Morning came sooner than he expected.

  Arden opened his eyes not to a sound, but to a sensation—as if the air in the room had grown heavier. For a few moments he lay still, letting his breathing settle. The circulation of qi was calm. No surges. No leftover tension. The night had brought neither anxious dreams nor doubt.

  He sat up cross-legged and closed his eyes again for a brief moment—not to meditate, but to check his body. The flow moved evenly, without friction in his meridians. His bones answered with a dull steadiness. No pain, no fatigue. Only a light spring in the muscles—the anticipation of motion.

  Voices carried from outside. Not the usual measured morning steps of servants, but livelier, quicker sounds. Somewhere people argued, somewhere they laughed. The gates to the inner yard creaked. The tournament had already begun to change the clan’s rhythm.

  He rose and went to the window. Guests passed below—foreign clothes, unfamiliar colors. Several vassals had already taken seats on the allotted terraces. The air held the scent of incense and roasted meat—the kitchens had been working since dawn.

  Today, the Crimson Moon was putting itself on display.

  Arden let his gaze linger on the stone arena visible between the rooftops. Empty for now. Quiet. In a few hours this stone would remember steps, strikes, falls.

  He washed his face with cold water. Drops ran down his skin, finishing off the last remnants of sleep. In the mirror-smooth surface he caught his own reflection for an instant—green eyes looking straight back. Not brighter than usual. Not colder. Just attentive.

  Breakfast was in the small hall. Not the common one—only the direct line gathered here. Liora was already waiting. She looked composed, and there was no fuss in her movements.

  “You barely slept,” she noted when he sat down.

  “Enough,” he answered evenly.

  She didn’t argue. She only slid the bowl of warm herbal brew closer. He ate little—exactly as much as the body required. No more.

  “Today they’ll be watching more than just your strikes,” Liora said softly, not lifting her eyes from the table.

  He nodded.

  After breakfast she helped him with his clothes. Ceremonial attire was heavier than training gear, but it didn’t bind his movement. Black fabric with silver embroidery along the sleeves and collar emphasized the line of his shoulders. The Crimson Moon symbol on his chest was stitched with a thin thread—not loud, but unmistakable. The belt sat tight, familiar. His weapon was secured reliably.

  Liora stepped closer and straightened his collar. For a second her fingers lingered longer than necessary.

  “Don’t rush to show everything at once,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her more closely. There was no lecturing in her voice. Only experience.

  “I’m not going to,” he said.

  She stepped back, appraising him, then nodded.

  When Arden walked into the yard, the sun had climbed high enough to cast sharp shadows. The stone slabs looked lighter than usual. Several young members of the cadet branch paused to follow him with their eyes. Someone greeted him with a bow. Someone with a restrained nod.

  He didn’t quicken his pace.

  The noise of the arena grew louder with every step.

  He didn’t look back as he left the inner yard. Stone passages led downward, toward the amphitheater, and with every step the roar thickened. Voices gathered into a single shared rhythm—not hostile, not supportive. Simply waiting.

  The tournament didn’t begin in the ring. It began in the stares.

  The arena revealed itself gradually—first as sound, then as space.

  When Arden passed through the inner gallery, the noise became dense. Voices overlapped, mixing with the metallic ring of weapons and the low hum of an activated formation. The clan’s stone amphitheater was fully prepared.

  At its center lay a wide circle of smooth gray stone. Along its perimeter ran a thin barrier line—almost invisible, but palpable against the skin. The air above the ring vibrated faintly, like a string pulled taut. Any serious clash would not spill beyond the circle.

  The stands rose in tiers.

  Closest to the ring sat the main branch. Strict dark clothes, familiar symbols, calm faces. Slightly higher—the cadet branch. Fewer ornaments, more tension. Farther still—the vassal clans. There was more color there: crimson, emerald, sand-toned fabrics, different insignias, different styles of carrying weapons.

