Leaving the hall, Aria did not return to her chambers where she knew Zyren would not be.
Her steps were deliberate, each one sharper than the last, carrying her instead toward his study.
She intended to speak to him, and she would not wait.
The two guards at the door stiffened as she approached, their crimson-tinged eyes flicking toward her before they bowed.
She didn’t acknowledge them—didn’t slow.
Her hand pushed against the heavy door, the polished wood giving way under her palm, and she stepped inside without knocking.
The faint scent of ink and old parchment clung to the room, mingling with the sharper tang of candle wax.
Zyren’s presence filled the space before his voice did.
"Shouldn’t you be in the training room with Vander?"
He didn’t even look up from the papers in his hands.
"There are still a few hours before your fight. He could teach you a thing or two before your first kill."
The casual cruelty in his tone struck her like a slap.
The implication was clear—Harriet’s death was not a possibility, it was an expectation.
"I’m not killing anyone," Aria said, her voice steady but threaded with steel.
She crossed the room, stopping on the opposite side of the massive desk, her gaze locked on his.
The sincerity in her tone was deliberate, a challenge he couldn’t mistake.
Finally, he raised his eyes from the documents. The corners of his mouth curved into a slow, amused smile—the kind that always made her want to claw it off his face.
"Really?" he drawled, his tone languid but mocking.
"Yes," she snapped. "I’m not killing anyone, and no one can force me to."
His smile deepened, though the look in his eyes sharpened. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Why do you think it’s called the Blood Tournament?" he asked, his voice quieter now, heavier, almost intimate. "Do you imagine the name was chosen for flair?"
Her silence was answer enough.
"Do you think those who killed their opponents wanted to?" His voice dropped lower still, forcing her to listen. "The arena gates do not open until one of you is dead. If you hesitate too long, the crowd grows impatient. They’ll throw stones until the most injured among you falls. There is no walking away."
He leaned back into his chair, his expression blank but his words slicing clean through the space between them.
"You will kill her," he said, "or you will die."
Aria’s jaw tightened until her teeth ached. She burned her glare into him, letting him see every ounce of defiance she could muster.
"Oh, and remember this, Aria..." He let the pause hang just long enough for her to turn away, one hand already on the door.
"I won’t save you. Go all out. Visit Vander—he’s good at what he does. He’ll tell you the quickest ways to give her a painless death."
The door clicked shut behind her before he could see the way her fists clenched at her sides.
Her heart pounded—not with fear, but with a low, coiled anger that seemed to thrum through her veins.
She didn’t even know who she was most furious at—Zyren for pushing her into this, Harriet for being in the position at all, or herself for not seeing a way out.
She reached her chambers, closing the door behind her, and sat heavily on the bed.
The fight loomed ahead, a jagged shadow she couldn’t step around.
The thought circled in her mind, sharp and bitter:
Unless you’re at the very top, above everyone else, someone will always be there to control you.
Zyren lived at that pinnacle.
No one told him what to do.
And no one could—unless they could touch what he valued most.
I should contact Liora, she thought suddenly. If I’m gone before the fight begins, they can’t force me to play their game.
By the time the evening bells chimed, she was already dressed in the clothes and armor Zyren had ordered for her.
The weight of it was strange—comforting and constricting at the same time.
The door slammed open without warning, and Rymora burst in, her dark eyes wide with urgency.
Behind her, a female guard was fastening the last straps of Aria’s armor, speaking without pause.
"This armor is forged from Adanite metal—light, flexible, ideal for women. This one has been reinforced to protect your vital organs. Unless you’re blindsided, you’ll leave the arena uninjured."
Her voice carried such confidence that Aria almost believed her.
"I’ve fastened it so it can’t be removed during the match. Once it’s over, I’ll assist you in taking it off."
"I’ll be on standby by the gate and I’ll also do some final checks before you have to go in so you have no need to be concerned!"
"Thank you, Vioni," Aria cut in before the woman could continue. "Wait outside. I have things to take care of."
Vioni bowed and stepped out.
The instant the door closed, Rymora was scribbling furiously on the sheet of parchment on the table, her hand shaking slightly.
When she pushed it toward Aria, the words were bold, almost carved into the page:
You’re fighting Harriet? Today? Now? Did the ritual work?
Aria met her gaze and gave a slow, firm nod.
"Yes. I’m fighting. And yes, the ritual worked. I’m stronger now."
A wry smile twisted her lips. "But who would have thought the first thing I’d be asked to do with that strength is kill?"
Her eyes drifted to the weapon on the table—a short blade, its edge catching the low lamplight.
I won’t, she thought. I can’t.
But she still reached for it, fingers curling around the hilt.
If she refused to leave her chambers, Zyren would simply send Vioni—or worse—to drag her out.
Her grip tightened. The metal was cool, almost soothing, against her palm.
One way or another, she would walk into that arena.
What happened inside it... she had yet to decide.