The Split Flame

  Dusk came without fanfare. The air was dry, brittle, and cold where the sun no longer reached. At the edge of Velros, two paths stretched outward—one east, one west—like threads pulling a single flame apart.

  Hiro stood silent as Cainos tightened the straps on his pack. Lyessa adjusted the edge of her massive blade, resting it against her back with effortless ease. Varin stood off to the side, checking the buckles of his gear with methodical calm. Elysia was quiet, one hand brushing over the saddle of her mount.

  Phinx circled once, low and wide. Then landed behind Hiro.

  He was nervous. They had never been apart from her—not like this.

  Elysia stepped forward, the wind teasing the ends of her hair. As she passed Phinx, she paused to place a gentle hand on his feathers.

  "It’s alright," she whispered. "We’ll be back soon. Just watch over him like you always do."

  “I suppose this is the part where I say something brave,” she said, half-smiling.

  Hiro didn’t smile back. “Don't worry, if Nyrion underestimates you... good. That’s the first mistake they’ll make.”

  Elysia met his eyes. “Then I’ll make it the last one they can afford.”

  She climbed into the saddle. Cainos nodded once. Lyessa gave Hiro a silent look—sharp, unreadable—and followed. Varin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on the path ahead, jaw set like stone.

  The three of them turned east, into the dimming light. Not fast. Not slow. Just certain.

  Phinx let out a low cry.

  The flame had split—

  not dimmed, just burning in two directions.

  The Gates of Nyrion

  The forest had changed. Gone were the gnarled roots and smoke-scarred trees of Velros. Here, the woods whispered in logic—glyphs shimmered on bark, the wind moved like it was counting. The air hummed like it knew something.

  Cainos kept glancing upward, as if the branches might rearrange.

  “Smells like lightning and chalk dust,” he muttered.

  Lyessa snorted. “Whole place feels like a mage’s dream. Or a trap.”

  Elysia rode in silence, but her eyes didn’t miss a thing.

  Then—smoke. Not campfire. Black, thick, rising fast.

  They crested a ridge and saw it: the outer edge of Nyrion. Marble structures rimmed in blue flame. Glyphs flickered across their surfaces like living scripture.

  And it was under attack.

  A strike group from Varnokh—tattooed warriors in hardened leather—hurled fire and steel at the city’s glowing wards. A few mages inside the barrier struggled to hold it. Cracks shimmered like spiderwebs across the magical dome.

  Cainos reached for his bow. Lyessa’s blade was already unslung.

  “Wait,” Elysia said.

  They turned.

  She pointed to a narrow ridge above the attackers—a spire etched in faint blue glyphs, nearly buried in vine and ash. “There. That’s not just rock. That’s a resonance node.”

  “Athena taught me about these,” Elysia added, eyes narrowing. “Most cities abandoned them after the collapse. Nyrion didn’t.”

  Cainos blinked. “A what now?”

  “Part of the city’s old defense lattice. If it’s still active—”

  Lyessa grunted. “Then what?”

  “Then we make them think it’s about to blow.”

  Cainos didn’t wait. He loosed a glowing arrow at the spire.

  It struck—blue fire raced through the glyphs. The hill lit up like dawn. The raiders stopped. Looked up.

  Then panicked.

  They scattered, running in all directions. Some dropped weapons. One snarled a curse in Varnokh's tongue and vanished into the trees.

  The dome shimmered, then restabilized.

  Silence fell.

  A moment later, a column of light rose before them. A projection—tall, robed, face unreadable. Cainos squinted. "Is that... a person? Or magic pretending to be one?" Lyessa stepped forward cautiously, her blade still half-raised. "Whatever it is, it's watching us."

  “You were not expected,” it said. “Yet you moved like one of us.”

  The projection's head tilted. "State your name."

  Elysia lifted her chin. "I am Elysia Aurarios of Athens. The Lightborn Mage."

  Lyessa leaned in and whispered, "But you're the queen."

  Elysia shot her a look—sharp, unwavering. And for just a moment, Lyessa thought she saw Athena staring back at her—not in the face, but in the fire behind her eyes.

  The projection's voice shifted. "Athens? We have never heard of that place. What is your reason for coming here?"

  Elysia replied evenly, "We need your help—with something only you can solve."

  The projection paused.

  "Then enter, Lightborn. We will judge for ourselves."

  Then it vanished.

  The gates of Nyrion opened without a sound.

  Cainos let out a low whistle.

  Lyessa still held her blade. But she said nothing.

  Elysia nudged her mount forward.

  The city accepted her. Not because of her lineage. But because she knew where to look.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Trial by Flame and Flesh

  The smoke that drifted west across Velros… it hadn’t come from war. Not yet.

  It came from the pit.

  From the clash of bodies and fists and old stone beneath Varnokh’s sky.

  Hiro stood at the edge of the coliseum’s outer ring, eyes narrowed against the rising ash.

  Damaric walked beside him, arms crossed.

