If only Argon had known about the Core’s ego before swearing his oath, he’d have sworn nothing less than to ‘tear’ his enemies apart.

  The rows of the colosseum were reminiscent of a vineyard, reaching so high they could’ve housed an entire city—yet the seats remained mostly empty.

  Despite the crowd's unpleasant reaction, Argon walked into the arena with his head held high. Not even an Oathspawn itself could have drawn such dismayed applause as he did.

  Angry shouts echoed, calling him a traitor, a disgrace to their race, and all the other usual parols. Argon shed a hollow smile at their phrases; he couldn’t even deny them. He really was the scum of this world. So, in a way, he was even happy they cheered him on like that. It alleviated some of his guilt, though he’d never let himself forget the burden he carried. The pain remained; the guilt; the shame. Those kinds of wounds didn’t heal, and you couldn’t run from them either. It was cruel. He’d only been a child, after all, just wanting to do the right thing.

  When he reached the center of the arena, he stopped and looked up at the king. Cavroyn Lyrengard, the man he’d have to conquer in a duel to regain his honor, to become king himself. Once he'd fought his way up in the tournament.

  Cavroyn finally rose from his throne to deliver the usual speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m honored to see us all gathered again," he began, reading from an endlessly long paper scroll. "It has been three years, three long years, but now… Ah, you know what? Scrap that.”

  He tossed the scroll off his podium, someone below whimpering in pain when it hit them.

  Murmurs rose among the few but overly talkative spectators. All of them belonged to the Oath Keepers, a race that considered themselves above humans while simultaneously trying to place themselves on equal footing—or rather, stooping to their level. The present level of ego was correspondingly high, and the outraged cries at the king’s unfitting behavior were entirely predictable and unsurprising to Argon.

  The king, rolling his eyes at the crowd’s political correctness, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, now. Can you please shush?”

  Surprisingly, that only fueled their anger.

  The king, however, wasn’t bothered.

  “Well, before anyone has the audacity to ask that question again: no, we won’t be allowing humans in the audience this year. We have learned from our past mistakes, haven’t we?” He smiled, and Argon could have sworn the king shot him an inconspicuous but intense glare.

  “Right… where was I? Oh, yes!”

  Cavroyn raised a hand, gesturing to one side of the colosseum. “And in the left corner…” he began jubilantly, as if trying to stir some excitement, “The now only son of the Aschenbrenner House of Phoenix and upcoming prodigy swordsman: Argon Aschenbrenner!”

  A moment of silence followed. Apparently, the crowd didn’t bother to boo him again; they’d done that thoroughly enough when he entered.

  “Woohoo,” The king cheered with feigned enthusiasm. “And for his opponent…” he gestured toward the other tunnel leading into the arena. “Kathalona Teluna… Telana…? No, wait, what was her name again?” Hesitating, he looked to both his guards until the red-haired one handed him a note. “Ah, right! In the right corner… Katherine Theresa Ambertrix!”

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  Unlike with Argon, the audience didn’t boo immediately, though they didn’t cheer either. Murmurs rose.

  “Pretty lively crowd, huh?” Cavroyn said, scratching his cheek. “To be honest, I haven’t really heard much about her either,” he admitted with a shrug.

  Argon cracked his knuckles, shaking his body. He’d been preparing for this tournament for the last four years. Now, he finally had the chance to redeem himself. But not only that—he’d make sure to fulfill his oath too.

  The entrance still remained empty and the murmurs grew louder; the crowd became restless. And even Argon, with all his honor on the line, couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing.

  “Uhm…” The king began, frowning as his second guard, a young man with green, spiky hair, whispered something in his ear. Cavroyn cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to inform you, but it seems dear Katherine hasn’t shown up today.”

  The murmurs swelled into accusations.

  Some complained that something was fishy, that this wasn’t right. Others, however, found amusement in it, suspecting that it was beneath her dignity to fight someone like Argon. Oh, how funny.

  Argon, standing between all these sneers, felt powerless. Was this how it would always be? Would people avoid him, even on the battlefield? Would they never even give him a chance to make up for his mistakes. To clear his name?

  Desperately, he scanned the rows of the colosseum, searching for someone—just one person—who’d side with him. There, eventually, he met her gaze, a woman with dark skin, curly orange hair, and eyes of deep red. Amyra Aschenbrenner, his mother.

  Sitting alone, no one even willing to share the same row as her, she stared down at Argon as if she wished he’d never been born. He was to blame for everything. The reason the colosseum remained empty, the reason Amyra sat there alone; all her children, her husband, their servants—gone.

  Why is she even here? Argon thought bitterly.

  “Then, let’s move on to the next fight, shall we?” Cavroyn said, ignoring the cacophony of outrage.

  “Move… on?” Argon repeated silently, staring at the king, unable to process those words.

  Argon didn’t even consider that an option. He would stay. Fight anyone.

  Cavroyn, noticing his stare, waved a hand dismissively. “Clear the arena, boy.” Then, turning to his two guards again, he spoke to them as if he had no care in the world.

  This ridiculous behavior of the king—his complete lack of accountability—once again reminded Argon why he’d sworn his oath in the first place. Because the war had to end, and this joke of a king certainly wouldn’t do the job!

  Someone had to kill him; sacrifices were necessary to achieve peace. Sacrifices no one was willing to make. No one but him.

  The oath he’d sworn four years ago was supposed to grant him the strength to claim the throne. More specifically, the oath bound him to become king by age twenty. In return, the Core owed him immense power, for the harder it was to meet an oath’s conditions, and the severer the punishment upon failure, the stronger the powers one would be granted.

  Argon’s jaw tightened. There was a chance here.

  “Come down and fight me!” he shouted up at the king, one of his twin blades poised towards him.

  Cavroyn kept talking with his guards, the red-haired one glancing over at Argon for just a moment.

  Argon stood silent, his blade trembling in the air from his excitement.

  People started laughing, pointing at him, slapping their thighs in amusement. A fledgling like him—no, a disgraced warrior challenging the king—how pathetic.

  “Don’t act like you don’t care!” Argon screamed, this time not only addressing the king but everyone around. “If you’re really that great, why don’t you prove it?! Fight me! I’ll take you all on! Are you too scared of losing your meaningless honor?!”

  Cavroyn lay his head back, letting out a deep sigh. “Listen, boy, if you don’t leave now, you’ll be eliminated from the tournament. So just crawl back into your tunnel, will you?”

  “You’ll have to drag me there yourself!”