The crowd hushed, a tense, anticipatory silence falling over the Bloodsands. The battle had raged for what felt like an eternity (though it was only a couple of minutes), a relentless exchange of blows and sorcery that had left the arena floor cracked and scorched. The air itself shimmered with residual energy, thick with the acrid scent of burned stone and the coppery tang of blood. And yet, despite the carnage, Quinorak stood unbowed.

  The monstrous warrior loomed over Belshara like an executioner over a condemned soul. His crimson eyes, smoldering with murderous triumph, locked onto her with predatory intensity. Each step he took was a slow, deliberate promise of violence, his hooves grinding deep into the dirt, his axe—a monstrous slab of shining metal—held aloft, eager to taste her blood.

  But then something changed.

  Belshara, battered but unbroken, exhaled deeply, her expression shifting from exhaustion to something else—something unshakable. She closed her eyes, her fingers flexing, golden motes of light beginning to swirl around her. At first, the glow was subtle, no more than a flicker, like embers catching a breeze. But in mere moments, it grew, expanding into a luminous spiral of radiant power. The energy surged upward, wrapping around her body in fluid, coiling strands, as though the very sun itselfhad begun to answer her call.

  Quinorak hesitated. His brow furrowed, a guttural snarl rumbling in his throat. He could feel it—the shift in the battlefield, the shift in her.

  Then, without further hesitation, he surged forward.

  His axe came down in a brutal arc, carving through the space where she stood with the force of a falling star. But before it could reach her, her eyes snapped open.

  For an instant, time itself seemed to shudder.

  Her irises no longer held mortal color; instead, they burned with with golden fire. She raised her hands in one fluid motion, her fingers outstretched, her voice ringing out—not in a battle cry, nor in a desperate plea, but in a single, commanding word of power.

  The world answered.

  The very air trembled.

  A pulse of force erupted from her, rippling outward like a shockwave. Dust and debris lifted from the arena floor, drawn into the cyclone of magic unfurling around her. The golden lion, already bloodied but unyielding, halted mid-pounce, its muscles locking as its body became enveloped in blinding light. The Ercinee, wings spread wide in defiance, let out a shrill, keening cry as its feathers glowed with celestial fire. Their forms flickered, their edges blurred like reflections in rippling water, their beings unraveling—not in destruction, but in transformation.

  Threads of pure, radiant energy leaped between them, intertwining in intricate, fluid motions, like strands of fate being woven by unseen hands. The lion’s deep, resonant growl merged with the Ercinee’s haunting melody, their voices blending into a single, powerful harmony. The audience, enraptured, could only watch in stunned silence as the impossible unfolded before them.

  Light flared, blinding in its brilliance. The crowd shielded their eyes as a towering figure emerged from the radiance.

  Standing where the two creatures once were was something new—something awe-inspiring. A massive celestial war-beast, its body an amalgamation of divine might. It bore the powerful, feline frame of the lion, but its mane had grown into an ethereal crown of burning golden feathers, cascading down its back in a celestial plume. Wings unfurled from its sides, vast and shimmering with multicolored light, the very air crackling with divine power as they moved. Its eyes, twin orbs of radiant fire, locked onto Quinorak.

  The Bloodsands fell into silence for the briefest of moments.

  Then the merged creature roared.

  Its form shifted between solid and ethereal, golden claws slashing out of nowhere, its movements unpredictable. Quinorak barely managed to intercept the strike with his axe, but the force of impact sent him skidding backward, boots digging furrows into the earth.

  Snarling, he twisted his grip and redirected the momentum, hacking downward with a strike meant to cleave the beast in two. The fused creature twisted like liquid light, flowing around the blow and retaliating with a burst of divine energy. A wing made of sheer radiance slashed across Quinorak’s chest, sending cracks splintering across his dark scales.

  Belshara did not relent.

  She lifted her hand, commanding luminous daggers to form in the air around her. They hung, gleaming like miniature suns, before launching toward Quinorak with deadly precision. He pivoted, his axe a blur as he batted aside the first few, but there were too many. One pierced his shoulder, another grazed his cheek, sizzling against his flesh.

  With a furious snarl, he lashed out. His axe pulsed with dark energy, carving a jagged path through the battlefield. The force of his counterattack blasted the golden beast backward, sending it rolling across the ground. Quinorak capitalized, surging forward with a ruthless downward swing meant to finish it.

  But Belshara was already moving.

  With a snap of her whip, golden tendrils of light snapped up from the earth, ensnaring his limbs, slowing him down just enough for the beast to recover. It pounced, slamming into him with celestial force. Quinorak roared as he was driven back, his footing momentarily lost.

