Caera Vritra
The oval combat field of the Coliseum—Victorious's largest arena, where the Victoriad was held every four years—sprawled around me like the mouth of a beast waiting to close.
The seats, capable of holding fifty thousand people, were almost completely full. The roar of the crowd was a living thing, pressing against my ears, my chest, the fragile cage of my ribs where my heart hammered a rhythm I refused to name as fear.
At the highest box, the private box of the Sovereign of Vechor himself, Kiros Vritra, loomed above them all.
The Scythes stood there too, their forms silhouetted against the bright sky, and among them was her. Seris. Watching. Judging. Waiting to see if I would rise or fall.
Today was the most important day of my life. Since I had memory, I was meant to be a weapon of the Vritra in one way or another.
I was born in the laboratory of the Sovereign of Central Dominion in Cargidan—a place of cold stone and colder purpose, where lives were measured in utility and discarded when they ceased to be useful.
But then Scythe Seris had looked at me, had seen something in the experiments and failures and half-formed things that filled those halls, and she had decided that I was meant to become her Retainer.
She had pulled me from that place, had shaped me, had pushed me beyond every limit I thought I had, and now I stood here, in the heart of the Coliseum, with everything she had given me balanced on the edge of a blade.
The magically enhanced gong resounded across the Coliseum, silencing the spectators in a single, thunderous stroke. The sudden quiet was more deafening than the noise had been.
"May the challengers for the position of Scythe of Sehz-Clar step forward," a deep voice announced, echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.
I stepped forward. Together with the other three challengers, I bowed to the high box. I did not raise my head, but I felt her gaze. Scythe Seris stared down at me and at the others, her expression unreadable, her presence a weight that pressed against my shoulders like a hand that would either lift me up or push me down.
"Sovereign Kiros Vritra welcomes and invites to battle—Randau the Many-Banded, Yildrim of Highblood Kross, Aushan of Named Blood Crisonto, and Caera Vritra!"
I kept my head bowed before the high box. My name had been called. There was no turning back now.
"Would any other prospects offer a challenge?" The voice asked, and silence followed. The crowd held its breath. The challengers beside me shifted, restless, but no one spoke. No one dared.
I knew why. These three I was going to fight had been chosen by Scythe Seris. She did not want me to have it easy. Like every second under her, I had to pass through dozens of struggles. All the training, all the sacrifices, all the pain and desperation I had suffered until now—none of it was enough for her. She demanded more. She always demanded more. And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the pressure, beneath the weight of everything she had made me carry, I was grateful for it. Because she believed I could bear it. Because she had never once looked at me as if I would fail.
I was going to be the youngest Retainer in Alacrya's history. Just twelve years old. And I was sure I was going to do it, because Scythe Seris never failed. And even if I failed... I did not want to think about what would happen if that happened.
"Then let the challenge commence!" The voice boomed, glorious and echoing throughout the large arena.
An oppressive pressure washed over the entire Coliseum—more oppressive than that of Scythe Seris when she personally oversaw my training. I looked down as the presence of Kiros Vritra, Sovereign of Vechor and pure-blooded Asura of the Vritra Clan, dominated the arena. My blood sang in response, that cursed gift recognizing its source, its master, its god.
"Prove yourselves, challengers," Sovereign Kiros said, and his voice made me tremble. If the Sovereign conveyed any emotion through his words, I could not tell. My blood was singing too loudly, drowning out everything but the raw, terrible weight of his attention. "Bring pride to your Sovereigns and claim every single drop of strength from the blood of Vritra that flows in your veins."
Then the suffocating presence of Kiros Vritra was gone, withdrawn like a hand releasing its grip, and I dared to look up.
I immediately took my blade—a bastard sword made of red metal, the very one Scythe Seris herself had given me—and the battle commenced. The crowd erupted, and I stepped forward to meet my fate.
—
Randau, the Many-Banded. They called him that because of his regalia's power—a constellation of bone bands wrapped around his wrists and forearms, each one a reservoir of stored mana, each one a weapon waiting to be unleashed.
The bands were carved from the bones of mana beasts he had killed himself, trophies and tools in one, and they pulsed with a sickly white light that made my skin crawl.
Yildrim of Highblood Kross. One of the strongest Shields in all of Alacrya who was not a Vritra Blood.
His runes were a tapestry of defense—a regalia, two crests, three emblems—all of them woven together to create a fortress of magic that could turn aside almost any attack.
