Final Establishment

Three nights before the Prophecy, Oden entered Sorn's quarters without knocking. The room was quiet, with an unsettling emptiness. Sorn had few possessions to clutter the space, and even fewer that felt like they belonged to him. Everything, from his basin to his single chair, was meticulously arranged Sorn had found himself taking pride in the order he maintained, as there was a strange solace that came with tidiness. Oden had remarked on it more than once, calling it unusual for a Marauder, whose quarters were typically chaotic dumps of garments and stale odors.

Now, Oden stood, casting a long shadow across the walls. He rarely ventured into Sorn's space at this hour. In fact, Sorn had never seen him awake this late.

"I've made a decision," Oden said.

Sorn sat up straight in his bed. He didn't respond right away. Instead, he braced himself, knowing that whatever Oden was about to say wasn't likely to be trivial.

"Tomorrow, we rise at dawn," Oden continued. "It'll be the final day at the Academy before the Tournament begins. I expect you to use that time wisely. Scout your opponents. Learn what you can from watching them."

Sorn nodded but said nothing.

"It'll also be a chance to see the Princess again."

Sorn's heart betrayed him, suddenly skipping a beat. Truthfully, the moment Oden had mentioned "Academy", Sorn's mind had directly gone to Crystal. The memory of her was still vivid in his mind, though it had been days since they'd spoken. She was the only one, outside of Oden, who had ever treated him like a person rather than a curiosity or a nuisance. She had been a friend, in a way no one else here had been. And though he'd never admitted it, not even to himself, he'd missed her.

What about my training?" Sorn asked.

Oden's eyes pierced Sorn's stare for a moment as he thought about his answer. "There's nothing left for you to learn," he said. "Your endurance is more than adequate, and you've proven your dedication through hours of labor. Don't misunderstand me, you'll still train until the day of the Tournament. But consider tomorrow a reward for your effort."

Sorn wasn't sure how to take the statement. Still, Oden's acknowledgment of his progress was not unwelcome. The remark about his endurance wasn't empty praise. Where once Sorn could barely hold his Emerald Wisps for more than a few minutes, now he could sustain them for nearly an hour.

Three days prior, something had shifted in him. It was like a breakthrough that had sharpened his understanding of his technique. His progress since then had been exponential. Though his control was still far from perfect, Oden had declared him to be among the upper echelon of the Tournament's participants.

"Not the best, of course," Oden had said, as was his nature to temper praise with reality. "But you're far closer to the best than the worst. That, at least, should give you hope."

With that, Oden turned and left, his silhouette disappearing into the hallway. Alone once more, Sorn stared at the empty space where his mentor had stood, lost in thought until he went to sleep.

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧ 

When Sorn stepped into the Mess that morning, he was greeted by a cacophony of voices. The room was alive, more so than usual. The Tournament was only three days away, marked by the final day of the academy, and it seemed the anticipation was feverish. Groups of Marauders sat in clusters at the weathered tables, their booming laughter and sharp words competing for dominance. Boasts of prowess mingled with the occasional clang of a fist striking the stone tables. This was more than just morning chatter; it was a prelude to something historical.

Sorn moved through the room, his eyes scanning the rows of broad shoulders for Oden. His mentor was a quiet presence on most mornings, an observer of the surrounding chaos. But today, for the first time since Sorn had arrived, Oden was absent. Sorn lingered for a moment, unsure, before finally settling on an empty seat at a table reserved for all the student Marauders.

The food was spread across the tables in abundance, though the more desirable cuts had long been claimed by the early risers. A half-eaten loaf of bread, some hardened cheese, and a few scraps of meat were all that remained—except for one steak, still untouched on a serving plate near him. Sorn reached for it instinctively, but just as his fingers grazed the edge of the plate, another hand darted in and seized it.

Sorn's gaze shot upward, his eyes landing upon a large figure. It was Serene.

She sat straight with an air of quiet command, her sharp features framed by the warrior's braid that fell over one shoulder. Her pale blue eyes met his as she assessed the boy. The "Valkyrae" had a presence that was enough to steal the air around her. The way she carried herself reminded everyone who she was—the daughter of the Storm Troll himself.

Sorn hadn't spoken to her beyond a few polite greetings, though he'd observed her often enough. Like Oden, she was rather quiet, a contrast to the rowdy nature of most Marauders. While others bragged, she sat back and watched with sharp eyes taking in every detail as she grinned at jokes and listened intently to stories. Yet despite her casual demeanor, she commanded unwavering respect.

Unlike other clans, the Marauders had developed a prejudice when it came to women. Women warriors were an uncommon sight in their ranks, and the elders had made no secret of their disdain for her presence. To them, she was an anomaly, a deviation from tradition they would rather ignore. But Serene had silenced their whispers through sheer strength. She had bested every challenge placed before her, outmatching her peers in a system designed for her to fail. Especially among the younger generation, she was a warrior who was idolized. Her peers would follow her to the ends of the world, and in a clan where strength mattered above all else, that meant more than the clan politics ever could.

