's wasted on scorched sand."
The air between them shimmered—smile against smirk, veiled daggers cloaked in civility.
At the far end of the balcony, Lord Eleazar pointed.
A shadow moved.
A cloaked man emerged from nowhere, head low, face obscured.
Two eyes—neither blinking—watched him closely.
He whispered something—too quiet for most to hear.
"Place a bet. One in favor of…"
Lord Talen turned his head. Whatever was said, he did not catch it.
But his gaze narrowed.
He was interested. Deeply.
To him, titles meant little. Sigils, even less. Courage mattered. Will mattered.
Victory mattered.
Venara reclined slightly, her head resting gently against her fingers.
Elowen leaned in. "Shall we place an offer, my lady?"
Venara's eyes were still locked on Caelvir—standing in the heat, soaked in blood, defiant.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet."
A smile curved her lips—genuine, touched with warmth.
"I wish to test him first."
Caelvir stood beneath the sun.
Blood crusted in his hair, on his face. His body bore the weight of every cut, every strike—old wounds reopened, new ones barely sealed.
But still, he stood.
Alive.
Glorious.
Venara watched, her heart a quiet storm.
My investment… has grown.