He could weave the spells of others into his own defenses, redirecting, absorbing, nullifying. He was the kind of opponent that made mages despair.
And finally, Aushan of Named Blood Crisonto. A Caster with a wide variety of runes that made him a versatile mage, capable of spells for almost every element and many deviants—save for water.
Fire, lightning, wind, earth, even the rare deviant of sound. He was a storm in human form, unpredictable and deadly.
We stared at each other across the wide battlefield of the Coliseum of Victorious. The crowd was a sea of faces, fifty thousand of them, their voices a dull roar that pressed against my ears like the tide.
I had studied all of them. Scythe Seris had given me every piece of information regarding their fighting styles and runes—their strengths, their weaknesses, their tendencies, their tells.
And while from an outsider's perspective that might have seemed like an advantage the Scythe was giving me, it was not.
Scythe Seris had made me study and devise strategies to fight a hundred possible candidates for this day. And all of them had been chosen by the Scythe herself.
Randau, Yildrim, Aushan—they were all either financed, equipped, or trained by her. All to give me the hardest challenge possible. She was not helping me. She was testing me.
She had always been testing me, from the moment she pulled me from the laboratory in Cargidan, from the moment she first looked at me with those cold, calculating eyes and saw a tool.
The three other candidates looked at each other and nodded. They had planned this. They had trained together, fought together, prepared for this moment together. Then they turned to face me.
A one versus three.
There were no rules in the Victoriad against such things—there were no rules about fighting in the Victoriad at all. The only referee that existed here was Sovereign Kiros, and he did not care about fairness.
He cared about blood. He cared about spectacle. He cared about seeing the Vritra Blood prove that it deserved to exist.
I blinked. When I opened my eyes, a dot of fire was in front of my face. A miniature marble of condensed flame, hovering inches from my nose, so close I could feel the heat singeing my eyelashes.
Aushan's regalia! I screamed inwardly, my body moving before my mind could catch up. I jumped back, my legs pistoning, my boots scraping against the sand.
The marble expanded, roared, and detonated in a bloom of fire that would have taken my head off if I had been a heartbeat slower.
I turned my head to the right. Randau was there, his whole face twisted in concentration, his arm drawn back, his fist aimed at my side. The bands on his wrist were glowing, the mana inside them building toward release.
I raised my sword. The edge parried the band on his wrist, the impact jarring up my arm. Randau was classified as a Striker—close combat was his domain, his specialty.
He was going to be my main direct opponent, the anvil upon which the others would hammer me.
The bone band on Randau's wrist shone brightly, the stored mana inside ready to explode. But before it could, five hexagonal panels of chalk-white magic materialized around him, forming a dome of shields that would contain the blast—Yildrim's work.
The Shield had woven his magic into Randau's attack, turning it into a trap.
Just as planned, I said in my head. My heart beat like crazy, a wild drum in my chest, but my mind was clear. I had anticipated this.
Rapidly, I launched my sword into the air. The blade spun end over end, catching the light, and I jerked my right arm backward, calling on my Vritra Blood.
It answered immediately, surging through my veins like a river of black fire. A melody rang in my ears—the song of Vritra, the call that promised power and demanded everything in return.
Black flames began to circle my whole limb like a serpent, coiling around my arm, my wrist, my fingers. They were cold and hot at the same time, a paradox given form.
Soulfire. The deviant of fire that was the birthright of the Vritra Blood. My sword fell back into my hand, now wreathed in those black flames, and I faced the explosion head-on.
The blast came, a wall of force and fire that should have torn me apart. But the Soulfire devoured the mana that exploded from Randau's band, drinking it like water, consuming it like fuel.
I pushed forward, into the heart of the explosion, and like a surgeon making an incision, I pierced through the magic panels with my sword. They shattered, one by one, their chalk-white light fragmenting into a thousand pieces.
Before I could land the final hit, however, I was blasted away by another marble of fire. Aushan's spell caught me in the side, detonating outward with the strength of a dozen explosives.
The force of it lifted me off my feet, hurled me through the air like a ragdoll, and I crashed against the far end of the Coliseum.
I flew dozens of meters—more than I could count, more than I could measure—before I hit the stone wall with a sickening crunch.
I heard bones break. The sound was wet, sharp, wrong. The impact drove the breath from my lungs, sent stars exploding across my vision, and I screamed.
The pain was immense, all-consuming, a fire that had nothing to do with Aushan's magic.
