The Spinning Blade.

Carlon – Arena of Ferez, God-Feast Day, Year 8002 A.A.

Morning rose over Carlon like a drawn blade, its edge catching the towers and slanting alleys in molten gold. The sky itself seemed to recoil from the city's ancient colosseum—a fortress of obsidian and runes older than the dynasties that had ruled here. On this day, consecrated to Ferez the Inexorable, god of conquest, even the air smelled of iron and old prayers.

Yet the arena had changed, transfigured by faith and power into something more than sand and stone. Suspended in air above the lower city floated platforms of black crystal, each slab etched with spirals of glyphs that shimmered like serpents in morning light. Beneath them, swirling trenches of green mana glowed like living wounds, and orbiting monoliths, carved with Carlon's ouroboric sigil—a dragon-serpent devouring its tail—turned in quiet, ominous arcs.

And around it all, the city gathered: waves of people, from barefoot children who clung to the outer rails to nobles cloaked in dusk-colored silks, perfumed and veiled behind masks of bone and gold. Merchants clustered in terraces, cups of spiced wine trembling in their grip. At the base, the commoners pressed shoulder to shoulder, the heat of morning sun already slicking brows with sweat. Guards stood unmoving, spears at rest but ready, eyes as cold as obsidian. Ferez demanded reverence, and today was no sport but sacrifice dressed in spectacle.

High above, the royal balcony shimmered with a web of golden lattice. The Trisoc sat enthroned, ceremonial armor hugging his immense frame, gold chains draped across tusks that glinted red where rubies caught the dawn. Beside him, an empty chair: Prince Erezhan's seat, draped in crimson silk, waiting.

To the Trisoc's left, Azubuike Toran, King of Kürdiala, stood silent. His emerald robes, sewn through with panther sigils, rippled slightly in the rising heat. The black-and-white fur at his temples caught the sun, but his violet eyes remained shadowed, unblinking, reading not just the arena but the currents beneath it.

Ekene Çelik, his ever-present sentinel, stood at Toran's shoulder, arms folded. The crimson sash across his chest pulsed faintly, as if alive with runes, and his breath matched the steady rhythm of war drums rolling through the city below.

At last, the Trisoc rose. Mana runes embedded in the pillars flared, and his voice thundered, carried by magic across the colosseum's tiers and out to the farthest alleys.

"Carlonians! Warriors! Servants of Ferez! Today, we offer more than steel—we offer devotion! Through combat, we rise. Through blood, we cleanse. Let this be the Final Duel—where the worthy shall reign!"

The answer came in a roar so loud the obsidian monoliths seemed to tremble, banners snapping under the force of thousands of voices.

The Trisoc turned, tusks gleaming. "Well, King Toran?" he rasped, breath heavy with incense and power. "Predictions?"

Toran's gaze stayed on the arena. "I do not wager on illusions," he murmured.

The Trisoc's smirk twitched, as if a nerve had been struck.

_________________________

From the floating commentator's dais, the herald's voice rose, sharp as struck steel:

"Citizens of Carlon! Witness the gods smile upon battle!"

The arena dimmed. Mana columns pulsed, casting the platforms in a shifting green glow. Then a single light flared.

"In the red corner—Hazël #2! The Monkey Lord of Narn! Bearer of the Arya of Derision—Trevor Maymum!"

A swirl of amber light played across one crystal slab. Trevor stepped forward, desert robes loose around a frame all coiled ease and half-hidden scars. The spiral sigil of Derision marked his brow, and his staff balanced across his shoulders as if weightless. His glasses caught the torchlight, twin flickers of mockery and focus.

From the lower tiers, a ragged, hopeful cheer rose. Children's voices tangled in it, shouting his name, faces painted in spiral marks.

"And in the black corner—Prince of the Crimson Sand! Undefeated for a century! Hazël #16—Prince Erezhan!"