  “This doesn’t look like diplomacy.”

  Before Hiro could respond, a man pushed through the crowd. Bronze skin, tattered sash, one eye milky with old burns.

  “You two,” he said, pointing—first to Hiro and then to Damaric. “This way. The trial waits.”

  Damaric raised a brow. “We’re not here to fight.”

  But Hiro stepped forward.

  “We are now.”

  The man paused.

  Hiro nodded toward Damaric. “Him.” Then to the air, as Phinx dove low, flames trailing his wings.

  “And him.”

  The man blinked, then grinned with broken teeth.

  “Three entries. The pit will judge.”

  The man squinted, eyeing Hiro and Damaric again.

  “Names?”

  Hiro stepped forward. “Hiro of Athens.”

  Damaric cracked his knuckles. “Damaric. Same.”

  Phinx let out a sharp cry overhead.

  The man raised a brow. “And the beast?”

  Hiro smirked. “Phinx. He fights for himself.”

  He turned without waiting, vanishing into the dust and noise.

  Damaric looked at Hiro sideways. “You sure about this?”

  Hiro gave a half-smile. “You wanted them to listen. This is how we make them.”

  They walked the path carved into black stone. No escort. No applause. Just jeers from the other warriors who’d already claimed spots in the blood-washed holding ground. A few laughed when they saw Phinx land.

  “Let the pet go first!” someone shouted.

  Phinx flared his wings and let out a cry—long, sharp, and full of judgment. The jeers died mid-breath. Even the dust seemed to settle.

  Above it all, at the highest tier of the coliseum, sat a lone figure.

  The Warden of Varnokh—silent, unmoving, clad in layered stone-grey armor, his face hidden beneath a ceremonial bull-faced mask. But Hiro could feel it: a pressure in the air, like the embodiment of power.

  He didn’t need an introduction. Power that still didn’t move was often the most dangerous kind. Fighters moved in packs, some shirtless, some armored in bone and steel. There was no ceremony. No banners. Just bruises, shouts, and blood drying under a heatless sun.Homiros the Echo-Born stood atop a half-broken pillar—draped in faded purple, a voice steeped in legend and carried by wind and stone. His voice cut through the noise like a blade through silence, each word steeped in legend.

  Homiros raised both arms from his perch atop the pillar, his voice already building as the arena quieted.

  "Varnokh! I am Homiros the Echo-Born—scribe of this sand, tongue of the pit!"

  His voice rang out, powerful and sharp, cutting through the dust and blood.

  “No weapons. No casting. Only strength. What your body can bear, what your fists can speak.”

  He pointed to Hiro. Then Damaric. Then Phinx.

  “You enter. You endure. Or you die.”

  The gates opened.

  Homiros’s voice flared like a war cry:

  "Let the trial of flame and flesh begin!"

  "Let Varnokh bear witness! The trial begins! Strength over spells! Flesh over flame!"

  He swept his arm toward the arena floor.

  "Fifty enter, only the enduring survive! LET THE PIT BE FED!"

  The crowd roared.

  And with no crown, no herald, the storm walked in anyway.

  ---

  The pit was chaos.

  A man lunged at Hiro with a roar—bare knuckles raised. Hiro sidestepped, caught the arm mid-swing, and twisted. The man crumpled with a scream.

  Another came from behind. Hiro ducked, hooked his leg, and sent him flipping face-first into the dirt.

  Fifty fighters surged inward—no sides, no alliances. Just fists, knees, elbows, and rage. Dust kicked up into the sun as bones cracked and blood misted the air.

  Hiro moved like a streak of silver, lightning pulsing beneath his skin. He didn’t throw wild punches—he dodged, slipped, parried. When he struck, it was with intent. A palm to the ribs. A shoulder to the chin. Enough to drop someone without ending them.

  From his pillar, Homiros bellowed, voice rising like a hymn to violence.

  "THE STORM MOVES! Lightning in his veins, restraint in his hands! A warrior not of rage—but of purpose! VARNOKH, DO YOU SEE HIM?"

  Damaric? A different beast. He fought like a collapsing mountain—brutal and absolute.

  Three came at him at once. One grabbed a shoulder. Another aimed low. Damaric slammed an elbow into the first’s temple, grabbed the second by the chest, and hurled him overhead like a sack of bones.

  The third hesitated. That was his mistake.

  He caught a man’s punch with both hands and crushed the wrist in one motion. Slammed another into the wall so hard the stone cracked.

  Homiros bellowed again, rising with fury and awe.

  "THE MOUNTAIN BREAKS THEM! The titan of Athens walks without chains! Damaric of the silent flame—breaker of lines, bruiser of legacies—let the beasts beware his path!"

  And in the midst of it all, Phinx.

  The phoenix didn’t fly high—he wasn’t allowed to. Not here.