I called on my Soulfire to heal my wounds. The black flames flowed from my core, spreading through my body, knitting broken bones, sealing torn flesh.
Images flashed behind my eyes—memories Scythe Seris beating me to the ground, methodically breaking my bones and tearing my muscles, again and again, until I learned how to wield Soulfire as a healing method without killing myself.
Those sessions had lasted hours. I had lost count of how many times I had nearly died on her training floor, how many times I had screamed until my throat was raw, how many times I had begged for it to end.
She never stopped. She never showed mercy. She only watched, cold and patient, and waited for me to rise again.
As the fractures in my bones fused and the blood stopped streaming, I felt the Vritra's call. The song grew louder, more insistent, promising power, promising safety, promising an end to all pain. It wanted to strip me of my identity. Of my everything.
Of the memories that made me Caera, the fears that made me human, the stubborn, desperate hope that kept me fighting.
Resist, Caera. Resist. I willed myself to stand, pushing up from the ground, my legs trembling, my arms shaking. Randau was already closing the distance, only a few meters away, ready to strike me again.
The Striker was on me in an instant, his fist raised, hexagonal panels already forming around him to protect him from his own attack. He threw a band at me—a bone weapon charged with mana—and I side-stepped away.
The object exploded to my right, the blast ruffling my hair, scorching my cheek. But by dodging, I had moved directly into Aushan's line of fire.
Winding serpents of lightning appeared above each finger of his right hand, crackling and hissing, hungry for flesh. He threw them at me before I could move away, the bolts crossing the distance between us in a heartbeat.
I crashed to the ground as each lightning bolt found its mark. One hit my left arm, another my right leg, a third my torso.
The pain was indescribable—a burning, seizing, tearing agony that left me paralyzed on the sand. My limbs would not answer. My muscles would not obey. My eyesight blurred, my eyelids twitching and closing against my will even as I forced them to stay open.
Randau was about to place his foot on my chest. That would declare my defeat—tradition instituted by Sovereign Kiros for duels not to the death. If his boot touched me, it was over.
I rolled to the side. My limbs did not answer, but my torso did, and I pushed with everything I had. The motion was clumsy, desperate, barely enough.
Randau's foot came down on empty sand.
I called for more Soulfire. The black flames surged through my deadened limbs, awakening them, forcing them to move. The pain was exquisite, a knife twisting in my gut, but I did not stop.
When Randau raised his foot again, ready to declare me defeated, I acted.
I moved to his side. The Striker was covered in hexagonal shields, Yildrim's magic wrapping around him like a second skin. But I had Soulfire, and Soulfire devoured mana.
I pushed through the shields, overpowering them, the black flames consuming the chalk-white light. I felt myself approaching the brink of my blood—that dangerous threshold where the Vritra's call became impossible to resist.
If I surpassed it, I was sure I would become just like Scythe Seris. An uncaring, cold, empty monster that found purpose only in serving the High Sovereign. No matter the cost. No matter what she had to do.
But this was her plan all along. These three were tasked with forcing me to use my Soulfire. That was why they weren't killing me outright—not because I was twelve.
Age in the Coliseum did not matter. Age in Victorious did not matter. Age in Vechor did not matter. Age in Alacrya did not matter, not when the High Sovereign told us what to do.
I had to end this quickly. Or else I would fall victim to my own blood.
As I grappled with Randau, I felt a strong pull. Aushan's magic—another of his runes, this one creating a vortex of wind that pulled everything he desired toward its center.
The force of it tugged at my clothes, my hair, my limbs, trying to drag me into the kill zone.
I planted my sword in the ground of the Coliseum, the blade sinking deep into the sand, and used it as an anchor. The pull was immense, straining my arms, my shoulders, my back.
I was forced to release Randau, my grip slipping, my body leaning into the wind.
The Striker did not hesitate. He took two of his bands and threw them—one at me, and the other... on the path where I would go if I let the vacuum take me.
I withdrew my sword from the ground and slashed upward. The blade cut the bone band in two, and the halves exploded on either side of me, leaving burn marks on my skin, scorching my arms, my face. I forced Soulfire back, refusing to heal the wounds. I did not care about the pain. I did not care about the scars.
I preferred to die than let the last of my freedom—my mind—be taken from me.
In my veins flowed a blood that was not my own. My whole life was at the total mercy of Scythe Seris. My magic was something the High Sovereign owned.
