The western approach to the arena smelled of leather and hot iron.

Vencian moved through the armory's outer galleries, past workbenches cluttered with buckles and straps, past boys hauling crates of practice weapons toward the staging halls. The air hummed with noise. Hammers rang against steel. Someone barked orders about replacing a cracked breastplate before the next match.

The space felt functional. Not crowded, but alive with movement.

A narrow stairway led upward along the arena's inner curve. The maintenance walkway. Originally built for stagehands, armor runners, prop handlers, medics. Anyone who needed quick access to the field without trampling through the noble galleries.

Elias had discovered it years ago.

The view was better. Direct downward angle. The crowd's roar vibrated through the stone walls. The regular seating felt sterile by comparison.

Vencian climbed the last few steps and emerged onto the walkway. A handful of figures leaned against the parapet, silhouettes framed by the late afternoon sun. He recognized the postures before the faces.

Rulen stood at the far left, arms folded. Elías beside him, gesturing at something below. Rapheldor occupied the center position, shoulders tense.

Vencian stepped between them and looked down.

The arena floor stretched wide beneath. Two teams clashed near a series of painted markers. One side wore red sashes. The other blue.

"Whose match?" Vencian asked.

"Lord Torven's son against House Carthen," Elías said without looking away. "Carthen's defending."

Vencian watched the red-sashed figures press forward. The blue team scattered in a maze, regrouping near the far markers.

The game was called Ritus Lineae. A reenactment of historic battles. Two teams. One attacked. One defended. A coin toss decided roles based on the original event's outcome. If history favored the defenders, they received handicaps. Fewer fighters. Weaker positions. The reverse applied if attackers had won easily.

Defenders protected specific positions marked across the field, which today lay scattered through the arena's temporary maze, a twisting layout of corridors and choke points built to mimic old siege terrain. Attackers won if they occupied all marked positions at once. Defenders claimed victory by surviving the time limit or shattering the two gage-ring strapped to attacker's arms.

The blue team was losing.

Defenders usually did.

Vencian turned toward Rapheldor. "Which event did you draw?"

Rapheldor's jaw worked for a moment before he answered. "The Siege of Rydor Gate."

His voice carried no enthusiasm.

Vencian's reply came flat. "That's unfortunate."

He knew the story from books. Few elite guards holding a narrow bridge long enough for civilians to escape a burning citadel. The historical record painted it as heroic sacrifice. Perfect for romantics.

Terrible for anyone forced to reenact the losing side.

"You're defending," Vencian said.

Rapheldor nodded.

"Bad luck with the toss."

"Could be worse," Rapheldor muttered, though his face suggested otherwise.

Elías snorted. "Could it? Have you seen your team?"

"What about them?" Vencian asked.

"Teammates are drawn randomly," Elías explained. "Rapheldor got six of the weakest fighters in the pool."

Vencian winced. "That is worse."

"Wait," Elías said, grin widening. "It gets better. Tell him who you're facing."

Rapheldor said nothing.

Elías leaned closer to Vencian, voice dropping to mock conspiracy. "Lord Amron Montaro and Pereneth Varethion."

The name landed heavy. Amron, Ignacio Montaro's youngest son. Elder then Vencian by couple of years though. While Pereneth being the chancellor's son.

Vencian turned back to Rapheldor with something close to pity. "You drew the worst outcome in every category."

"I'm aware," Rapheldor said.

A pause settled between them. Below, the crowd roared as another defender fell.

"Well?" Rapheldor looked between Elías and Rulen. "Any of you planning to help, or should I start writing my will now?"

Elías raised both hands. "I'm the brother of the man whose engagement we're celebrating. Can't afford to lose my match and embarrass the family twice in one evening."

"Rulen?" Rapheldor tried.

Rulen's gaze remained fixed on the arena below. "I don't participate in the games. I'm a priest. Remember?"

"Of course you are," Rapheldor muttered. Rulen exited himself soon, saying he needs to checkup on his subordinate who is having a bad day with the stomach.

Rapheldor exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted. Lighter. "Underdogs get the most support anyway. What's the fun in having an advantage?"

Elías laughed. "That's the spirit. Lose with style."

"I didn't say I'd lose."

"You didn't have to."

Footsteps approached from behind.

A young man in training leathers appeared, breathing hard. One of Rapheldor's teammates. "Our teammate. Rowen. He fell during warm-ups. Twisted his ankle badly. Can't participate."

Rapheldor's expression darkened. "You're certain?"

"Saw it myself. He can barely stand."

The group moved toward the staging area. Vencian followed as they reached a side chamber where the injured fighter sat on a bench, foot elevated, face pale with frustration.

Rapheldor crouched beside him, asking questions.

Vencian's gaze drifted to the roster board mounted on the wall. Names listed in neat rows. One column for Rapheldor's team. Another for the opposition.

The idea arrived sharp and sudden.

He reached up and began unfastening his coat. The buttons came free one by one, fingers working with deliberate calm.

"During the real siege," Vencian said, "what weapons were those seven guards issued?"

Rapheldor blinked at the shift in topic. "Staves," he said. "The reenactments follow that. Defenders get staves or long staffs. Attackers use whatever suits their unit's record."

"So your entire line is locked to staff work today," Vencian said.

"Correct," Rapheldor answered. "Why?"

Vencian nodded toward the injured Rowen. "Because you keep talking like the match hinges on formations. Looks more like it hinges on whether your staff users can stay standing."

Elías let out a laugh. "He has you there."

Rapheldor stared at Vencian. His ears reddened, which Vencian pretended not to see.

"You're asking for volunteers," Vencian continued. "I'm asking what tools we're working with."

