The students continued to cheer as the fight raged on, their voices rising with every strike. What had begun as a contest of skill was quickly becoming something far more dangerous, each spell cast carrying weight enough to shatter bone or scorch flesh. The courtyard trembled beneath the force of clashing energies, and the thrill of spectacle blurred into something darker.
Every second sharpened the edge of peril. The spells unleashed were no longer harmless demonstrations; they grew heavier, more volatile, their brilliance masking lethal intent. Even the bystanders, shielded behind protective barriers, felt the tremors ripple through their defenses, the air vibrating with each impact. The protective wards flickered, strained against the storm.
The atmosphere thickened, charged with raw magic. Sparks leapt across the courtyard, weaving into a storm that pressed against the walls of the Academy itself. The combatants seemed possessed, their movements faster, sharper, as if driven by something beyond rivalry. The crowd's cheers faltered, replaced by gasps that carried both awe and dread.
At the edges, healers stood ready, their hands glowing faintly with prepared incantations. They longed to rush in, to mend the broken bodies already strewn across the ground, but the chaos made it impossible. Every attempt to step closer was beaten back by the sheer ferocity of the fight, as if the battlefield itself rejected intrusion.
The injured lay scattered, some groaning, others frighteningly still. Yet the fight did not slow. Each spell hurled seemed to demand another in response, escalating the rhythm into a frenzy. The clash had taken on a life of its own, a storm that refused to be calmed, and the Academy seemed to hold its breath.
The crowd's excitement blurred into unease. Laughter died, replaced by silence, but still no one moved to stop it. Teachers watched with narrowed eyes, torn between intervention and the risk of being consumed by the same storm. The fight had crossed the line between contest and catastrophe, and yet it raged unchecked.
The courtyard itself seemed alive, resonating with the violence. Shadows stretched unnaturally, light fractured across the barriers, and the air carried the scent of burning stone. It was no longer a fight between students — it was a clash of forces that threatened to unravel the fragile balance of the Academy, the status of the warfare rising by the second.
And as the battle pressed on, the question lingered unspoken in every heart: how long before the barriers failed, before the storm spilled outward, and the Academy itself was swallowed whole? And then, what started the fight to begin with? Was it some harmless spurring session gone wrong? Boys trying to flaunt their skills to impress girls or a rivalry that as for long reigned in their hearts, pounding, patient, echoing and whispering, waiting to manifest in its true form, not to settle the feud between the two involved but to add more oil to the spark, igniting it into a devouring flame that would be set on destroying any and everything that stood in its path. Even the two who exercised its will were not exempted from its consuming wrath.
Princess Nyreal's stomach twisted as the clash dragged on, amused by the dynamic nature of mortals when it came to selfishness, whether it was entertainment or fear; the crowd's voices, once loud with laughter and cheers, now cracked into gasps and shrieks once they felt involved, and yet no one moved to stop it. They had wanted blood when it was entertainment, but now that the fight had turned real, they recoiled as if innocence had been stolen from them.
She hated it — the way their faces shifted so easily, delight curdling into fear. To her, it was hypocrisy laid bare. They had celebrated cruelty, applauded every strike, and only when death seemed close did they remember to be afraid.
Her eyes lingered on the unconscious fighters sprawled across the ground. They were not props, not broken dolls for amusement. They were people, and the indifference of the crowd burned her more than the violence itself.
Princess Nyreal's thoughts sharpened: This is what they call strength? This is what they cheer for? The Academy prided itself on discipline and honor, yet here it was — a pit of spectacle, where mercy was forgotten, and fear only arrived too late.
She felt a cold distance grow between herself and the others. Their hypocrisy disgusted her, but it also set her apart. She would not laugh at suffering, nor pretend to be shocked when cruelty revealed its true face.
Cruelty is not disfiguring an opponent's face or scarring them for life, or torturing them for the rest of their lives, or even killing them. It was just watching. Sitting idly by and treating that horrific scene like a movie at the cinema. Watching and doing nothing, whether capable or incapable, and the worst part is… enjoying the chaos, making something amusing when it clearly wasn't. Finding any ways and means to make your miserable life bearable by watching others fall.