Only my thoughts were my own. And if I let the Vritra Blood take those too, I would stop being a person. I would be a thrall of Vritra.
The vortex caught me. Aushan's spell was too strong, my strength not enough to resist. I was hurtled toward the center of the arena, my feet leaving the ground, my body spinning through the air. And there, waiting for me, was another marble of fire.
I braced myself. I raised my sword high above my head with both hands, Soulfire wreathing its edge in black flames. I jerked downward, slicing the marble in two. The Soulfire devoured the explosion before it could expand, suffocating the fire magic, drinking it dry.
I hit the ground and rolled, sand grinding into my wounds, into my hair, into my mouth. Another bone band flew toward me—Randau's work.
I avoided it again, launching myself out of the explosion's range. Lightning exploded to my right and left, Aushan's spells missing me by centimeters, by luck, by the grace of gods who had long since abandoned me.
I have to take him out! I shouted inwardly. My navy blue hair fell around my face, dirty with sand and sweat and blood. My breath was heavy, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a prayer. But I could still go on. I still had plenty in me.
I ran toward Yildrim. One of the most basic teachings in Alacrya was always aim for the Shield first, so that he could not protect his companions.
But obviously these three—trained and chosen by Scythe Seris—would not let themselves be fooled by such a basic strategy.
Just as I thought, Randau moved to defend the Shield, who covered himself in various panels of magic. Perfect.
I smiled triumphantly and turned to look at Aushan. He was ready to cast another lightning spell, his fingers crackling, his eyes focused. But he was without defenses. He had committed to the attack, and in doing so, had left himself open.
I moved my right arm, pointing at him, and let the serpent of Soulfire free.
The black flames shot across the arena, swift as a striking viper. Aushan's eyes widened. He tried to conjure a shield, to dodge, to do anything—but he was too slow. The Soulfire reached him before he could complete his spell, wrapping around him, consuming his magic, burning through his defenses.
Then Randau's fist connected with my face.
The impact shattered my jaw. I felt the bone crack, felt the teeth shift, felt the blood flood my mouth.
But I did not fall. I turned to the Striker, my vision swimming, my ears ringing, and I heard Aushan's screams. He was futile, helpless, unable to fight off my Soulfire. The black flames were eating through his runes, his spells, his very mana and soul.
It was them or me. If I did not succeed, I would not survive Scythe Seris's disappointment. She would either kill me on the spot for failing the Vritra's design, or I would die under a new training regime meant to strip me of my humanity.
There was no third option.
Kill or be killed. That was the truest truth. My blood sang in approval as I repeated the mantra in my head, the melody swelling, the call growing louder.
I headbutted Randau.
My horns—black and crown-shaped, the clearest sign of my Vritra Blood alongside my red eyes—pierced the Striker's face.
They shattered the small panel of mana that Yildrim had managed to cast in the chaos, drove through flesh and bone and something softer beneath.
Randau screamed. Blood sprayed across my face, hot and thick. He fell to the ground, blinded, his hands clutching at the ruin of his eyes.
I stood tall above him. My jaw hung crooked, my blood dripped onto the sand, my body screamed with every breath.
Then, I stared at Yildrim.
"Do you yield?" I asked.
Yielding was accepted for non-Vritra Bloods. Sovereign Kiros allowed the... humans... to surrender. But for Vritra Bloods like me, surrendering was a death sentence.
Yildrim looked at me with the eyes of someone who was staring at a god. A Vritra. His face was pale, his lips trembling, his hands shaking.
Please surrender, I begged silently in my head. Please don't make me kill you. Please don't make me become what they want me to become.
"I-I yield..." Yildrim said.
The words fell from his lips like a prayer, like a plea, like the last breath of a drowning man. As he declared it, I placed my foot on Randau's chest.
The Striker was still screaming,. begging the pain to stop and for an Instiller to come and rescue him, clawing at his ruined face where my horns sank, but... but he was alive.
The gong of the Coliseum resounded across the arena, echoing off the stone walls, rolling over the crowd like thunder.
"Caera Vritra wins the position of Retainer!"
I stood in the center of the Coliseum, my jaw hanging broken, my face covered in blood, my body screaming, and I did not feel like a victor.
I felt like a puppet. I felt like a weapon. I felt like the Vritra blood in my veins was singing a song I did not want to hear.
A song that was trying to charm me toward the brink and I couldn't do anything, but listen to it.