The sun had barely risen when the bells of the City of the End began to toll. A deep, slow sound that echoed off the white stone walls and spread through the courtyards, corridors and cells. The bells did not announce joy. They announced the beginning of the tournament that would decide the future of the kingdom.
The improvised battlefield occupied the center of the main square, between the cathedral and the Pope's palace. It was a square of beaten earth, delimited by hemp ropes and wooden stakes. The benches for the nobles, arranged in a semicircle, were already full. The colors of the houses mixed: blue and silver of the Lunos, blue and purple of the Eladir, the black octopus of the Graylor, the hammer and anvil of the Mercius. And, in the center of the main dais, the ivory throne where the Pope would sit.
The servants ran from side to side, carrying shields, wooden swords and jugs of water. The heralds, in red and gold tunics, rehearsed their proclamations in low voices. The guards, posted at the entrances, watched the crowd that jostled behind the ropes – peasants, merchants, soldiers, all eager for blood and spectacle.
Lirius Remadís watched from the window of his room, his arms crossed, his face impassive. The dark armor he had put on at dawn creaked slightly when he breathed. Kamia, sitting on the bed, arranged her hair with trembling fingers.
"You will win, my darling" she said, her voice neutral, her eyes fixed on the mirror.
"I know that, bitch."
"Elisa is not an opponent. She is only a stone in the road."
"Stones can also make you trip. I'll win, but I might lose the love of the nobles."
Kamia did not answer. She only continued to arrange her hair. Lirius turned to her.
"Martha," he said suddenly. "Where is she?"
"In the back rooms. The Pope gave her a room."
"Take her to my chambers. Today. After the tournament."
Kamia paled. Her hands stopped.
"Lirius..."
"Don't make me repeat myself, bitch. You'tre not your Irina. And don't call me darling."
She lowered her head. Her hands, now still, rested on her lap.
"Yes, my lord."
Lirius turned back to the window. Outside, the herald climbed to the podium. The tournament was about to begin.
+++
Elisa was in the inner garden, alone, sitting on a stone bench. The rare flowers, which only bloomed in September, glowed with a pale light. The smell of wet earth mixed with the smell of fear.
"Princess," called a councilor, approaching. "The tournament is about to begin."
"Are the knights ready?"
"They are."
"My knights..." Elisa sighed. "They won't win."
"Then why do they even fight?"
"Because they cannot refuse. And because... because there is still some hope."
The councilor did not answer. He only bowed and walked away.
Elisa stood up. She adjusted her dress. Her black hair, tied in a ponytail, shone in the pale sunlight.
"Lirius," she murmured. "What will you do today, brother?"
+++
The Pope took his place on the ivory throne when the sun was already high. The white and gold robes dragged on the stone floor. His face, old and tired, showed no emotion. Only his eyes – deep, ancient – swept the crowd with a slowness that seemed to weigh every soul.
"Begin," he ordered, with a wave.
The herald climbed to the podium. His voice, trained to echo, announced:
"The succession tournament of Endomyar is open! The winners of each house will fight each other. The last one standing will be crowned king!"
The first duels were quick, almost uninteresting. Knights of Lunos faced knights of Eladir. Soldiers of Mercius dueled with soldiers of Graylor. Blood was spilled. Screams echoed. The people applauded.
Lirius did not participate in the first rounds. He watched from the dais, beside the Pope, his arms crossed, his face impassive. Kamia, sitting behind him, kept her eyes on the ground.
"Your trumph card, does not fight," commented the Pope, without looking at him.
"He fights when necessary," replied Lirius. "Now, it is not necessary."
"And when will it be?"
"When the weak have been eliminated."
+++
Elisa entered the arena as the sun began to set.
Her silver and light armor shone in the twilight light. Her black hair, held in a simple helmet, fell over her shoulders. Her short, thin sword trembled in her hand.
Her opponent was a knight of Graylor – a large man, with a red beard, heavy armor. He looked at Elisa with disdain.
"Princess," he said, with a sarcastic bow. "It is an honor."
"The honor is mine," replied Elisa, her voice calm.
They began.
The Graylor knight attacked first. The blow was strong, fast, but Elisa dodged with a minimal movement. She counterattacked. Her sword hit the opponent's arm – not deep, but enough to unbalance him.
The knight stepped back, surprised.
"The princess knows how to fight," he murmured.
"The princess learned," replied Elisa. "She was not born a queen. She was born a warrior."
The second attack was more cautious. The third, slower. On the fourth, Elisa disarmed her opponent. His sword fell to the ground with a dry sound.
