Arrivel of the Unbroken

The chamber was quiet—too quiet for a royal summons.

Nyra stood near the obsidian mirror that lined one side of the room, the hem of her cloak dusted with ash from the training pits. Her hair was still damp from a cold rinse, skin bruised, knuckles scabbed, but her spine stayed straight.

They were leaving today.

Across from her, Seraph adjusted the bindings around her waist. The motion was silent, practiced. Riven paced like a caged wolf, blades already strapped to his back, a half-grin twitching on his lips.

"Why summon us now?" Riven muttered. "Unless we're getting another surprise lesson in near-death?"

"Doubt it," Nyra said. Her voice was even, though her stomach twisted. "He's the king. Maybe he wants to make sure we leave without blowing something up."

"Too late for that," Nyx chimed in, slipping through their shared voice with amusement. "We already burned his favorite training yard."

Before anyone could respond, the doors opened with a low groan.

A royal guard stood silently, then bowed. "His Majesty will see you now."

The throne room was colder than Nyra remembered.

Not just in temperature, but in presence.

The guards were still. The air hung with a silence that made even the gold-lined banners seem heavy. Every breath felt like it echoed.

King Vaelor sat upon the obsidian throne as if carved from it—unmoving, unreadable. The crown on his head wasn't designed to inspire awe, but fear. Its jagged points gleamed in the sunlight spilling through stained glass, casting fractured shadows across the black stone floor.

As the three of them stepped forward, Nyra felt Seraph slow beside her. Riven's hands hovered near his weapons—not out of fear, but habit. Instinct. Their instincts had been sharpened to razors under Voss.

Nyra walked with her chin high, steps controlled, no falter in her movement. But she felt it—every inch of pressure in the room.

Vaelor's gaze moved from Riven, to Seraph, then finally settled on her.

"You're ready," he said, the words measured, as if acknowledging something he didn't entirely approve of.

"We've been ready," Nyra replied, tone flat but firm.

He nodded once, then spoke again. "The Dominion Institute is no longer a place for testing your limits. It will be a place to define them. And for people like you… it will try to crush you."

Nyra didn't blink. "Then it'll have to try harder."

Vaelor's lip twitched slightly. He gestured to a servant who stepped forward from the shadows carrying a long, thin black box trimmed in silver. The king took it with careful hands—surprisingly careful.

"This belonged to your mother," he said quietly.

The shift in tone made Nyra's stomach twist.

He opened the box, revealing a delicate silver chain with a tear-shaped obsidian crystal hanging from it. The surface shimmered faintly with a pulse of internal light—almost like breath.

Nyra stepped forward, eyes locked on the necklace. "Why now?"

Vaelor didn't answer at first. His expression shifted, just slightly—less king, more man. But it was gone in the next blink.

"She wore it when no one else knew she existed," he said. "Long before courts. Before bloodlines. She wore it because it mattered to her. I'm giving it to you because she would've wanted you to have it. And because... it will serve you better than gathering dust in a locked vault."

Nyra reached for the necklace slowly, hesitant to touch it. When her fingers curled around it, warmth spread through her hand. Not magic. Not yet.

Memory.

She closed her fist around it and stepped back.

"You didn't tell me anything about her," she said, voice quieter.

"I'm not a man of stories," Vaelor replied. "And you never asked."

"I didn't think it'd matter."

"It does now," he said.

There was a beat of silence. He didn't soften. But his gaze lingered on her just a second longer than it should have.

"Don't die," he said finally.

Nyra studied him, unreadable. "You'll have to try harder than that to get rid of me."

The corner of Vaelor's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "That's my girl."

The words were quiet. Private. Not for the room.

He turned and walked back toward the throne.

The audience was over.

But the silence in Nyra's chest had shifted.

And the road to the Academy had begun.

They returned to their chambers in silence, the weight of the king's words—and that necklace—sitting heavier than any armor.

Nyra stood at the center of the room, her cloak folded over one arm, the necklace still in her hand. She hadn't put it on yet.

Riven moved around her, tossing supplies into his pack haphazardly. "Think he actually meant any of that?" he asked without looking.

Nyra didn't respond at first. Then: "Does it matter?"

"I think it does," Seraph said gently as she packed with precision, folding each item like ritual. "Intent shapes meaning."

Nyx surfaced mid-motion, grinning. "Intent also gets you stabbed if you're slow. Let's focus on survival, not daddy issues."

Riven snorted. "You're one to talk. You literally just threatened a royal general's groin last night."

"And I'd do it again," Nyx replied without hesitation.

Nyra finally slipped the necklace over her head. The crystal lay just above her sternum, cold at first… then warm.

Like it knew her.

She tucked it beneath her shirt and slung her pack over her shoulder.

"I don't care if it was sentiment or strategy," she muttered. "We're done here."

A knock came at the door.

A steward stood waiting with a tight expression. "The sky transport is prepped. You leave within the hour."

Nyra nodded. "We'll be there."

The edge of the cliff platform roared with wind as they approached. The sky vessel crouched like a predator waiting to leap—its frame carved from black steel and obsidian, glowing runes crawling across its wings. Arcane engines hummed beneath its surface like a beast breathing.

Several guards stood to the side. None looked at Nyra. But they all noticed her.

The moment the trio stepped aboard, silence followed.

Even among the armored transport crew, something shifted. Not fear exactly—but caution. Respect laced with uncertainty.

They weren't just travelers.

They were survivors.

