The air was thick, pressing down on all of them. No one moved. No one even breathed too loudly. The only signs of life were the flickering light and the shifting glances darting between faces—uncertain, waiting, trapped in the moment.

  The two clan leaders had taken their seats, their gazes weighted—watchful.

  Thrynzak, who had turned the heat earlier, was now unnervingly still, shoulders taut, his hands curled but motionless. Elysian, who had started the fire earlier, felt his own pulse hammering in his throat. Neither wanted to be the first to break the unnatural silence.

  It stretched on, suffocating. It fed on everyone’s hesitation.

  Kaerthlyn exhaled sharply. Then she rose. The only sound was the slow scrape of her boot against the floor. “What the hell are you doing?” Her voice cut through the silence like a blade. Heads snapped toward her, bodies stiffening as if expecting a blow. The warriors from both sides—those who had been gearing for a fight only minutes ago—looked away, suddenly uncertain, suddenly smaller.

  She scanned them, eyes sharp with irritation. Then her gaze landed on Elysian, and she scowled deeper. “Even you?” A scoff, cold and sharp. “Where was all that bravado you had earlier? What happened to that fire?”

  Elysian’s jaw clenched.

  'Why is she singling me out? A dozen others stand frozen, yet she zeroes in on me. And the audacity—her, of all people, questioning my hesitation. The precious granddaughter of the Matriarch, blood of Vrakdur himself, perched in her tower of privilege and safety. What could she possibly understand about consequences? About the weight that crushes those of us who dare to step wrong?

  Damnable, girl.'

  Eyes turned toward him, pressing him into the moment. He gritted his teeth, forced his lips into something resembling a smile, and muttered, “Yes, she’s right.” Then he clapped. One, two, three slow beats against his palms, ringing hollow in the stillness. No one joined. They only stared at him, watching his discomfort as if it was a spectacle in itself. The clapping slowed, faltered, and he gave a strained laugh, feeling the weight of their collective scrutiny settle on his skin like a suffocating pelt. His eyes darted for an escape and landed on Sybil. “Now, why don’t we clap for our winner?”

  Sybil’s blood drained from his face. The slow, predatory turn of heads—first the thralgar, then the trolls, and finally, the two clan leaders. Sybil barely managed to inhale. He had been in battle just now. He had stared down blades, heard men scream as they tried to kill him. But this? This was worse. Throrak was watching. So was Vrakdur.

  Sybil swallowed hard, feeling a cold trickle of sweat slide down his back. Then his gaze snapped to Elysian—who had the nerve to look away, as if he wasn’t the one who had just thrown him onto the pyre. Sybil’s glare promised vengeance.

  From the suffocating silence, a sharp, angry voice sliced through the tension. The sudden outburst shattered the uneasy stillness, and all eyes turned toward its source—a pair of thralgar striding into view from the far side of the gathering. The unexpected disruption was jarring, but also, undeniably, a relief. Anything was better than the paralyzing uncertainty that had gripped them all.

  Elysian tensed, instinctively attuned to the shift. Though he couldn't decipher the guttural words being exchanged, their meaning was clear—one man berating another, a superior dressing down an inferior for some grave mistake. His gaze locked onto the speaker—Tavrok. He recognized him immediately. The same thralgar who had broken the grim news in the Draekthar council chamber, his voice carrying the weight of young warriors lost to the trial. But the one being scolded? A stranger.

  The newcomer bore the rebuke with a startling indifference. He strode unaffected, expression unreadable, as if Tavrok’s words passed through him like wind through the trees. He did not flinch, did not argue—just walked, listening without truly listening. That alone set him apart, but what caught Elysian’s attention even more was the reaction rippling through the gathered clans.

  The Gulthram were confused. Their expressions, a mixture of curiosity and wariness, mirrored the same question in Elysian’s mind. But the Draekthar? They all sighed, almost in unison, a collective exasperation washing over them. Recognition, familiarity, and perhaps even frustration lined their faces. And it wasn’t just them. Throrak, ever composed, now frowned as he beheld the newcomer. Vrakdur merely sighed as if resigned to whatever storm had just walked into their midst.

  That detail alone snagged Elysian's attention. He studied the thralgar with newfound intensity, his gaze sharpening like a blade being drawn. There was something more here—a dangerous current running beneath the calm surface. It wasn't just the reactions of others, though that spoke volumes. No, it was in the thralgar himself. Beneath that veneer of nonchalance, beneath the easy smiles and relaxed posture, lurked something else entirely. The way he moved—fluid yet precisely controlled, like a predator at rest. His presence resonated with the quiet menace of a sword still in its sheath, all lethal grace held in perfect check. Every instinct in Elysian screamed danger, and he trusted those instincts implicitly.

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  The realization settled in Elysian’s gut like a stone dropped into deep water. This man—whoever he was—was the most powerful thralgar he had encountered, more than anyone in this gathering, barring the two clan leaders. And yet, it wasn’t his size or stature that marked him. He wasn’t hulking, nor did he radiate the raw, suffocating presence of Throrak. He carried no visible weapons. But power clung to him in a way that was impossible to ignore—quiet, restrained, like a blade still sheathed but honed to a killing edge.