  He twisted, planting his hooves deep into the fractured earth, forcing himself to remain standing. His axe burned with dark power as he wrenched free from the luminous tendrils, hacking through them with sheer brute force. The celestial war-beast came again, its massive paws flashing with radiant energy as it raked toward his chest. Quinorak barely managed to pivot, angling his axe to deflect the blow, but the sheer force sent him staggering.

  The beast moved like liquid fire, a blur of divine motion. Every step left trails of shimmering afterimages, its ethereal mane crackling with raw energy. Quinorak met its assault with a countercharge, his axe cleaving through the air in an attempt to carve through its shifting form. The impact sent out a shockwave, but the beast did not falter—it absorbed the hit, flowing with the strike rather than resisting, twisting like a stream bending around a stone. Then it retaliated.

  A burst of radiant light erupted from its maw, a cone of celestial energy that swallowed Quinorak whole. The crowd gasped as the monstrous warrior was momentarily lost within the radiance, his form barely visible amidst the inferno of light. When the glow finally dimmed, Quinorak was still standing, his scales now cracked open, revealing deep gashes carved into his flesh. His enveloping shadows had been completely burned away by the attack. But his eyes remained alight with unrelenting fury.

  Snarling, he surged forward once more. This time, he did not simply strike—he feinted. His axe carved a deceptive arc toward the beast’s neck, but at the last moment, he twisted low, using his immense strength to drive his shoulder into the celestial war-beast’s chest. The impact sent the creature skidding back, its wings fluttering wildly to keep balance. The crowd roared at the display of raw might.

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  Quinorak pressed the attack. He swung again, but the beast met his strike with a golden claw, the collision sending sparks cascading in every direction. The two clashed in a brutal exchange—light against darkness, celestial grace against monstrous might. The Bloodsands trembled beneath their fury.

  Belshara, watching intently, lifted her arm again, her hand twisting in an arcane gesture that called forth another wave of light daggers. They circled around her, then shot forward with lethal speed. Quinorak twisted mid-battle, his axe a blur as he deflected what he could, but several found their mark. One struck his thigh, another buried itself deep into his side, searing his flesh with divine energy. He gritted his teeth, refusing to falter, but his body was slowing.

  The celestial war-beast saw the moment of weakness and struck. Its wings flared, launching it forward in a blur of golden fury. It slammed into Quinorak, sending the monstrous warrior sprawling across the battlefield. Dust and blood stained the arena floor as the hybrid tumbled, his axe slipping from his grasp. He hit the ground hard, rolling until he came to a halt near the shattered remains of the stone pillars that once stood tall.

  The beast descended upon the hybrid. As it did so, Belshara shouted a word.

  Her voice cut through the battlefield, sharp as a blade.

  The merged beast detonated.

  Light exploded outward in a storm of golden radiance. The audience shielded their eyes as the half-minotaur was flung back, crashing into the shattered remains of the stone pillars. He groaned, pushing himself up with one trembling arm.

  He reached for his axe.

  A foot pressed against his chest, pinning him down.

  Belshara loomed above him, one foot pressed firmly against his heaving chest. Her eyes still shimmered with residual power, though the light that had once surrounded her had dimmed. The celestial beast was gone, its form dissipated into the aether after delivering its final, devastating blows. Now, only the two warriors remained, locked in a moment of unspoken acknowledgment.

  Quinorak’s lips curled into a weak snarl, but there was no defiance left in him. His muscles tensed as if he wanted to struggle, but he knew it was pointless. He had fought with everything he had, and it had not been enough. He exhaled heavily, his voice a guttural rasp.

  “I yield.”

  The words echoed across the silent Bloodsands, met first with stunned quiet before the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, groans, and raucous discussion. Wagers had been won and lost, reputations shaken, and most importantly, the battle’s outcome had been decided.

  A slow, deliberate clap cut through the noise. The Lord Mayor, seated upon his chair, rose with an air of satisfaction. His expression was unreadable, though a knowing glint shone in his eyes as he surveyed the scene before him. He raised a hand, and the crowd gradually fell silent once more.

  “Well fought,” he announced, his voice carrying across the arena. “A spectacle worthy of the Bloodsands.” His gaze drifted to Quinorak, who still lay motionless beneath Belshara’s heel. “And a lesson in humility, I daresay.”

  Quinorak grunted, but said nothing.

  The Lord Mayor turned his attention fully to the gathered audience. “For those unaware, this was no mere contest of strength. This was a matter of commerce. The Merchants Guild, represented by Belshara, and the Mercenaries Guild, represented by Quinorak, sought to resolve a dispute in the manner most fitting for our great city.” He gestured toward Belshara with a slight incline of his head. “And with this victory, the Merchants Guild has secured its demands. The Mercenaries Guild will lower its rates for caravan protection, effective immediately.”