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  And among them—a few who were truly чужие.

  The guests from the capital, accompanying the prince’s delegation, kept to themselves. Their clothes were darker, their silhouettes harsher. They didn’t speak loudly, but they watched with care.

  Arden walked to the spot set aside for participants. Several gazes lingered on him longer than usual. Not all friendly. Not all hostile. Simply assessing.

  His attention rose involuntarily higher—to the elders’ platform.

  Three chairs stood on a stone dais, separated by a thin barrier line.

  Selena sat at the center. Straight-backed. Hands resting on the armrests. Her face calm, nearly expressionless. Her gaze steady, taking in the entire arena at once. She didn’t look like a spectator. She looked like the one who permitted what was happening.

  To her right—Serael. The light fabric of her robes shimmered softly in the sun. She sat more freely, her body turned slightly toward the ring. A barely-there smile touched her lips. But her eyes were more attentive than most.

  To the left—Dorian Lunveyr.

  Arden was seeing him in person for the first time. In the Crimson Moon Clan there were only three elders. Serael was the only one who actively took part in the clan’s life. The second elder—Dorian Lunveyr—was the clan’s alchemist. Most of the time he was buried in experiments or meditated behind closed doors.

  He was tall, gaunt, slightly hunched. Long silver hair was gathered back, but a few strands still fell over his shoulders. His face was narrow, cut through with deep wrinkles. Pale green eyes looked a little cloudy—not from weakness, but from constant analysis. Even from here Arden could catch a faint scent of herbs and elixirs on him.

  Dorian didn’t track the crowd.

  His gaze was locked on the arena—not its center, but the barrier’s edge. On the line where energy met stone.

  Arden caught himself thinking that Dorian wasn’t watching the fighters at all—he was watching the foundation. Watching whether the structure would hold.

  Off to the side of the elders’ platform was a separate section marked by dark flags.

  Darion Crayne sat straight, not leaning back. His face remained still. No curiosity, no boredom—only observation. The people around him kept themselves restrained, allowing no needless movements.

  Nearby, a little forward, sat Lucaris. He lounged more loosely, one leg stretched out, an elbow on the armrest. A lazy hint slid through his gaze. He looked over the participants as if choosing a pastime.

  For a moment their eyes met.

  Lucaris narrowed his eyes slightly and gave a faint smirk.

  Arden looked away first—not as concession, but because the ring was already filling.

  The signal gong sounded quietly, but sharp enough to cut through the roar.

  The hum of the stands gradually died down.

  The Crimson Moon tournament was beginning.

  And with it, the air at the edge of the stone circle changed.

  Those scheduled to go out first were already lining up in the barrier’s shadow. The whispering in the stands turned pointed—now they weren’t staring at the ring, but at faces.

  Participants gathered along the edge of the circle. The noise kept ebbing, yielding to taut expectation. The air seemed to grow heavier—not from the formation, but from the weight of eyes.

  Arden felt it before he saw it.

  A stare that didn’t look away.

  Korvin Lunveyr.

  He stood on the boundary between the main branch and the rest of the participants—a place that perfectly mirrored his life. Not inside the circle of power. But not entirely outside it either.

  Korvin had always known who he was.

  Since childhood.

  Not because people reminded him.

  Because he saw.

  He saw the difference in clothes.

  In instructors.

  In resources.

  In who received access to scrolls first.

  He never asked for extra.

  And he never accepted pity.

  In the training yard he rose earlier than anyone else. Not for show—simply because otherwise catching up was impossible. His palms were callused long before most of his peers saw their first successes in circulation.

  He didn’t envy out loud.

  He worked.

  And every time someone said, “Not bad for the cadet branch,” he remembered it.

  Now he looked calm.

  Short dark hair, a dry, compact build. Clothes without unnecessary embroidery. A short sword at his belt—plain, but well cared for. No status display. Only a tool.

