The stench of rot and decay clung to the air, thick and suffocating like an invisible hand choking the life out of the very ground beneath us. The miasma slithered between the ruins of the abandoned village, swirling in grotesque patterns, carrying whispers of the dead with it. My lungs burned with every breath, and I swore I could taste the bitter tang of something foul settling on my tongue.

Why the hell did I agree to this?

A shadow moved ahead, cutting through the fog, and my stomach lurched. There was a familiar presence coming toward us. No, it couldn't be—

"Zagan?!"

Lucian sighed beside me, shaking his head. "I don't know why you had to sacrifice yourself for this, Snow, when one of you already bargained a trade with me."

Zagan emerged from the fog, his usual towering and imposing presence somewhat diminished by the exhaustion in his eyes. He was worn out, his armor darkened with traces of the miasma’s corruption. Yet, his glare burned with the same intensity as ever as he fixed it on me.

"What are you doing here?!" he demanded, his deep voice cutting through the ominous silence.

I crossed my arms, matching his glare. "I would ask the same!"

"I told you to stay put, Thalia."

"Oh, I’m sorry, My Lord, should I have asked permission before breathing too?!" I shot back, exasperated. "You didn’t think to tell me about this little excursion? That maybe, just maybe, I'd want to know what you were up to?!"

Lucian chuckled beside me. "Ah, so this is how you two usually talk. I'm starting to think you don’t need an army—just your bickering alone might be enough to scare the enemies off."

"Stay out of this, Phoenix King," Zagan snapped, but Lucian only smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

"You two act as one, so if you want to prove yourselves, then do it," Lucian said, his playful tone barely masking his concern. "You made a promise, now keep it."

Before I could retort, a chilling whisper curled around my ears. The air shifted, and the thick miasma pulsed. Voices, ethereal and broken, called out to us. We turned as one toward the source, deeper into the cursed village.

The ruins stretched before us, frozen in time—a place ravaged by war and abandoned to the ghosts of its past. The miasma thickened as we stepped forward, revealing figures in the mist. Pale, translucent shapes flickered in and out of sight. They weren’t just ghosts. They were watching us, waiting.

One by one, they approached. Each specter carried a tale, their voices heavy with sorrow and secrets buried beneath centuries of ruin. Their stories wove together a terrible truth.

The war had not simply ended here. The village had been the birthplace of something far darker.

A long time ago, the dead had been resurrected—but not as they once were. A dark magician had tampered with fate, raising warriors from their graves. But instead of returning as men, they had become Celestians—twisted, grotesque creatures of stone and magic. And in their cursed state, they had been given only one means of survival: to feed on the magic and life force of others.

The ghosts before us were the first victims.

Some villagers had escaped. Most had not.

But worse still—the curse had deepened when one Celestian had fallen in love with a human, creating something neither mortal nor monster. A cursed child.

"And the child?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The ghosts' hollow eyes locked onto mine. "It consumed everything. It ended us."

Lucian exhaled sharply, arms crossed, expression grim. "A creature born of both worlds, neither human nor Celestian. That kind of hunger for power…"

Zagan’s fists clenched. "Then the miasma is not just the decay of war—it is the remains of their suffering. A living curse."

A cold dread slithered down my spine. If a cursed child could destroy an entire village, what of Yvonne?

If she was the same—a Celestian-born heir to the throne of Alazne—what kind of disaster would she bring upon the kingdom?

I swallowed hard. We had to do something. But first, we had to survive this place.

Lucian's gaze flickered to the swirling poison around us. "Now, as much as I love a good horror story, we need to do something about this miasma before we all end up like them."

"We can’t fight it like we do a normal battle," Zagan muttered, eyeing the shifting fog warily.

I took a slow breath, recalling the fragments of my mother's teachings. She had known the ways to cleanse poison, to purify the land. If I could just—

"I can try," I said.

Both men turned to me, surprise flashing across their faces.

"You?" Zagan asked, skepticism laced in his voice.

"Well, excuse me for having useful skills!" I huffed. "Unless you two have a better plan?"

Lucian grinned. "Oh, I have a plan, but it involves burning. Lots of burning."

Zagan sighed, rubbing his temples. "We’ll do it your way."

I stepped forward, extending my hands, focusing. The air was heavy, thick with death, but if I could tap into what little knowledge I had, maybe—just maybe—I could find a way to cleanse this cursed land before it claimed us too.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t work—not entirely. But I suppose we’ll do better next time. Now that we know what we need, we can prepare properly. Unfortunately, gathering supplies in the trading capital is no easy feat. Everything here demands an equal trade.

We’ll deal with that later.

For now, exhaustion weighs down on us, the remnants of miasma still clinging to our bodies. Healers tend to us within the grand halls of Ashenreach’s palace, the seat of the Phoenix King himself. The place is lavish—almost overwhelming. Golden phoenix motifs adorn the towering walls, deep red banners cascading down like flames. A banquet is laid before us, an extravagant spread of roasted meats, exotic spices, and aged wine. It’s the kind of feast meant for rulers.

Lucian leans back in his ornate chair, every inch the king he has become. With a casual flick of his wrist, he gestures at the banquet. “Eat. You must be starving after our little adventure.”

I don’t move, eyeing the food with suspicion before glancing at the two men seated across from me. Zagan, ever brooding, barely acknowledges the meal. Lucian, on the other hand, wears his usual smirk, effortlessly charming as he turns his gaze on me.

“You should eat, Thalia.” His voice is smooth as he pours me a glass of wine. “You’ll need your strength. You’re a woman of importance now, after all.”

Zagan’s purple eyes flicker toward him, something dark flashing beneath the surface. “She’s my responsibility. Don’t act as if you have any claim over her.”