Serene glanced down at Sorn briefly, her expression unreadable, before tearing the steak in half with a practiced motion. Without a word, she tossed one half to him.

"Here," she said, her tone devoid of ceremony.

Sorn caught the meat in midair, blinking in surprise. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. Like her father, Serene acted with a blunt decisiveness that allowed no objection.

"Thanks," he managed, though she had already turned her attention elsewhere.

Sorn ate quietly, savoring the meager meal in the chaos of the Mess Hall, when Serene's voice broke through his focus.

"I look forward to seeing you fight in the Tournament," she said.

Sorn glanced up at her, swallowing the last of his steak. "I look forward to seeing you fight as well," he replied.

He meant the words he spoke. The "Valkyrae" had a very respected reputation. Stories of her prowess and grace with the axe inspired awe in many. In conversation, the younger warriors often spoke of her as though she were an avatar of war itself, a walking epitome.

Serene leaned back slightly. "I received news this morning," she said. "The structure of the Tournament will be announced today. I'm sure Oden will make certain you know it, but I advise you to give it serious thought. It will be vital for your survival."

It was the third time he had heard the same caution this past day. For most Marauders, the Tournament was a contest of glory and honor. For Sorn, this was a game of survival.

Before he could form a reply, a pungent wave of heat and the stench of beef filled his nostrils. He barely had time to register it before a brash voice shattered the moment.

"Serene, please allow me to prove myself to you!"

Sorn turned and found himself face-to-face with Zalen, one of the most obnoxiously loud students among the Marauders. Zalen leaned in far too close, his breath thick with the remains of whatever meal he had just devoured. His square jaw was scarred from past fights, his blue buzz-cut hair doing little to soften his brutish features.

Wherever Zalen was, his older brother Zacen was never far behind. Sure enough, Zacen loomed just over his shoulder, his identical frame and face marred only by the lack of scars. The only real difference between the two was that Zacen's voice was sharper, louder, and almost always at full volume.

"Move aside, Zalen! You're always stealing my ideas!" Zacen barked, elbowing his brother hard enough to send him stumbling a step.

The argument ignited like dry kindling. Voices rose, and fists slammed onto tables as other Marauders eagerly joined in. It became a shouting match of taunts, each warrior trying to outdo the other in volume and confidence. It wasn't long before words gave way to shoves, and shoves turned to fists. The Mess descended into a brawl, the clash of bodies and the scrape of overturned benches only added to the overall chaos.

Sorn looked to his right. Serene had not moved, nor did she seem fazed by the spectacle unfolding before her. If anything, she looked amused, a faint smile was etched upon her face as she watched the chaos unfold with a detached intrigue.

Then, amid the noise, a heavy hand clamped down on Sorn's shoulder, startling him. He turned sharply and found Oden standing over him.

"Come on," Oden said, his voice low but carrying effortlessly over the din. "We need to leave these fools here. There needs to be at least one Marauder present on the last day of the Academy."

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

The trio of Sorn, Oden, and Serene had a silent journey traversing the inner Fortress. Narrow alleys coiled like veins through the heart of the Ice domain. Serene moved with a calm confidence, her steps neither hurried nor hesitant. Oden strode beside her, and his sharp gaze seemed to take in everything. Sorn followed a step behind, aware of the eyes lingering on him as they passed.

It wasn't long before a towering structure seized Sorn's attention. The great Royal Palace had been replaced by a monumental cylinder of ice. It loomed impossibly high, its walls smooth and glittering in the pale daylight. The new structure dwarfed its predecessor, its height stretching skyward at least four or five times over.

"Looks like that's where they're going to hold the Tournament," Oden muttered, his tone lacking the awe Sorn felt.

Sorn couldn't help but stare, his thoughts tangled with questions. The very idea that such a thing could be constructed so quickly seemed absurd. Just yesterday there had been no sign of such an edifice.

"They've hidden the course," Oden continued, more to himself than anyone else. "Looks like they want to keep as much hidden as possible."

Serene offered no comment, her expression neutral, though she had given the structure a long glance herself. Sorn, however, found his mind whirling. A course? The word struck him as strange, unnecessary even. Why would a Tournament meant to test their mettle need something so contrived? He didn't know what to expect, perhaps a long series of battles. But the idea of an entire course left him with far more questions, mostly because he didn't have a concrete idea as to what a "course" actually entailed. Most of all, he wished Oden had given some indication to such a thing, as his actions displayed that he knew this would happen.

It took a few minutes for them to arrive at their destination. The building before them was old, its stones weathered and worn by centuries of wind and use. Though larger than the scattered huts that dotted the outskirts, it paled in comparison to the grandeur of the Marauder Hall or the imposing Goblet of the Spears.