That was true monstrosity. Seeking thrills when others need help.
She thought of the faces in the crowd, how quickly they shifted from delight to dread, and it sickened her. They were not innocent spectators; they were accomplices in silence, feeding on suffering as if it were entertainment. Their hypocrisy was louder than the clash of spells, and Princess Nyreal could not forgive it.
Princess Nyreal didn't care about the cause of the fight; she cared about the aftermath of it — the pain, the loss that followed. That is what hurt the most. Losing lives, losing dignity, and maybe… some body parts. To her, the fight was not about victory or defeat, but about what lingered after the dust settled — the broken bodies, the shattered pride, the quiet grief that no one wanted to acknowledge. That was the true weight of violence, not the spectacle but the scars it left behind. And as she stood there, Princess Nyreal knew she would never see the crowd the same way again.
I get it, you may be asking, why would she care so much about some people she doesn't know, fighting for some reason, and the reactions and thoughts of others? After all, she is of Noxmere, dark, heartless, land of the dead, and all that, she is supposed to thrive in such an environment, right? Well, not today.
...
Noxmere is a dark kingdom representing death, decay, shadows, and fears — Solara's total opposite. The inhabitants are mostly ghosts and spirits, with a handful of people. Most guards are lost souls; by so doing, they do not linger around Noxmere aimlessly or even enter into Solara. Noxmere was made primarily as a place for the dead, whether for eternal suffering or rest, hence placed in the care of The House of The Sovereign of Silence, headed by The Veiled Sovereign, King of Noxmere and Solara's Colonial Master, King Noctorian the Umbral King, Wielder of the Void Crown, then his eight descendants;
Morvane, The Chosen of the Dead, Son of the Funeral Pyre,
Tenebris, The Silent Strategist, Son of the Obsidian Veil,
Umbryel, The Voice of The Void, Son of the Hollow Lantern,
Duskhar, The Harbinger of Endings, Son of the Dying Sun,
Veynar, The Bearer of the Broken Chain, Son of the Broken Oath,
Noctyros, The Tyrant of Fear, Son of the Iron Mask,
Erebane, The Keeper of Silence, Son of the Primordial Light,
And Zaveth, The Serpent's Whisper, Son of the Poison Chalice.
Then there is King Noctorian's last and only daughter — Princess Nyreal, The Duskflower Unmarked, Daughter of the Null-light.
Just like the Sons of Solara, the brothers also separated to different parts of Noxmere to realise their talents and capabilities. Before the war, they would be admitted to The Soulbourne Academy for three years to grasp the basics, then they split for self-actualization, but since the war ended, they are sent away when they are very young so they master everything from the onset.
For this reason, the brothers weren't very close. "The only times they were seen were when the King invited them to the palace, or when He entrusted them with an important assignment requiring the highest confidentiality. Even then, most tasks were not done in pairs, but were tailored to each son's particular specialty and talent.
Princess Nyreal basically grew up without brothers. When she was born, her brothers had already left the palace for years; not even a picture of them was left behind, so she had no idea what they looked like. It even reached the extent that no one in the palace was to say anything related to them, not the guards, nor the maids.
Growing up in the castle was boring for Princess Nyreal, even though her toys were in abundance. Despite having many nannies to play with, she always wished she had someone younger to share the vast palace with, but it was vain.
The first time she met her brothers was when Solara decided that it was a good idea to rebel for the fifth time. The King had invited them to discuss the way forward, but it was a meeting for a day, so they had to arrive on time and leave on time to go back to their tasks and lessons.
Princess Nyreal was very excited to meet her brothers for the very first time. Princess Nyreal wore her favorite red gown, its fabric flowing like firelight, adorned with silver pearls that shimmered with each step and caught the glow in her eyes. Her hair was styled into a triple‑twist half‑up, neat yet graceful, allowing the rest of her dark, luscious strands to fall freely down her back. The look was simple but regal, a quiet statement of poise for the moment she had long awaited. After she was done, she rushed downstairs to the waiting area where her father stood.