I scoff, setting my goblet down with a dull thud. “Excuse me, but no one owns me. Not you. Not him. Not anyone.”

Lucian chuckles, swirling his wine. “Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to persuade you.”

Zagan exhales sharply, fingers tightening around his goblet. “She’s not part of your collection, Phoenix King.”

“For the love of—” I throw up my hands. “Can we focus? We need to talk about the throne and who will stand with me.”

Lucian’s smirk fades slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. “Yes, let’s. If you want to dethrone a ruler, you need more than ambition. You need alliances, strategy, and legitimacy. Removing a living ruler is no simple feat.”

Zagan nods, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Without the noble houses, the military, and the people’s support, even a rightful claim means nothing.”

Lucian steeples his fingers. “And there’s something else you need to know.” His gaze flicks toward Zagan. “Your father, His Majesty, Vaelion Velmontierre, the King of Alazne, is not where you think he is.”

Zagan’s grip on his goblet tightens. “What?”

Lucian doesn’t flinch under Zagan’s sharp gaze. “He’s here. In my land. The underground prison of Arenalis.”

A crackle of tension fills the air.

“What did you do to him?” Zagan demands, his voice low and lethal.

Lucian remains unbothered. “I did nothing. He chose this. He knew the Queen was planning his assassination. Half his council are Celestians, the rest, traitors. He removed himself before they could.”

I stare at him, my mind racing. "Why would he let himself be imprisoned? Isn't he locked in his chambers, forbidden from leaving?"

Zagan mutters, "I highly doubt he's the kind of man to sulk in his chambers. I knew something was off the moment we visited the palace—he wasn’t even present at his own son’s engagement."

His tone carries a sharp edge, making it clear—he doesn’t think highly of his brother, Lysander.

Lucian rises from his seat. “Come. I’ll show you.”

The descent into Arenalis’ underground prison is long, the air thick with heat and dust. The deeper we go, the louder the noise grows—shouts, laughter, the unmistakable roar of a crowd.

Then we reach the arena.

The underground colosseum is vast, torches casting flickering light upon the bloodstained sand. Warriors clash in the caged pit below, their movements brutal, efficient. Bets are shouted from the stands. And at the center of it all—

Zagan’s father. Vaelion Velmontierre.

The King of Alazne.

His body is marred with scars, his bare fists colliding against a towering gladiator. There is no hesitation, only the raw thrill of battle. He’s enjoying this.

Lucian leans against the railing, watching the fight unfold. “He chose this path. He traded his freedom for safe passage into my kingdom. And in return, I let him live.”

Zagan’s fists clench at his sides. “And you agreed?”

Lucian shrugs. “I don’t deal in betrayals—only fair trades.” He glances at me. “And speaking of trades... that rare weapon you seek? It’s a trap.”

I turn to him sharply. “What?”

Lucian exhales. “If your master was killed, it was likely the Celestian-human faction’s doing. They don’t want people knowing about them. That’s why they kill anyone who does.”

A chill settles in my stomach. “They’re watching the black market.”

Lucian nods. “They’re luring out threats. And right now? That includes you.”

Zagan’s gaze darkens. “And what do you suggest?”

Lucian’s smirk returns. “Simple. While you’re here, you abide by my rules. No one touches my people. If you want to fight, do it the proper way.” He gestures to the pit below. “Settle it in the arena.”

I grip the railing, watching as the King of Alazne lands another brutal strike, sending his opponent crumbling to the dirt.

Later, in the grand banquet, an aftermath celebration for today's gladiator battles, the tension between the three of us remains thick. Tomorrow will be a grand match between champions of today's semi-finals.

Zagan’s father grins at his son, beer sloshing from his mug. “Look at you now, my boy! Looking sharp—almost fit to be king, eh? Time to knock your dear brother off the throne.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Then, his gaze shifts to me, sharp and assessing. “And what honor do I have to bask in your presence, my lady?”

I force a polite smile, but I don’t miss the way Zagan shifts beside me—subtle, but protective.

The King laughs, nudging his son. “You and my boy would make a fine match! A good job, I say!”

Lucian chuckles, arms crossed. “As flattering as that is, Your Majesty, I would be a far better king for Thalia.” He turns to me with an infuriating smirk. “Don’t you think?”

I blink. “Oh no, please, do go on. I love when men decide my fate for me.”

Zagan scoffs. “She’s no one’s queen yet. And certainly not yours, Lucian.”

Lucian raises a brow. “You sound defensive. Could it be that you actually care?”

Zagan’s jaw twitches. “You assume too much.” 

They seem to get along so well.

“Oh, I don’t assume. I observe.” Lucian’s grin widens. “And from where I stand, it looks like you’d rather throw me into the arena than let me steal her away.”

The King claps his hands, delighted. “Ha! Then settle it properly! Fight for her!”

Lucian turns to me, red eyes gleaming. “What do you say, Thalia?”

I sigh, exasperated. “Truly, the both of you are insufferable.”

Zagan exhales, already striding toward the arena. “Fine. If this will put an end to your nonsense, I accept.”

Oh, he’s really going through with it. Is he actually willing to fight for my hand? Or does he just enjoy making my heart race every time he does something reckless? Either way, unfair. Completely unfair.

Lucian smirks. "Good. Just don’t turn to ashes when you lose."

I blink. Ashes? He could turn Lucian to stone with a mere touch—was the arena protected by an anti-magic field, or was Lucian simply that confident? Either way, the sheer audacity—oh, well, it's the same Lucian I knew.

Meanwhile, Zagan looks completely unbothered, rolling his shoulders like he’s loosening up for a casual spar, not a duel that could potentially end in disaster. And I hate how unfairly attractive that is.