  Murmurs rippled through the audience. Some merchants cheered, others exchanged knowing glances. The mercenaries in attendance, meanwhile, shifted uncomfortably, some grumbling under their breath. A few cast glares at Quinorak, though none dared speak against the ruling.

  The Lord Mayor let the weight of his words settle before he sat back down, his attention shifting toward the squat, green-skinned goblin dressed in fine but slightly rumpled silks, his expression a mixture of irritation and nervousness.

  “Now,” the Lord Mayor said, his tone sharpening, “while I have concluded this business, there remains the matter of time wasted.” His eyes narrowed at the goblin. “You saw fit to invade the privacy of my box to resolve a matter that was already being settled .”

  The emissary’s pointed ears twitched nervously. “I merely—”

  “You merely wasted my time,” the Lord Mayor interrupted smoothly. “And time, as we all know, is worth its weight in gold.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on the measured cadence of a man who knew exactly how far he could push. “As compensation for this… inconvenience, I expect an adjustment to the raw ore tariffs on all incoming shipments.”

  The goblin’s small, beady eyes widened. “Now, wait just a moment—”

  “A ten percent reduction should suffice,” Sygmund mused, ignoring the poor fool’s protest. “Yes, I do believe that is fair.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Unless, of course, you wish to take this dispute to the Bloodsands as well?”

  The goblin’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. He glanced around, his mind no doubt calculating the potential losses against the consequences of refusal. He swallowed hard before nodding stiffly.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Ten percent.”

  The Lord Mayor clapped his hands together. “Splendid.”

  The crowd, sensing that the show was over, began to disperse, though many lingered, eager to dissect every moment of the battle and its aftermath. The merchants were in particularly high spirits, already discussing the benefits of the reduced protection fees. The mercenaries, meanwhile, looked less than pleased, some shooting dark looks at Quinorak as he struggled to rise from the dirt.

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  The heavy doors of the grand administrative hall swung open, allowing the Lord Mayor and his rock gnome assistant, Blinken, to stride into the cool, marble-floored corridor. The air inside was a stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the Bloodsands Arena, and the distant echoes of clerks shuffling parchment and quills scratching against paper filled the space with a quiet hum of bureaucratic diligence.

  Blinken, his short legs working double-time to keep pace with Sygmund’s long strides, gave the mayor a wry grin. “I must say, milord, that was quite the stroke of brilliance. Letting that goblin grease a few palms and storm your box, only to turn around and wring him dry? Inspired.” The gnome let out a chuckle, adjusting his spectacles. “I daresay that fool goblin’s face was worth the trouble alone. I thought his eyes might pop right out of his skull when you laid out those concessions.”

  Sygmund let out a satisfied exhale, rolling his shoulders as he continued toward his office. “Greedy creatures like him always assume everyone plays by the same rules. He thought he had the upper hand, believing that ambushing me at the arena would take me off guard and let him pressure me into better terms. But a man who wastes my time is a man who pays for it.”

  Blinken gave an approving nod. “Aye, and pay he did. You’ll have the Merchant Guild singing your praises for that one. Moruek is sure to vote your way at the next Council meeting”

  The elf smirked. “He’d better. He knows well enough why I do these little favors for him.”

  They turned a corner, the polished stone walls of the building glinting in the lamplight. The corridor was quieter here, the foot traffic of aides and scribes thinning as they neared Sygmund’s private office. After a moment, Blinken spoke again, his voice turning thoughtful.

  “Still, milord… what if Belshara had lost?”

  The Lord Mayor stopped before the heavy oak doors of his office, resting a hand against the intricate brass handle. He glanced down at the gnome with a knowing look.

  “She wasn’t going to lose.”

  Blinken arched a brow. “Confidence is well and good, but surely you must have had a backup plan?”

  “She was holding back,” The elf said simply. “Few know it, but Belshara will be representing House Hightower in the Scarlet Eye Tournament.”

  Blinken blinked, stunned into momentary silence. “House Hightower is using her as their champion?”

  Sygmund nodded. “Exactly. She wasn’t just fighting for the Merchant Guild today; she was preparing. That match was meant to make potential rivals think they understood the limits of her capabilities. Quinorak was strong, but he wasn’t in her league. She may have let the fight drag out longer than necessary, but from the moment she stepped onto the sands, her victory was assured.”

  At the end of the corridor, his office doors loomed ahead. The Lord Mayor pushed them open without hesitation— only to stop cold in the doorway.

  Someone was already inside.

  A lone figure lounged in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, gloved fingers tapping idly against the polished wood of the desk. A hood concealed most of his features, but there was no mistaking the air of quiet confidence, nor the sharp glint of eyes watching from the shadows.

  The Lord Mayor’s voice dropped into an icy growl.

  "And who might you be?"

  The intruder tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "You may call me The Wraith."