The roar of the arena could be heard before it came into view.

A clash of voices, ringing steel, rough laughter, and the constant murmur of wagers. When Sven passed beneath the stone arches of the coliseum, the heat of the sun struck his face like a slap. The sand, stained with old rust, carried the memory of countless battles.

The stands rose in circles, packed with spectators. Along the outer corridors, warriors of every kind offered their services like living wares—escorts for travel, vengeance, duels by trial.

Some asked for coin, others demanded weapons, beasts, promises of spoils. Sven saw bronze-skinned fighters painted with ritual symbols, pale faces from the frozen lands, armor patched together with leather and чужed metal. Among them, he also spotted Delphenians, crescent moons tattooed along their necks, selling their blades to survive far from home.

Sven tightened his grip around the shaft of his spear, concealing it further beneath his cloak.

A man, towering and broad, leaned against a wall as he sharpened a notched blade. He glanced at Sven and approached.

“Looking for protection, boy? Nobility shows on your face. Thirty gold coins and I’ll see you safely back home.”

“We’re looking for warriors who fight as a group,” Sven replied. “For a cause.”

The man let out a rough laugh.

“The only ones who fight in groups are the Petrumira lot. And good luck with them, kid. Most of us prefer working alone.” He leaned closer. “But if you need a sword that doesn’t shake, you know where to find me.”

Sven followed his gesture—and saw them.

Warriors with sun-hardened skin, black tattoos winding across their torsos like marks of belonging, old scars tracing maps of war across their flesh. Their weapons were heavy, brutal. Their mounts—horned beasts—snorted impatiently.

He stepped closer, swallowing his unease.

“We were told the warriors of the volcano fight for just causes. What do you ask in return?”

The nomads looked him up and down without restraint.

“Our group only fights when our leader commands it,” one spat, hitting the ground. “And Anders doesn’t speak with soft-handed boys.”

Their laughter was harsh, like stones grinding together.

“How can I speak with him?” Sven insisted.

“We already told you,” another replied. “Our leader doesn’t mingle with little nobles.”

Dyro stepped forward.

“What about a warrior more skilled than you?”

The man looked at him with slow, heavy amusement.

“Is that so?”

He turned to the others.

“If you manage to scratch us… maybe we’ll mention your name to our leader.”

ven was about to step in—his hand even moved toward his spear—but Nox caught his forearm.

“Don’t show your weapon here,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Dyro didn’t look back.

“Tell me where to sign if it means making them bleed.”

One of the men—the largest of the group—walked over to a table where several parchments listed the day’s fighters. He tore one free with a blackened nail and pointed to an empty space.

An arena handler led them toward the entrance. Before Sven could stop him, both fighters disappeared down the corridor where combatants were prepared for the spectacle. The metal gates slammed shut behind them with a hollow clang.

Nox took Sven by the arm and guided him toward the stands.

Dyro handed over his weapons for inspection. They returned only his silver sword after testing its balance. The sun struck the blade, pulling from it a cold, almost cruel gleam.

When Dyro stepped into the arena, the crowd roared.

Sven felt fear tighten in his chest.

Not because of the fight—he knew what Dyro was capable of.

But because he understood that his path had begun to demand blood.

And he didn’t know if he was ready to pay that price.

The first Petrumira warrior entered the arena with a rough laugh, his axe resting over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

The difference in size was undeniable. He was massive. His shadow stretched across the sand like a dark stain.

Dyro did not raise his sword immediately.

He breathed. Closed his eyes for a second.

When he opened them, he was no longer the same.

The horn sounded.

The axe came down with the force of thunder. Dyro slipped to the side with a clean turn; the silver blade traced an arc, grazing the giant’s side without dealing a serious wound.

The second strike came from the flank. Dyro leaned back, the axe whistling inches from his face. He rolled across the sand, sprang to his feet, and turned again—this time cutting through the air near the warrior’s neck.

“Damn it!” the nomad roared, frustrated. He couldn’t follow his opponent’s speed.

The warrior drew a second weapon, ready to fight with both hands, trusting in the brute strength of his arms.

Two axes fell at once.

Dyro moved between both axes as if the world had slowed around him. Silver flashed. A thin red line appeared across his opponent’s forearm.

The stands erupted.

The reputation of the warriors of the volcano was well known—and yet this foreigner, who looked almost fragile, danced with his blade, making his opponent seem clumsy.

The man charged in fury. Dyro surged forward, slipped beneath the arc of the axe, pivoted on one foot, and carved a precise cut along the back of the nomad’s thigh. Not deep. Just enough to throw him off balance.

The giant dropped to his knees.

For the first time, the arena drank blood.

Seconds later, he rose with a roar and charged again. Dyro leapt, planted a foot against his opponent’s shoulder, and pushed himself backward, spinning through the air. As he landed, his sword traced a silver line that tore across the arm gripping the axe.

Two.

Dyro stopped. Lowered his sword.

“I said I only needed to scratch you.”

Silence spread like a wave.

From the stands, Sven felt he could finally breathe again.

The horn signaled the end of the match, and an organizer raised the victor’s arm, drawing cheers from the crowd that had reveled in the spectacle.

The Petrumira warriors laughed—this time without mockery. Acknowledging defeat, one of them raised his axe in respect.

“I’ll mention your name to Anders,” he said.

“You’ll find him at our camp. Remember mine—Yokast. No promises he’ll hear you out.”

Dyro gave a slight nod and returned to his companions.

“Done, Your Highness,” he said as he rejoined Sven. “Now we go speak with their leader.”

Sven nodded, his pulse still racing.

“Then we leave soon.”

When they returned to the inn to gather their things, the place was quieter. The bustle of the market had faded, and only a few travelers remained scattered among the tables.

Sven paused when he saw Badra in the inner courtyard, laughing softly as his younger brother played with Nébula. The small creature floated before the child, releasing gentle sparks that he tried to catch with clumsy hands.

“Careful,” Sven said, crouching down. “She doesn’t like having her ears pulled.”

The boy laughed and let go of Nébula, who drifted back to Sven’s shoulder as if she understood they would soon be leaving.

Badra approached slowly.

“Thank you for letting him play with her,” he said. “He doesn’t usually laugh like that with guests.”

Sven watched the child for a moment longer.

He was too young to carry a nostalgia that wasn’t his—
and yet, he carried it.

“Badra,” Sven said at last, gently.
“I know this place isn’t the home you deserve.”

The boy lowered his gaze.

“But don’t forget who you are,” Sven continued.
“Or where you come from.”

A brief silence followed. Then, without raising his voice, Sven spoke in the ancient tongue—one rarely heard now beyond Delphen:

—Lûn vae thél, Delphen na’reth.

Badra froze.

He knew those words.

His mother used to whisper them on stormy nights.
He had heard them in old songs—spoken like a prayer.

“You…” he murmured, taking an involuntary step forward.

Sven shook his head slightly. Not harshly. With a quiet sadness.

“Take care of your family.”

He turned before the boy could say anything more.

Badra stood still, breath held, watching as the silver-haired young man walked away with his companions.

He didn’t know exactly what he had just seen.

He only knew that, for the first time in many years, something burned in his chest—

something dangerously close to hope.