"Staves or staffs," Rapheldor repeated, slower now. "Long reach. Good control in a maze layout, terrible against Montaro if he closes early." He blew out a breath. "Why is this even a question?"

"Because I'm taking Rowen's place."

Rapheldor froze.

"You?" Rapheldor asked. "In a staff line?"

Vencian adjusted a sleeve. "You were the one lecturing us about enjoying life without an advantage. Thought I'd honor the principle."

Rapheldor tried to glare, failed, then tried again with better commitment. "You could have opened with that instead of quizzing me like an examiner."

"I wanted to hear whether you understood your own odds," Vencian said. "You do."

Rapheldor's irritation cracked into something nearer relief. "Fine. Yes. Good. Great. You'll fit. You're taller than Rowen anyway; the staff won't look absurd in your hands."

Elías nudged Rapheldor with an elbow. "Admit it. This is the happiest you've been all week."

Rapheldor lifted his chin as if aiming for dignity. "I accept competent teammates when the heavens finally send them."

Vencian rolled his coat and set it on a bench. "Then accept that one is standing in front of you."

Rapheldor pointed at the nearest attendant. "Inform the moderator we are taking Vencian Vicorra as the substitute."

The others murmured acknowledgment.

Vencian glanced toward the corridor. "And someone fetch my valet. I'll need proper gear."

One of the attendants nodded and hurried off.

Sunlight slanted through the archways, painting long shadows across stone. His opponent's name burned in his memory.

This would be interesting.

-- -- --

The royal balcony sat opposite the maintenance walkway, elevated and draped in silk banners bearing the Zarionel crest.

Elías leaned against the parapet, watching the arena floor below. The previous match had ended. Workers moved across the sand, raking patterns smooth, repositioning markers for the next event.

Rulen stood beside him, arms folded. His posture gave nothing away.

Across the arena, on the opposite balcony, Crown Prince Valanand sat with his fiancée. Adarynn Dawnforge wore pale silk that caught the fading sunlight. Their father occupied a seat behind them, withdrawn. Letting the couple hold center stage.

"Think they'll last an hour?" Elías asked.

"The match or the engagement?" Rulen's tone stayed flat.

Elías grinned. "Either."

Below, stage crews hauled wooden barriers into position. The Siege of Rydor Gate required specific terrain. A narrow bridge. Defensive markers clustered at one end.

"Rapheldor drew a terrible hand," Elías continued. "Weak team. Defending side. Amron Montaro leading the attack."

"You sound entertained."

"I am." Elías tilted his head. "Want to bet on the outcome?"

Rulen glanced at him. "You already know how this ends."

"Humor me."

A pause. Then Rulen exhaled quietly. "They lose. Defending team always does in Rydor Gate reenactments. Add weak fighters and a skilled opponent, the result is predictable."

Elías tapped fingers against stone. "Normally, yes. But Vencian joined the team."

That shifted something in Rulen's expression. Subtle. A tightening around the eyes.

"He did," Rulen said carefully.

"So?" Elías spread his hands. "Changed your assessment?"

Rulen looked back toward the arena. Workers finished positioning the last barrier. "Vencian hasn't fought publicly in months. We don't know his current skill level. Adding one competent fighter to a weak team doesn't guarantee victory."

"True," Elías agreed. "But it's not an Arkspren competition. No bonded power. Pure combat skill and tactics."

"Your point?"

"My point is Vencian's clever. And desperate people fight harder." Elías straightened. "I'm betting they win."

Rulen's silence stretched long enough to feel deliberate. Finally, he nodded once. "I'll take the same position."

Elías blinked. "You're betting they win too?"

"Yes."

"That's not how betting works."

"Then don't call it a bet." Rulen's gaze remained fixed below. "Call it an observation."

Footsteps approached from behind. Heavy, deliberate. Followed by shuffling and the tap of a cane against stone.

Kael appeared first, Rulen's Arkspren bodyguard. His face carried its usual impassive expression. Behind him, Master Narin hobbled forward, one gnarled hand gripping Kael's arm for support. The elderly Dawnseer instructor looked frailer than Elías remembered. His robes hung loose. His spine curved.

Rulen turned. "Master Narin. You're feeling better?"

"Well enough to watch young fools break their bones for entertainment," Narin rasped. His voice cracked like dry wood. "Better than lying in bed listening to my joints complain."

Kael helped him to a seat near the railing. "He insisted on coming despite physician's orders."

"I'm old, not dead," Narin muttered. "There's a difference."

Elías smiled. "Good to see you up and about."

Narin waved a dismissive hand. "Don't patronize me, your highness."

Kael's mouth twitched. "He spent half the time rambling about nightmares. Saw two Arksprens fighting in his sleep. Claimed one of them was bonded to two Archeans."

Elías snorted. "Two Archeans? That's impossible."

"Obviously," Kael agreed. "The fever must have scrambled his brain."

Narin muttered something under his breath about disrespectful youth. The others ignored him as a horn blast cut through the conversation.

The crowd's noise surged. Announcer's voice echoed across the arena, magnified by acoustic design.

"The Siege of Rydor Gate! Defenders, enter!"

The western gate opened.

Seven figures emerged onto the sand. They wore the ceremonial armor of Rydor's legendary guards. Bronze breastplates. Red cloaks. Each carried their designated weapon.

Elías leaned forward. "That's them."

The defenders moved in formation toward the center marker. Their steps synchronized. The crowd's cheering grew louder.

The lead figure walked at the front. Staff held across his shoulders. Posture relaxed despite the weight of eyes.

Rulen's voice came quiet. "That's Vencian."

Elías nodded slowly.

Below, Vencian stopped at the primary defensive position. His team spread out behind him, taking their assigned markers. The bronze plate on his back caught the late sun, flashing bright.

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