"You have won," said the knight, kneeling. "My sword is yours."
"Keep it," replied Elisa. "You will need it."
The knight stood up. He knelt again, in respect. The people applauded.
Elisa did not look at the crowd. She looked at Lirius.
He was smiling.
+++
The final was between Lirius and Elisa.
The two siblings, face to face, in the center of the arena. Their swords raised. Their eyes fixed on each other.
"Elisa," said Lirius, his voice low, only for her. "Give up."
"No."
"You will lose."
"I won't."
"Well... if you say so."
Lirius attacked first. Fast. Faster than any previous opponent. His black, heavy sword cut through the air inches from Elisa's neck.
She dodged. She counterattacked. The blow hit Lirius's shoulder – superficial, but enough to irritate him.
"You will pay for that," he hissed.
He attacked again. Stronger. Faster. Elisa blocked, stepped back, blocked again. Her strength was beginning to fail. Her armor, too light for that type of combat, did not protect her from the blows she could not dodge.
The tenth attack hit her chest. The eleventh, her leg. The twelfth, her arm.
Elisa fell to her knees. Her sword fell from her hand.
"It's over," said Lirius, pointing his blade at her neck. "Do you beg for forgiveness?"
"Never," replied Elisa, her voice gasping.
Lirius hesitated. His dark, cold eyes fixed on hers. Then, he lowered his sword.
"Take her," he ordered the guards. "To the chambers. Tend to her wounds."
The guards helped Elisa to her feet. She did not resist. She only looked at her brother with an expression that was not hatred. It was sadness.
The Pope rose from the throne.
"The winner of the tournament is Lirius Remadís," he announced, his voice echoing in the square. "The last one standing. The new king of Endomyar."
The people applauded. The nobles too. Some, with enthusiasm. Others, out of fear.
Lirius climbed to the dais. He knelt before the Pope.
"Your Holiness," he said, his voice sweet. "I accept the throne. And I also accept my sister as wife. To unify the claims. To bring peace to the kingdom."
The Pope hesitated. His deep, ancient eyes fixed on his.
"Your sister..." he began.
"She will accept," Lirius interrupted. "She has no choice."
The Pope did not answer. He only nodded.
Silence settled.
"And more," Lirius continued, rising. "I demand that Martha Errêndias be my concubine. The last heir of the traitorous house. She will serve as an example."
"An example of what?" asked the Pope, his voice low.
"That traitors have no place in my kingdom. Only servitude."
The Pope did not answer. He only sat down.
The nobles murmured. Someone in the back of the square shouted: "Injustice!" – but was quickly silenced by the guards.
Lirius looked at Kamia. His wife, sitting on the dais, kept her eyes on the ground.
"Kamia," he called, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Come here."
She stood up. Her trembling steps dragged across the stone floor. She knelt before him.
"Yes, my lord?"
"You disobeyed me. You asked not to bring Martha to my chambers."
"Lord..."
"Silence."
Lirius raised his hand. The slap was strong, dry, and echoed in the square. Kamia fell to the side. Blood ran from her split lip.
Silence was total.
"Get up," ordered Lirius.
Kamia stood up. She did not cry. She did not scream. She only looked at him with empty eyes.
"Go to your chambers," said Lirius. "I don't want to see you until dinner."
Kamia bowed and walked away.
The Pope, seated on the throne, did not intervene. No one did.
+++
In the late afternoon, when the sun was already hiding behind the walls and the shadows stretched across the stone floor, Zirinos arrived at the City of the End.
His backpack on his back. Enyo on his shoulder. His gold-and-blood hair dirty with dust. His eyes, dry. His mouth, a thin line.
The gate guards looked at him with suspicion, but did not stop him from entering. His fame – bad or good, it didn't matter – opened doors.
The tournament had ended. The crowd was dispersing. The nobles were retiring to their chambers. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with the smell of incense and wax.
Zirinos stopped in the center of the square.
He looked at the empty scaffold. At the ivory throne. At the banners of the houses, trembling in the cold wind.
"Lindériu is here," murmured Enyo, on his shoulder. No. The creature did not speak. It was Zirinos who thought it.
Lindériu is here. He came for the tournament. He came to join the nobles.
And I will ask for a judgment.
I will invent evidence. Buy witnesses. Build a lie so solid that even the Pope won't be able to deny it.
And Lindériu will die.
He tightened his hand on his sword.
Enyo squeaked.
"Be quiet," whispered Zirinos. "Not yet."
The City of the End, before him, seemed like a tomb of white stone.
The monster that came out of hell did not cry.
It only planned.
And the plan was almost ready.