"This is the Academy," Oden said simply, pushing the heavy door open.

Inside, the chill lessened slightly, though the air retained the dampness of aged stone. The main hall stretched out before them, a long corridor flanked by rows of doorways on either side. The faint hum of voices carried from behind the closed doors. At the far end of the corridor stood another door, its heavy frame left ajar.

"Walk through the hall and go out that door. That's where the training grounds are," Oden said. "You'll wait for us there. There's no point throwing you into a classroom with the others. It wouldn't be productive."

Sorn nodded, as he pushed through the door to the training grounds. The sight that greeted him took him aback. The space was vast, far larger than he had imagined, with every corner dedicated to some form of preparation or challenge. Moving targets zipped unpredictably in one area, their icy surfaces glinting as they darted back and forth. Nearby, crash dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces scarred from relentless strikes.

Students milled about, their focus split between exercises and hushed conversation. Sorn scanned the faces, but none were familiar. With uneasiness, Sorn noticed that most of those gathered wore the uniform of the Spears. He was confused by this. Wasn't the point of sending him out here for him not to engage with other students, especially Spears?

A voice rang out behind him, but it didn't help settle Sorn's nerves.

"Been a while, hasn't it, Outsider?"

Sorn turned, his breath caught between exhale and inhale. Standing there smugly, was Toren, the Dancing Blade. His smirk was filled with malice, his eyes gleaming with the cruel delight of a cat toying with prey. Such a cruel look didn't suit such a beautiful face.

Two boys flanked Toren on either side. They carried themselves with confidence, though they seemed completely uninterested in this exchange between Toren and Sorn.

Toren leaned closer with an uncomfortable sharpness in his smile. Sorn's hand moved instinctively to his chest, his fingertips brushing his recently acquired scar. Toren's grin widened instantly.

"It still hurts, doesn't it?" Toren asked softly. "Has it healed yet?"

The words were like venomous honey. Each syllable had a clear intention of inflicting fear and harm. However, Sorn found his resolve, straightening his back and meeting Toren's gaze with borrowed defiance. He realized immediately that he was subconsciously imitating the way Oden carried himself.

"I'm doing fine," Sorn replied with steel added to his voice. "Are you excited for the Tournament? I've heard quite a bit about it, and from what everyone's saying, arrogant runts like you are the first to drop dead."

Toren chuckled softly, the sound more amused than offended. He raised a single finger, wagging it back and forth in front of Sorn's face. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. You really haven't learned anything, have you?" His tone was chiding, clearly meant to belittle the black haired boy. "When you enter someone's house, you're supposed to show respect. It's the first rule of courtesy, yet you defy it at every turn. You are an intruder, Sorn. From the very moment we met, you challenged my authority as a person, and even now you refuse to display respect to my kindness."

There was something unnervingly genuine about Toren's delivery, as though he truly believed himself to be an altruist.

"So, what do you want?" Sorn asked bluntly, cutting through the pretense.

Toren sighed theatrically, as though the question itself were an affront. He conjured a thin sliver of ice with a flick of his fingers, turning it into a toothpick and casually scratching his teeth. His movements, like his words, carried an air of performance, but whether this was by design or habit, Sorn couldn't tell.

"We Elementals feel deeply, Sorn," Toren said, his tone softening to something that almost resembled sincerity. "In our short time together, I've come to understand that you're not so different from us. You've learned quickly. Remarkably so. The way you speak, move, and carry yourself. It has the edge of a true Marauder. And you're not just mimicking. You've become one of them in a matter of weeks. I must congratulate you on this. You have integrated yourself into the most brutish and undignified clan within these Fortress walls."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air like frost. "But what do I want? I just want to talk to you. The Council granted you the right to live. And I, magnanimous as I am, will respect their decision. Isn't that wonderful? You can redeem yourself, Sorn. And if you do, I won't hunt you down with the Spears—"

As Toren was talking, another voice rang out. It was light, and silenced Toren's ever-moving mouth immediately.

"Have you not teased him enough, Toren?"

The words came from Sorn's left, and he turned quickly to face their source. Toren's raised eyebrow was almost comical in its surprise, but Sorn's reaction was far more pronounced.

A girl stood there, strands of long blue hair drifting in the wind like strands of silk. Atop her head was a tiara of ice, its gleaming edges catching the light. Her eyes, large and unblinking, moved over the group, lingering on each boy before finally settling on Toren.

Sorn felt his breath catch in his chest, an unmistakable gleam lighting his face. He had been anticipating this moment for what felt like an eternity, replaying it in his mind during his many hours training.

"Crystal!" he shouted before he could stop himself.

The Princess of the Ice raised a hand in acknowledgment. "Yes, hi, that's me."