Of golden eye

And a certain dream

The Bright Lord fills the board…

Pawns and Kings

Knights and Queens

Slain and reborn by the sword…

A faint breeze kicks up the dust of the coliseum as Delphius locks eyes with Maelaezel, and the Kingdom of Eltias reverberates with tension. Adjacent to the monarch's box, she smiles, overlooking a scene of both awe and dread. The once-empty seats surrounding them now teem with members of Chao's various royal families, their breaths bated as they bear witness to the grim spectacle unfolding on the hallowed arena floor.

A gasp, heavy with desperation, escapes his assailant's lips as Delphius clutches her tightly. Her gauntlets, like talons, claw frantically at his unyielding grasp that encircles her throat. A battleaxe lies solemnly on the dusty ground, the story of the preluded skirmish beaten into its blade. Tears cascade down the Ascendant’s face, her chestnut complexion now marred by an unsightly shade of purple, as life drains from her fragile form.

High above in the stands, Sonorah’s Lady Simlia kneels in supplication before Maelaezel. Her hands clasp together fervently, beseeching Maelaezel for mercy.

"Maelaezel, please! Aszlinda is one of my most valiant warriors!"

Maelaezel’s tone belies her somber expression as she responds to the highborn in an almost delighted manner.  "I'm sorry, my dear, the situation is no longer in my hands."

A grim smile tugs at Maelaezel's lips as she nods subtly at her vassal on the arena floor. Simlia turns away, seeking solace in the quivering embrace of her own trembling hands, her countenance a fragile veil hiding her profound sadness and lingering shame.

A hundred pairs of eyes converge upon Delphius as he redirects his gaze toward his prey. The Ascendant, though fading, still pleads for her life through her emerald eyes, a color that wanes with each passing moment.

"I wish I could commend your valor in battle," Delphius’s voice reverberates with chilling finality. "However, the flaws in your defense must be rectified before I can permit you to enter the fray once more."

Aszlinda’s life hangs by a thread, she struggles to mouth a single silence-etched plea.

"Please." 

Impermeable to her desperate entreaties, Delphius tightens his grip, channeling the light of Sethir into his hand, driving cracks of light cascading up her neck and across her face. With an act both tragic and irreversible, he crushes Aszlinda's throat, extinguishing the flickering ember of her life.

A deafening silence descends upon the crowd, an eerie shroud that envelops their collective gasps and stifled cries. As Aszlinda's lifeless body crumples to the unforgiving ground, formless wisps of Sethir, like spectral tendrils, flow from the fading cracks on her neck, converging upon Maelaezel's sword spear. The blade, embraced by this haunting cascade of pale radiance, emanates a low hum and a spectral glow.

The coliseum floor stirs with frenzied activity as two attendants rush forward to drag away the corpse of the fallen warrior. The Summa Rudis, an authoritative figure donning an ornate blue and gold robe, takes the stand, his voice booming through the vast arena.

“The next match shall be a clash of titans! Delphius, the indomitable Challenger, shall face Feylania of Icarus! Prepare yourselves, for the spectacle shall commence in a mere fifteen minutes!”

Simlia, her eyes welling with tears, rises from her seat, turning her gaze towards Maelaezel. An innocent smile dances upon Maelaezel's lips, a stark contrast to Simlia's somber profile.

"You have indeed trained him well, my Lady. I wish you and Delphius the utmost success throughout the tournament’s remainder." Simlia's bittersweet voice trembles with restrained emotion. 

"Oh, Simlia, are you not staying to witness the excitement?" Maelaezel responds coyly.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I believe I have witnessed enough death for one day."

With a respectful bow, Simlia swiftly departs from the stands, desperately trying to maintain her composure as she flees the arena. 

Leaning over his right-most armrest, the voice of Gethrum, an older Eltain gentleman adorned in a decorative, navy military garb permeates Maelaezel’s tranquility. 

“Bit of a weak stomach on that one, eh?”

Maelaezel, deeply offended by Gethrum's intrusion, fixes him with an icy gaze, her senses alert to his every movement and expression. The sharp lines etched upon his weathered face speak of countless battles fought, his calloused hands and firm posture attesting to a lifetime of military discipline. She catches her eyes reflecting on his medal-adorned chest. However, his mead-stained breath and gaunt yellow eyes cause the maiden to recoil in disgust. 

"I beg your pardon, who are you again? Maelaezel retorts.

Gethrum, taken aback by Maelaezel's response, bristles with animosity. "Why, I..."

Hylidia, Gethrum's companion, interjects with a gentle reprimand. "Gethrum, please. You are unsettling the poor lady."

Turning her attention to Maelaezel, Hylidia offers a conciliatory smile. "Do forgive my dear Gethrum. He has a tendency to lose his composure at such events."

Maelaezel, with piqued curiosity, raises an eyebrow and muses, "Ah, Gethrum of House Aelthun. That would make you Lady Hylidia, I presume?"

Hylidia’s expression softens at Maelaezel’s response. "Indeed, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…?"

"Maelaezel."

Hylidia pauses for a moment in an attempt to determine the proper reply "What an intriguing name you possess. Pray tell, from which family do you hail?"

Maelaezel's gaze turns distant for a moment before she responds cryptically, "Family? It would appear that we have no need for one."

"What!? No family? Then how can you partake in this tournament? You have no bloodline to defend, no glory to uphold! How did they even allow your squire to enter without a battle to his name?" Gethrum exclaims in shock at this sudden revelation. 

Hylidia offers a frustrated whisper to her husband in an attempt to diffuse the tension, "Gethrum, please."

Raising her hand, Maelaezel dismisses Hylidia's concern. "Rest assured, Lord Gethrum, there is much at stake for both my vassal and myself in this so-called 'Tournament of Champions.'"

Her white, satin gloves cover her soft, pale lips as she exhales a faint chuckle. "What a joke…"

"You dare mock the time-honored traditions of House Aelthun, you unblooded, highborn miscreant? Know that the blood and sweat of my ancestors saturate the very foundation of this arena. The coliseum stands as a testament to the sacrifices of my family. You dare spit upon the face of all we have built?!" Gethrum explodes with a fiery passion. 

Unfazed by Gethrum's outburst, Maelaezel meets his fury with steely resolve. "For what it's worth, Gethrum, I merely suggest that this year's so-called 'champions,' compared to my own soldier, are nothing more than expendable pawns. They exist only to be vanquished by my thrall and reborn in the light of something far greater than your feeble comprehension."

Both Gethrum and Hylidia stare at Maelaezel in disbelief whilst she continues her verbal assault.

"And mark my words, as the fights unfold, it will become abundantly clear to you just how inconsequential your so-called strength truly is."

With a sudden jolt, Maelaezel lurches over her chair, pressing her face inches away from Gethrum's own. Her eyes and countenance grow void of color and a maze of light-drenched fissures begin running through her body.

"By day's end, more of your family's blood shall stain this desolate coliseum. Your heart shall twist and break as the agony inflicted by my hand befalls your kin. You and your lineage know nothing of true power, nothing of real battle, nothing of sacrifice. We are not the same, Aelthuns."

A chill runs down Gethrum’s spine as Maelaezel slowly turns back in her seat. The last of Maelaezel’s words ring clear through his mind like the Piety Bell on the day of sacrament. He shuffles his chair and clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. 

"Yes, well, if your Lord even manages to face my Caladin, you shall truly comprehend the indomitable strength of the Eltain lineage." Gethrum stammers.

Maelaezel, a sardonic laugh escaping her lips, replies with a hint of mocking amusement, "Oh, I am quite sure, Gethrum. I am indeed quite sure."