  The two thralgar strode forward, their approach breaking the fragile stillness. Tavrok, consumed in his tirade, hadn’t yet realized that all eyes were on them. His voice, sharp with frustration, echoed through the space as he berated the other man. But his companion walked as though he hadn’t a care in the world, as if Tavrok’s words were little more than passing wind. He neither argued nor conceded, merely existing in his own rhythm, untouched by the weight of the moment.

  Elysian wasn’t the only one watching. The Draekthar warriors had sighed in unison at his arrival, a mixture of resignation and irritation passing through their ranks. The Gulthram, on the other hand, looked completely lost, their brows furrowed as if trying to decipher a joke they hadn’t been let in on. But what struck Elysian the most was the reaction of the clan leaders. Throrak’s expression twisted into a frown—not of anger, but of measured scrutiny, as though he had been hoping not to see this man. Vrakdur, on the other hand, sighed deeply, his face slipping into the weary mask of someone too familiar with a recurring problem.

  The mysterious thralgar abruptly stopped walking. His disinterest did not waver, nor did his expression change, but his feet simply stopped moving, forcing Tavrok to halt mid-stride. The steward, caught up in his anger, continued for a few more steps before he realized the other thralgar was no longer beside him. Irritated, he turned to snap at him—only to follow his pointed gesture and finally see what had been obvious to everyone else. The two clan leaders were watching them.

  Tavrok paled. He stood frozen for a moment, like a man caught in a storm without shelter, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right words. But the hesitation was brief. As soon as he noticed the frown darkening Vrakdur’s face, Tavrok bolted forward, dropping into a deep bow.

  Elysian still couldn’t understand the words exchanged, but the body language and tone told him everything. Tavrok was apologizing, his voice hurried but careful. Vrakdur exhaled heavily, a sigh that carried the weight of patience worn thin. Then, something unexpected—Vrakdur’s gaze flickered toward Elysian, just for a heartbeat.

  'Is that my imagination? A mistake?'

  Elysian stiffened. Before he could decide, Vrakdur spoke in the rootless tongue. “Stop it, steward.” A dismissive gesture. “I know it’s not your fault.”

  Tavrok hesitated, momentarily thrown by the language choice, but his confusion passed quickly. His eyes darted to Sybil, realization settling. “Thank you for your understanding, my lord.” He straightened, though his hands were still clenched at his sides.

  Vrakdur, however, had already turned to the other thralgar. “You know your duty, don’t you, Drask?” His tone was heavy with expectation. “Where did you go?”

  Drask let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, the kind meant to test patience rather than appease it. “I was taking a dump.”

  Silence.

  Vrakdur blinked. “Taking a dump?” His voice was flat, as if he was struggling how to react. Then, his brow furrowed. “You’re the officiator of this competition. And you were taking a dump?”

  Drask grinned lazily. “Would you rather I held it in? If I stayed here, the whole competition would have stopped for a different reason.”

  Vrakdur’s expression darkened. “Do you have any idea what nearly happened? Because you were gone, things almost got out of hand.”

  “It nearly happened,” Drask said, shrugging. “But it didn’t, did it?”

  Tavrok, who had been watching this exchange with a growing twitch in his jaw, finally snapped. “Shut your mouth.” He turned quickly to Vrakdur, his tone shifting from fury to forced respect. “I apologize, my lord. This one has always had a foul mouth—”

  “Stop it, steward,” Vrakdur interrupted with another sigh, this one laced with something close to defeat. “I’m quite familiar with Drask. You don’t need to explain him to me.”

  Elysian took in the exchange, his mind clicking pieces into place. Vrakdur’s reaction, the way even Tavrok had faltered before the clan leader’s gaze—these were the responses of men who held authority over others. And yet Drask... Drask did not fall in line. Even as Vrakdur scolded him, the man stood there, unaffected. Not out of defiance. Not out of arrogance. But as if he simply existed beyond such concerns, as though rules and consequences were things that applied to lesser men.

  A fool who disregards authority is dangerous. But a fool who disregards authority and has the power to back it up? That was something else entirely.

  And it wasn’t just Vrakdur. Even Throrak, who had thus far watched everything in silence, reacted differently to Drask than he had to anyone else. It wasn’t the cold, dismissive look he gave to those beneath him. No, with Drask, there was something more—dislike, yes, but layered beneath it, reluctant respect.

  “Why do you let this impudent fool speak so freely, Vrakdur?” Throrak finally scowled, his irritation evident. “I know it’s not my business, since this is your clan. But if he were Gulthram, I would’ve skinned him alive for speaking to his betters like this.”

  “You’re still sour from last time, Throrak?” Drask smirked, cocking his head. “I would be too, so I don’t blame you.”

  Throrak’s scowl deepened.

  Drask grinned wider, savoring it. “From how hard you’re staring... I know I’m—”

  “Stop.” Vrakdur’s voice cut through the air, his tone sharp enough to silence even the whispers among the gathered thralgar. His eyes locked onto Drask, dark with warning. The kind of look that promised consequences.

  Drask raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. I won’t talk about that again. But don’t blame me—”

  Vrakdur’s glare sharpened.

  Drask sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What I’m saying is, don’t blame me for needing to take a sh*t before officiating this charade.” He snorted, then turned his gaze toward the Draekthar side of the competition, scanning the young warriors. Most averted their eyes, unwilling to meet his scrutiny. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Though, to be fair,” Drask drawled, “anyone who watched them fight would also need to take a sh*t. Out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.”

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