"My Princess, you look divine." King Noctorian said with a smile as his eyes scanned Princess Nyreal's appearance. "Someone must be very excited."
Princess Nyreal nodded, failing to hold her excitement in. "I simply can not wait, Father."
"Of course, my dearest. But do not forget, this meeting is for diplomatic reasons, do not get carried away." King Noctorian warned.
"Yes, father." Princess Nyreal said with a nod.
A servant came from behind and fell to the ground. "My King, My Princess, The Sons of Noxmere have arrived."
King Noctorian turned to the servant, his face settling into its pale, lifeless mask of command. "Escort them to the throne room." He said and began to walk to the throne room, Princess Nyreal behind him, and the servant scurrying away.
The throne room stretched wide and solemn, its walls draped in banners of black and silver, the air heavy with silence. At the far end was King Noctorian's towering throne, dark and commanding beneath the dim glow of iron braziers, Princess Nyreal's right beside his. On either side of it, the brothers were seated in two long rows facing each other, their arrangement like a mirror of rival courts — eyes meeting across the hall, each presence distinct yet bound together beneath their father's shadow.
As the King entered with Princess Nyreal following close behind, the brothers rose and bowed while he advanced toward his throne.
"Sons of Noxmere," King Noctorian began. "Welcome Home."
The Princes bowed once more as they sat back down.
"Let us get straight to the point since you had to adjust your extremely busy schedules for this. Solara is planning another attack." King Noctorian said, disappointment in his tone.
The brothers either rolled their eyes or scoffed.
"Those 'Children of the Light' never learn." Noctyros rolled his eyes.
"My King, do you not think it is time to wipe Solara out once and for all? Are they not the ones who started this war, and even after failing four times, they still dare to plot against you?" Duskhar said, fuming.
"I understand your anger, Son of the Dying Sun, but let us not be hasty with our decision. Wiping them out means going against The Sovereign of Silence's will, and that is one thing we do not want to do." King Noctorian said.
The Solarans are becoming a nuisance. First, they accuse us of involvement in the disappearance of their precious Aureon. Then they started a war, which they lost horribly. And as though not ashamed enough, they plot not one, not two, but four rebellions against the King — all of which failed miserably. And now they dare to plot a fifth? We cannot sit idly by and allow this to continue," Veynar hissed.
"I believe that something else can be done without the need for what you are insinuating. I called you all here to help look for a solution, not impose yours on me."King Noctorian said, weariness creeping in as his sons tested his patience.
But what solution remains when the City on the Hill has already hastened its destined demise?" Morvane intoned at last, his voice stern and ceremonial, heavy as a dirge, his very presence resounding like a funeral hymn.
Sons of Noxmere, I have heard you. But tell me — how can we destroy what the Brother of our Lord has wrought? How can one destroy what he himself cannot create?" King Noctorian reminded.
Then, a chilling laughter filled the throne room, echoing against the stone walls. Everyone, except Princess Nyreal, knew its source. Their eyes turned slowly toward the boy seated at the far left of the King.
"You still believe the Lords exist after all these years? …Cute." His voice was raspy from long disuse, each word slithering like a venomous snake. "Well, I believe there is a simpler way — one far easier, one that leaves Noxmere unbroken and Solara intact… but silent."
The laughter that followed was not loud, but hollow, crawling into the corners of the throne room. Everyone felt the chill coil around their spines, a dread they could not shake, for they knew — whatever path he was hinting at, it was not one they wished to hear.
King Noctorian's eyes locked on his serpentine gaze, a silent clash of two toxic presences. "Speak…"
Zaveth smirked, leaning forward as his lips parted. His whisper came slow, each word drawn out like a serpent's hiss.
"Kill… Queen… Nyara…"