  Instead, he skimmed the battlefield, wings low, flames barely brushing the dirt. He weaved between fighters, slashing with talons, his body a whip of fire and instinct. When he leapt, it was only high enough to reposition—never out of reach, never unfair.

  One fighter raised a rock to crush Hiro from behind.

  Phinx was already there—talons raking across the man’s back, dragging sparks. The phoenix spun mid-air, landed in front of Hiro, and bared his flaming beak.

  From above, Homiros roared with disbelief and delight.

  "THE BLAZING WARD! VARNOKH, LOOK! A beast with purpose, flame with reason! THE SKY-BORN SENTINEL DEFENDS HIS OWN!"

  Three warriors tried to circle Hiro. He didn’t flinch. He ducked a hook, twisted under a knee, and swept one man’s legs out from under him. Before the others could react, Phinx dove again—this time slamming one with his wings, knocking the man unconscious.

  A massive brawler with braided arms and bone armor lunged at Hiro.

  Damaric intercepted the punch mid-swing, pivoted the man’s weight, and shoved him directly into Hiro’s rising knee.

  The man dropped. Phinx scorched a trail across the ground behind them—cutting off the next wave.

  Up in the highest tier, the Warden of Varnokh leaned forward—just slightly.

  It was the only movement he’d made since the trial began.

  The bull-faced mask didn’t shift, didn’t flinch. But something in the air thickened.

  Judgment had noticed them.

  From above, Homiros thundered again, his voice sharp with awe and rhythm:

  “ATHENS MOVES AS ONE! STORM, FLAME, AND FURY—A TRINITY OF MIGHT! WHO DARES STAND AGAINST THEM?!”

  They were fighting separately. But they moved like parts of a whole.

  The crowd noticed. The chants changed.

  They shouted names—first scattered, then building:

  "HIRO!" "DAMARIC!" "PHINX!"

  And then together:

  "ATHENS! ATHENS! ATHENS!"

  Some began to roar names they didn’t know.

  Not yet.

  But they would.

  Because Hiro didn’t kill. Because Damaric didn’t fall. Because Phinx lit the sky like a storm given feathers.

  The rumble wasn’t over. But the arena had already shifted.

  They weren’t outsiders anymore.

  They were contenders.

  From the pillar, Homiros leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowed behind his silver-lined helm. His voice dropped low, echoing like thunder beneath the surface.

  "What is this?" he murmured, not to the crowd, but to himself. "The storm and the flame… the mountain’s might and the bird of fire—who ARE these three?"

  His gaze locked on Hiro.

  _Is this the one?_ he thought. _The one I’ve waited on? The one the old verses spoke of in whispers and smoke?_

  ---

  The survivors dwindled—twenty, then fifteen, then barely ten. The air stank of sweat and iron. Limbs moved slower. Eyes darted quicker. Everyone knew what was coming.

  Homiros turned again to the Warden—still unmoving, still unreadable. But even through the bull-faced mask, there was a shift. Not in expression, but in presence.

  And then, with the weight of inevitability, the Warden gave a single nod.

  Then the drums changed.

  And below, the gates began to open.

  Not for warriors… but for beasts.

  First came the Calydonian Boar—its tusks jagged like shattered spears, its hide thick with divine fury. It slammed its hooves into the earth, cracking the stone.

  Next, the Erymanthian Boar—larger, slower, but relentless. Its breath came in hot gusts, and its eyes glowed like molten gold.

  Last came a Laestrygonian giant—bare-chested, scarred, its skin like weathered granite and eyes glowing faintly red. Shackles still clung to its wrists as if chains had tried and failed to hold it. Each step sent tremors through the coliseum floor, as if the earth itself feared its tread.

  "CALYDONIAN! ERYMANTHIAN! CARCINOS!"

  The words thundered out from Homiros the Echo-Born, his voice flaring from a high-carved horn.

  "Born of divine wrath, forged in mythic blood—release the beasts! Let their fury find those unworthy of the pit!"

  He raised his hand, voice amplified through the carved horn, thunderous without a sigil or spell.

  "Varnokh! BEHOLD YOUR JUDGES!"

  “BEHOLD! The divine scourge of Artemis—THE CALYDONIAN BOAR! The mountain-mauler of Heracles—THE ERYMANTHIAN! And the last son of forgotten bloodlines—THE LAESTRYGONIAN JUGGERNAUT!”

  The handlers unlatched the chains and ran.

  The beasts were not here to be fought. They were here to cull the weak.

  Hiro wiped blood from his brow and squared his stance.

  Damaric cracked his neck.

  Phinx screeched into the smoke.

  And then they came.

  The rumble was no longer man versus man. It was survival.

  The beasts came like prophecy fulfilled. Steel met tusk. Flame met claw. And in the end—only the strong would still be standing when silence returned.

  And through the rising dust, a whisper clung to the air— “Athens…”

  High above, Homiros whispered beneath his breath, too soft for the crowd to hear—just loud enough for history to catch.

  "Only the worthy walk away. Let the pit decide."