  Arden knew that sword. He’d seen Korvin train with it for years, repeating the same cut until it became almost soundless.

  And yet today there was something new in him.

  Not rage.

  Not irritation.

  A challenge.

  He wasn’t looking like a junior.

  Nor like an equal.

  He looked like someone who intended to prove something.

  Korvin took a step forward, closing the distance.

  “It’s been a while,” he said evenly.

  His voice was firm. No barbs.

  “The tournament is a convenient excuse,” Arden replied.

  Korvin gave a slight nod. His gaze slid over the ceremonial uniform, over the silver lines, over the Crimson Moon symbol—and returned to Arden’s face.

  “I’m not going to stay background,” he said.

  The phrase was quiet, but without hesitation.

  There was no hatred in it.

  Only accumulated pressure.

  Arden studied him. A faint smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth.

  “Then prove you deserve more,” he said.

  For an instant the air between them thickened. Not with qi—with intent.

  When Korvin’s name rang out, a noticeable whisper rippled through the stands. The cadet branch stirred. Several older members nodded to each other. Vassals watched more closely.

  Korvin stepped onto the ring without showy bravado.

  But there was no familiar restraint in his stride anymore.

  He no longer stood at the boundary.

  Today he was walking into the center.

  The stone accepted his step without a sound.

  Korvin’s name was called again—short, but loud.

  He moved calmly, without accelerating. The stone underfoot was dry and cold. The barrier around the perimeter shimmered faintly.

  His opponent—a young practitioner from a vassal clan—was already standing in the center. Crimson clothes, a long spear in his hands. The tip slowly heated under fire qi, distorting the air around it.

  They bowed.

  Signal.

  The first thrust was sharp.

  The spear snapped forward in a straight line, reinforced with fire qi. Not a flare—an aimed, concentrated strike. Fast and precise.

  Korvin didn’t block.

  He simply slipped away.

  Half a step to the side, torso turning—the spear passed within a few fingers of his chest. The movement was so small it looked lazy from the stands.

  The opponent pressed immediately.

  The second thrust came heavier. He poured more qi into it—too quickly, too early. The fire at the tip flared brighter, and heat washed over even the front rows.

  Korvin partially avoided it, but not fully. The strike still entered his space. In that instant Korvin released his own qi—briefly, as a dense layer reinforcing blade and wrist.

  The impact was dull.

  The fiery wave scattered off his sword, and the difference became obvious.

  The vassal invested too much.

  Korvin used the minimum.

  The opponent exhaled audibly. His rhythm faltered for an instant.

  The third thrust came almost without pause—he tried not to let Korvin seize initiative. The spear cut diagonally, the fire still held, but already less stable.

  This time Korvin didn’t dodge.

  He met it head-on.

  Steel struck the spear shaft. Sparks jumped aside. At the moment of contact Korvin didn’t retreat—on the contrary, he stepped forward, breaking the distance.

  And in the same heartbeat he countered.

  A short motion—not a wide arc, but a straight, brutal cut.

  The opponent tried to lift the spear to block.

  But there was no qi left.

  The fire at the tip went out almost instantly. Reinforcement collapsed. The shaft trembled.

  Korvin’s blade slipped under the defense and stopped a few centimeters from the throat.

  Silence.

  The barrier flashed, fixing the outcome.

  The opponent froze, breathing hard. His hand shook—not from a wound, but from emptiness in the meridians.

  Korvin didn’t press. He simply held the blade steady.

  One more second.

  Then he stepped back and sheathed his sword.

  A low hum rolled through the stands.

  It wasn’t a spectacular victory.

  It was a victory of resource management.

  Selena’s expression didn’t change.

  Serael narrowed her eyes slightly, as if noting the precision of the moment.

  Dorian watched both fighters’ breathing.

  “Clean distribution. Good control. A pity he isn’t from the main branch,” he said quietly.

  Off to the side, Lucaris’s smile widened.

  The tournament was only beginning.