Lyra followed Keal into the arena's shadowed passageway, his hand still resting on her shoulder like a tether she hadn't agreed to. She chose silence, unsure of the thoughts brewing behind his dark eyes. Perhaps she really did resemble his sister. Perhaps he simply wanted to believe it.
They descended toward a narrow stairwell where the crowd funneled in a chaotic stream. Only then did Keal's hand finally slip away.
"Stay behind me, Penny," he instructed, gentle but firm. "Don't let anyone come between us."
He didn't wait for a reply before climbing. Bodies pressed from all sides, elbows digging, voices overlapping in impatient quarrels. Within seconds, Keal's brown tunic disappeared into the mass ahead, swallowed by commoners just as restless as he was.
Good, Lyra thought. A clean escape.
She began squeezing through the pack, ignoring the curses and shoves—until a force slammed into her back. She hit the ground hard, breath knocked from her lungs, pain stinging her tailbone.
A hand appeared before her.
Lyra looked up. Keal stood above her, worry etched into his face.
"I told you not to let anyone come between us," he said, exasperated. "Looks like I'll have to hold your hand like in the old days."
Old days? Lyra blinked.
Did this man truly, honestly, believe she was his missing sister? His sincerity was disarming.
She took his hand, and he pulled her upright with surprising gentleness.
"Thank you," she murmured.
She dusted her gown—a simple garment, the top and skirt joined at the waist as one—adjusting the blouse-like upper half where it met the dull, work-worn skirt. She felt oddly small under his assessing gaze. His thin lips curled into a warm smile, softening his sharp features. Though youthful, he carried an air too mature to be someone her real self's age—sun-browned skin, working-man strength, a face shaped by responsibility.
He offered his hand again.
"We shouldn't separate, Penny. Follow me properly this time."
Lyra nodded.
Together, they emerged from the stairwell—and the world exploded around her.
A colossal ring of stone opened before them, its stands packed so tightly that the arena trembled with the roar of thousands. Voices collided, chants ricocheted, and the air vibrated with anticipation.
"Incredible…" Lyra breathed.
"This way."
Keal led her up the stair-like seating until they found a small empty row. He settled beside a red-haired woman who screamed at the top of her lungs while waving a bright yellow flag. Lyra eased down beside him, chest fluttering from the sheer energy in the air.
This place was alive.
More alive than the palace had ever felt.
"Oh you hungry souls, craving spectacle," a booming voice thundered across the arena, theatrical and sharp, "prepare yourselves for the second game of the day! Fierce Joana the Viper shall clash against the green, ugly, lumbering beast of Vaelith!"
The crowd erupted again.
Lyra shivered with excitement.
"That must be the Herald," she whispered.
"Oh yes," Keal grinned. "Once he starts his Blood Herald monologue, you'll understand why people worship him almost as much as the fighters."
Lyra smiled faintly.
For now, she would just enjoy this stolen freedom—before crawling back into the palace cage.
The stadium quieted as a tall woman with braided red hair stepped out from a bronze archway. Joana the Viper. Her armor gleamed, bronze plates sculpted like the elegant curves of a serpent.
From the opposite gate lumbered a hulking creature—green-skinned, with a massive head and twin tusks like an elephant.
The crowd booed him mercilessly.
"Why are they booing?" Lyra asked.
"Low rank," Keal said simply. "Gladiators rise depending on skill or on the noble house that owns them. If they fight well, the house rises with them. If they fail… both fall."
Lyra's eyes widened. "That's brilliant. Cruel—but brilliant."
Keal chuckled. "I'm shocked you're interested. This morning you said arena fights were too gruesome."
She shrugged playfully. "I was... entirely out of the loop."
The Herald's voice soared again, dripping with showman drama:
"People of Solaris! Witness yet another easy victory for Joana of House Aksael! A single step separates their noble line from the Royal Ranking—and when they rise, we may finally see a battle between our beloved Viper and the King's Champion!"
The arena shook with madness.
"Isn't the Herald… a bit partial?" Lyra asked, tilting her head.
"'A bit'?" Keal laughed dryly. "He favors the high ranks to boost morale and... more importantly. Bets."
"Bets?"
"Of course. Nobles and commoners gamble fortunes on fighters." Keal pointed to the runners exchanging coins for tags. "If the fighter you bet on wins, you earn Sairas. But the game toys with minds. When you think the tension's at its peak… it climbs higher still."
Lyra hummed in fascination.
Maybe the real Penny would have been proud of her brother's sharp understanding.
The Viper stepped forward. Even from the stands, Lyra noticed the yellow-painted band circling her upper arm, the mark of House Aksael.
On the other hand…
Vaelith?
Yes! House Vaelith.
Rhena's friend.
Lady Gothera Vaelith, with her feathered fans and cruel little smirk.
Lyra smirked herself. Wouldn't hurt to see what their house is capable of.
"The sands await your names.
The crowd awaits your courage.
Let battle carve your legacy.
BEGIN!"
The Herald's chant rippled like magic.
A bronze spear materialized in Joana's grip. The beast swung his massive hammer toward her face—but she blocked it in a fluid motion and vaulted off his leg, spinning through the air to land behind him. The crowd gasped as she knocked him forward with a powerful strike.
"That's our sneaky Viper!" the Herald crowed. "A signature back-attack strike!"
Lyra stared, mesmerized.
Speed magic. She recognized it instantly. Joana moved in blurs—almost like light flickers.
"If I had that kind of power…"
No. Thinking like that led nowhere.
Suddenly, the beast lunged again—this time catching Joana by the throat.
The arena fell silent.
Dark smoke seeped from his hands, swirling in thick coils. Lyra's heart dropped.
"Something is wrong," Keal muttered.
The smoke intensified—
Then a beam of radiant gold light struck the beast like a divine spear.
He shrieked, recoiling, the darkness sizzling off him. Lyra traced the light back to a noble section—and froze.
Ardelle.
Her third sister stood tall, white gown embroidered in gold, her long hair billowing as raw magic poured from her like a star detonating. Her face usually playful—was solemn and resolute.
Lyra felt a swell of pride so fierce she almost called out.
The emperor watched proudly.
Her other sisters hid behind their feathered fans, but Lyra knew their eyes gleamed with admiration.
Ardelle lowered her hands gracefully, folding them like a dutiful royal lady, settling back into her seat.
Just then—
Something plummeted from the sky.
It struck the beast with a bone-shattering crack, forcing the creature to collapse under its own weight. Dust spiraled upward. The arena fell into stunned silence.
When the haze settled, Lyra saw a man standing atop the fallen monster.
Or… something shaped like one.
Tall, unbothered, carved of night and sunlight both. His hair gleamed like obsidian touched by starlight; his skin shimmered as though the sun itself had blessed it. He didn't move. He didn't need to.
The air moved around him instead.
A wave of shock rippled through the stadium. Even the Herald; boisterous, unstoppable—froze mid-sentence. People gasped, pointing, whispering.
Lyra's pulse tripped.
Who… or what… had just dropped from the heavens?
The man lifted his head slightly, and though she could not see his eyes from where she sat, she felt the weight of his presence settle over the arena like a silent decree.
Her breath caught.