Chapter Two:

  “Favor or Blood”

  The wheels crunched against sunbaked stone as Realmweaver slowed to a stop near the cliff’s edge. Below them, the land unrolled like a memory whispered by old gods—half warning, half invitation—columns rising from olive groves, marble temples perched on hillsides, and a sprawling coliseum that dominated the center like a crowned beast. Nerathe.

  John cut the engine.

  The air was alive with sound—cicadas ticking like clockwork, gulls crying faintly over distant waves, the rustle of olive trees shifting in the breeze.

  John squinted toward the valley. “What is this place?”

  “This is Nerathe,” RW said, her voice calm but clipped. “You’re looking at the region where the Triarchs have taken root. They started a horrific set of games down there—blood sport masked as ritual, cruelty parading as tradition. The coliseum isn’t just a stage. It’s a feeding ground.”

  Akira leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyes locked on the coliseum like it might blink. “Who are the Triarchs?” he asked. “And how the hell did they end up running this place?”

  “The Triarchs are demigods" RW answered. They were granted dominion over Nerathe when the Dark One held power, and they’ve turned it into a crucible of suffering. They take pleasure in breaking mortals, especially Players. The Games are their favorite toy.”

  Rai didn’t speak. She had already stepped out of the vehicle, boots landing in dry grass, her gaze locked on the coliseum’s distant silhouette.

  John joined her, eyes sweeping the valley below. The coliseum was massive, stone tiered and overgrown with vines in some places, scorched in others. Banners in crimson and gold fluttered from the highest arches, though even from this distance, they looked tattered. Blood had been spilled there. Recently.

  “You can see it." Rai said. "Scorch marks near the outer ring. Blood smeared along the arches. Damaged seating that no one’s bothered to repair. This isn’t a war zone, it’s a stage. Whatever’s happening down there, it’s been going on a while.”

  “We need to hide her,” John said, turning back toward Realmweaver. “We’re too exposed up here.”

  They spent the next half hour navigating a narrow switchback trail that led them off the main overlook and into a ridge of broken stone. They found a crevice tucked beneath a sloping outcrop—shaded, narrow, impossible to spot unless you were looking.

  John parked Realmweaver with careful precision, pulling a frayed olive tarp from a storage compartment and stretching it across the frame. Dust and stone were swept over the wheels. From above, she vanished into the rock.

  The moment John stepped back, the tarp rustled.

  The trunk clicked open with a soft hiss, and blue vapor spilled out, curling low over the stones. As the mist cleared, a small shape stepped forward—an Aegean cat, white and charcoal with sharp green eyes that caught the light like glass blades.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I imagine your silence likely implies awe,” RW said, her voice emerging crisply from the feline mouth. “I have taken a form that suits local ecology, minimizes suspicion, and maximizes elegance.”

  Akira smirked. “You’re a cat now.”

  “Technically,” RW said, sitting with her tail curled primly around her feet, “I am the perfect cat.”

  John couldn’t help the small smile. “Welcome back.”

  “I never left,” RW replied. “Just streamlined.”

  Rai gave her a nod, then looked to John. “If the Triarchs or their guards catch sight of anything like the Realmweaver, we’re finished. We move on foot.”

  With the car secured and RW once again at their side, the group set off down the ridge trail, skirting high paths toward the heart of Nerathe.

  As they walked, John glanced towards the coliseum, it caught the light just right—casting a shadow shaped like a gaping maw.

  And for a moment, it didn’t look like a building at all.

  It looked like a mouth, waiting to feed.

  They kept walking towards it.

  “If Roland’s soul is trapped in the Void,” RW said as they walked, “then we’ll need someone who knows how to reach it. That knowledge doesn’t exist in my databanks and it’s not stored anywhere I can access.”

  John frowned. “So who does know?”

  RW didn’t hesitate. “The Triarchs. One of them. Maybe all three. They’re not just rulers here—they’re woven into the foundation of this Realm. If there’s a gate to the Void, it will be through them.”

  Akira glanced ahead toward the coliseum. “So what’s the plan? Knock and ask politely?”

  “Eventually,” RW said. “One way or another, we’re going to have to get close. And that means getting inside the arena.”

  The trail narrowed as they descended, curving along a ridge scorched by sun and time. The closer they came to Nerathe’s outskirts, the more the olive trees thinned out, replaced by cracked marble pillars and stone ruins half-swallowed by earth.

  John stepped lightly across the broken path, keeping his head low. The Twin Fangs—his paired katanas—hung sheathed across his back, swaying with each movement. Akira followed just behind him, one hand resting near the grip of his katana, the other near the smaller tanto at his belt. RW trotted a few paces ahead, tail swaying, ears flicking toward every creak of rock or gust of wind. Rai brought up the rear, her war fan folded in one hand, her eyes locked on the distant coliseum.

  Eventually, the trail flattened. A plateau opened up beneath them, littered with shattered statues and a ruined fountain choked with ash. At the far end stood what had once been a gatehouse. Now it was a ruin—one wall caved in, the rest blackened by fire.

  John slowed. “Was this part of the city?”

  RW hopped up onto a fallen column. “A checkpoint. Possibly a ceremonial entrance. Note the amphorae fragments—old ceramic storage jars, often used for grain, wine, or oil. Civilian structures. Not fortified.”

  Akira crouched beside one of the blackened statues, what remained of a robed figure holding a laurel. “They didn’t tear this place down. They defiled it.”

  Rai nodded. “Burned from the inside. This was meant to be seen.”

  The center of the clearing held a single post. A flagpole. No banner remained.

  Instead, a sign was nailed to the base, etched in multiple languages:

  “Strength earns favor. Cowardice earns blood.”

  RW’s ears flattened. “Propaganda. Crude, but effective.”

  “They want people scared,” John muttered. “They want them angry.”

  “No,” Rai said. “They want them broken.”

  They pressed on. The wind shifted as they crested the next ridge, it was hotter now. Below them, the outer edge of Nerathe revealed itself: a ring of low buildings, most stripped down to rubble, others converted into barracks or cages. Farther in, the coliseum towered.

  John froze. So did the others.

  A figure moved along the outer ring of the arena—small at this distance, barely more than a silhouette. But even from here, John could tell something was wrong. The figure walked slowly, dragging something. A weapon. A body. Maybe both.

  Another figure stepped into view—this one wearing armor. Not standard. Ornate. Red-veined bronze. A guard of some kind.

  The first figure dropped to their knees.

  The second raised a weapon.

  John turned away before it landed.

  No one spoke.

  RW was the first to move. “We should approach from the southeast. I detect higher vegetation and broken terrain. Better cover.”

  No one argued.

  They continued toward the broken edge of Nerathe, where the trials waited, and the gods wore human skin.