Ashborn stood above the field, arms crossed, one boot tapping against the marble railing.
His expression was frozen, but beneath it, something dark stirred.
He had known Avin was weak.
He had always known it.
He watched his half-brother flailing through the sand like a child thrown into a war he couldn’t comprehend. The failed blocks. The slow steps. The fear.
It wasn’t just weakness—it was alien.
"It’s like he’s never fought in his life..." Ashborn muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "Then why the hell would he suggest this spar?"
His gaze snapped sideways. Past the fight. Past the dust. Right to Leo—who stood awkwardly at the other end of the platform, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flickering between the field and Ashborn’s expression.
Ashborn stepped closer.
"I don’t know what he’s doing, Lord," Leo stammered, forcing a tight, nervous smile. "He normally performs much better than this. I—I don’t understand what’s going wrong—"
"You think this is funny, Leo?" Ashborn’s voice sliced through the air, flat but sharp.
Leo froze. The smile died.
Ashborn’s boots echoed as he closed the distance.
His eyes glowed—not faintly. Malicious red, like heat simmering just beneath a steel lid. Like he wasn’t just angry—but disappointed, insulted, calculating.
"If he loses this..." Ashborn said, voice low.
"You lose your head."
Leo’s face drained of all color. "M-My Lord, I—"
But Ashborn was no longer listening. His attention drifted once more to the arena.
To the cracked boy scrambling for life.
To the crowd watching like vultures.
To the family seated beside him—each lost in their own worlds.
The Duchess hadn’t flinched once. Her face was emotionless. Either she didn’t care, or she preferred it this way.
Ashvelar stared at the field with quiet disappointment—no anger, just a tired shake of the head, like he already given up on His little brother long ago.
She wasn’t even watching.
Ashborn’s jaw tightened.
Looking back at the fight
The air scratched my lungs.
It wasn’t breath. Not really. It was survival.
One gasp. One wheeze. One more trembling foot forward.
I didn’t stop until I had distance between us.
Not much. But enough to think.
I turned, chest heaving. I scanned the field. My ears rang too loud to hear properly. Where—where was Bram?
No sound. No footsteps. No silhouette. Just open sand.
I blinked, confused. Follow current novᴇls on novel~fire~net
I slammed into something.
My head jerked up, body staggering back instinctively—and there he was.
Bram. Standing right in front of me, towering with rage. His eyes were red-rimmed, covered in grains of sand that clung to his lashes like dust to a monument.
He looked down at me like I wasn’t even worth killing.
I flinched as his right hand rose—not to strike—but lifted high over his shoulder, fingers spread like he was about to catch something.
A wooden machete shot through the air with unnatural precision, landing perfectly into his palm like it had been summoned by will alone.
I looked behind him, toward where he’d left his weapons.
The other was now in his grip.
Before I could even process what was happening—
Everything went dark.
There was no "me." Just a presence. A consciousness—adrift in void. A soul lost between beats.
But I wasn’t alive either.
Soft. Feminine. Ancient.
It didn’t speak like a woman. It sang like nature
A rhythm. A chant. The kind that doesn’t belong to mouths, but to rivers, wind, and old trees.
"Vitae redeat, mors vacillet.
Ossibus fortis, sanguine florens.
Anima non solvitur—retexitur."
I didn’t understand the words, not exactly.
But my soul... recognized them.
Something about life returning, death staggering, bones growing strong again, a spirit not undone... but rewoven.
The voice kept going, but I couldn’t catch the rest.
My name flickered in the sound—Clive—buried between syllables.
More words poured over me like water down a mountain:
Fragments. Broken noise.
"%@&%@%&... Clive...!$@%@^ remember... remember... remember..."
Until even the echoes were gone.
Pulled down by something warm and green and ancient. Pulled back into the body I had only just escaped.
Not dulled. Not fading.
My ribs didn’t burn. My arms didn’t throb. The agony that had gripped my spine like a vice... erased.
I was just tired. Deeply, bone-deep tired. The kind that only comes after something unnatural.
I laid there, arms sprawled wide, breathing in the scent of dust and iron. The sun blazed overhead—low and orange.
For the first time since I woke in this world...
That hit me like a whisper in a prayer.
The moon hadn’t greeted me this time. It was the sun. A sunrise, maybe. Or a sunset.
But then Bram stepped into view.
He was standing above me, peering down—not with anger, not with glee.
With something... else.
He grinned, but not mockingly.
And with a low voice that vibrated with something ancient, he murmured,
He turned then, walking toward the center of the field, raising his eyes to the audience seated in the elevated pavilion.
He inhaled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"I APOLOGIZE FOR MY LACK OF MANNERS.
I WAS SO EAGER TO FIGHT YOUNG LORD AVIN THAT I DID NOT WAIT FOR COMMANDER ASHBORN TO FINISH WITH HIS COMMAND.
"I CALL FOR A REMATCH."
"THE RIGHT WAY THIS TIME."
I stared at him like he’d grown two heads.
What the hell was this guy talking about?
He won. Decisively. Brutally.
This wasn’t a fight—it was an execution.
There’s no way anyone would allow—
The voice echoed from above.
I turned back toward the stands, slowly, afraid of what I might see.
Ashborn’s face was carved in stone. Not anger. Not indifference. Just... resignation.
Behind him, the rest of my "family."
The Duchess sat with hands folded, gaze blank. Emotionless. Like she was watching horses race—not her son get broken.
Ashvelar... her mouth was tight. Eyes downcast. The disappointment on her face was clearer than ever.
That’s when I realized.. My blood wanted my death in a deathless cage