A different gate, framed in spirals of runes, spilled smoke and light. Erezhan walked through it like an answer to an unspoken threat. His bare chest gleamed with sacred oil, red-gold tusks curved like executioner's hooks. Crimson eyes, pitiless, locked on Trevor with an unwavering fire. At his side, a ceremonial spear, its shaft alive with crawling runes.

The cheers that met him were heavier, thicker—part fear, part devotion. The sound of a city that knew its prince, and the power he wielded.

Trevor tilted his head, smirk playing faintly. "Still so dramatic. You'd think conquering would speak for itself."

Erezhan didn't speak. His eyes burned like coals fed new fuel.

The referee—a hooded figure wearing an amulet shaped as the devouring serpent—raised one hand.

"BEGIN!"

___________________

The air itself cracked.

Erezhan vanished, or seemed to. A blur—faster than light—closed the distance, spear spinning in his hand like the wheel of some ancient machine. The first strike caught Trevor's shoulder—not to slice, but to tear. His robe unraveled, cut by the precision of a spiral strike, and fragments fluttered into the abyss below.

Behind Trevor, a ripple of force struck the protective barrier near the peasant stands. Sand leapt in a plume, and the lower tiers screamed.

Trevor stumbled back, staff scraping against the crystal slab, his grin fading to something colder. "You'd risk civilians?"

Erezhan's voice came, low and unhurried. "Ferez values sacrifice."

Trevor spat dust. "Noted."

The next strike was a vortex. Erezhan hurled the spear, and with it, a spiral of mana so dense it twisted air itself into a vacuum. Trevor's clone shattered before it even formed fully, fragments burning into amber motes. Rolling backward, Trevor flipped onto another floating slab, balance tested by swirling inertia.

But Erezhan had already moved. One hoof struck an orbiting monolith, sending it screaming through the air—not in a line, but a curved arc. As Trevor ducked, the monolith bent its path, pulled toward him like a planet toward gravity.

Toran's claws drummed into the seats armrest. "Not just brute speed," he thought telepathically, "He's using the monoliths' mass against their own orbit."

Ekene's eyes narrowed. "If only it were that simple. He's weaving them into inertial fields—he is the axis, and everything near him bends around him."

Below, Trevor staggered. His breath rasped, blood slicked one temple. Each strike was no longer just force. The spirals coiled into him—into his sense of balance, pulling his movements half an instant off. Each strike layering upon itself.

Erezhan stalked closer, spear raised. Dust curled around him in slow spirals, caught by unseen tethers.

The Trisoc's laughter rumbled through gold lattice. "Your champion dances poorly, Toran."

Toran's gaze didn't leave the arena. "He hasn't begun."

Erezhan's voice, amplified by the mana runes, boomed across the arena.

"I name it now: my Arcem—Orbit! My body, the axis! My strikes, the event horizon! Escape is impossible!"

The words twisted the air. Mana pulsed outward from Erezhan in visible spirals, bending light itself.

Trevor's smirk returned, softer, almost sad. "Then we'll see."

He moved—sidestep, pivot, staff striking the crystal slab underfoot, vaulting him forward. A monolith swung toward him, but he caught its curve, letting it fling him in a spinning arc around Erezhan. His staff blurred, catching the prince across the temple.

Erezhan staggered. Dust flared.

Trevor pressed—zig-zagging through the orbit, redirecting monoliths, turning the gravity fields against their master. Each strike landed in the single heartbeat when Erezhan's Arcem lagged between rotations.

A cheer rose from the lowest tiers, raw with disbelief.

But Erezhan was not undone. His spear swung in a rising arc, catching Trevor's ribs with a bone-deep crack. Another blow brushed Trevor's leg, spinning him sideways—momentum breaking against flesh and bone.

Blood spattered across the crystal, bright as ruby under the morning sun.

Trevor fell to one knee. Breath heaving. His glasses cracked, reflecting Erezhan's silhouette in jagged lines.

Erezhan raised his spear, breath steady. "This ends now."

Trevor lifted his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the smirk returned, not of mockery—but of defiance.

And there, above them all, the floating monoliths turned—slow, inevitable, as ancient stones beneath a rising tide.