Nyra took a seat near the forward viewport. Riven lounged beside her with a dramatic sigh. Seraph stood, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fixed on the clouds ahead.

"Think they'll hate us?" Riven asked.

"They already do," Nyra replied.

Nyx chuckled softly, voice just beneath Seraph's calm. "Then let's make sure they fear us i

and the Dominion Institute loomed ahead.

The sky vessel descended through a layer of storm-torn clouds, lightning threading through the dark like veins of wrath. Below, the Dominion Institute rose from the cliffs like a fortress carved from nightmares—black stone spires, iron gates reinforced with runes, and towers veiled in shadow.

The Institute didn't welcome.

It consumed.

Nyra stood at the bow of the ship, cloak snapping violently around her legs as the wind howled. Her fingers gripped the rail. Her pulse was calm.

But everything in her screamed.

This was no place for the weak.

Behind her, Riven let out a low whistle. "Home sweet hell."

Seraph didn't speak. She didn't need to.

Nyx surfaced, her grin curling wide. "Let's make someone bleed."

The ship struck the docking anchors with a hiss of pressure and steam. The moment the ramp extended, the air shifted.

Eyes waited.

Below, a courtyard of obsidian stone stretched outward like a battlefield. Lined along its edges were rows of students—nobles in tailored armor, crests stitched into their collars, weapons gleaming. Their faces were cold. Arrogant. Beautiful in the way vipers are beautiful.

A test.

A warning.

A trap.

As Nyra stepped onto the ramp, silence rippled through the rows. Her cloak snapped like a banner behind her, boots striking the metal with purpose.

Whispers followed.

"Is that her?"

"The king's bastard?"

"Looks like a savage."

"She's the one who broke the royal guard's jaw in the courtyard."

"She's nothing."

Nyra didn't blink.

Let them speak.

Let them choke on it later.

Riven descended beside her, smirking. "I think they like us."

"Too bad we don't care," Nyra muttered.

Nyx emerged as Seraph's boot met the stone. "Ooh, look at all these pretty faces. I want to ruin every single one."

At the far end of the courtyard stood a figure in blood-red robes, tall and rigid, with a mask of black iron and a voice like thunder. "Cadets. Step forward. State your names."

Nyra didn't flinch. "Nyra Vale."

Riven stepped up beside her. "Riven Caelum."

Seraph's voice followed, low and calm. "Seraph."

"Also known as Nyx," Nyx added with a wink.

The masked figure tilted his head. "We know what you are. The headmaster is expecting you."

The crowd parted in brittle silence.

And the gates opened like a maw.

Darkness awaited.

The Dominion Institute wasn't built.

It was forged.

Carved into the side of a mountain and wrapped in jagged stone like a scar the earth couldn't hide, the academy rose from the cliffs in brutal spires of black and iron. Sharp towers loomed over the main courtyard like watching gods, each topped with spears of obsidian that pierced the clouds. The walls were layered with runes—etched not for beauty, but for containment, enchantment, control.

Guard posts lined the perimeter, high up on the parapets, each manned by armored enforcers in dark crimson and steel. Beyond the main gate, four paths veined outward toward separate divisions: Combat Hall, Arcane Tower, Intelligence Wing, and the Deep Vaults.

Around the exterior, the cliffside plunged into a deadly drop—no fences, no rails, just wind and falling mist. On the opposite side of the compound, a black river coiled through the canyons like a serpent.

It was breathtaking.

It was merciless.

Nyra scanned the towers as she stepped forward, eyes darting to the figures watching from balconies above—students in clean, pressed uniforms, gazes sharp, judgmental. Not a single welcoming face.

"You feel that?" Riven said under his breath.

"The tension?"

"The hate."

"They can hate all they want," Nyra muttered. "I'm not here to be liked."

Nyx's laugh was low and dangerous. "I'm here to ruin reputations and slit egos wide open."

Ahead, the masked figure stepped aside as the gates creaked open behind him.

The crowd parted further, eyes narrowing as whispers turned sharper.

"Her cloak's still bloodstained."

"She's not even wearing regulation armor."

"Who let trash walk through our gates?"

Nyra turned her head, slow and deliberate, locking eyes with the last speaker.

"Say that louder," she said, voice like a promise. "I dare you."

The noble girl flinched and looked away.

Riven grinned. "You're really working on your diplomacy."

Nyra didn't respond.

Because they were inside.

The threshold swallowed the light behind them as they stepped through the gates, and the air shifted—colder, heavier, charged with old magic and violence.

The entry hall stretched into a grand coliseum-style corridor—walls lined with banners from every faction, floor polished to a mirror finish that reflected bloodstains long scrubbed but never forgotten.

Statues lined the inner path—warriors, assassins, mages, and monsters carved in battle pose, faces immortalized mid-war scream.

"This place is a tomb with ambition," Seraph whispered.

Nyx licked her lips. "Let's wake the dead, then."

And the doors boomed shut behind them.

The great hall opened into a towering atrium filled with every student in the Institute.

Hundreds stood in rows across the blackstone floor, all clad in crisp, color-coded uniforms that marked their factions—scarlet for Combat, midnight blue for Arcane, silver-gray for Intelligence, and bone-white for the Elite.

The air was electric with scrutiny.

As Nyra and her unit entered, silence bloomed around them. Like they carried the stench of rebellion, of ruin. Whispers moved like snakes through the crowd, none daring to rise above a murmur—but every eye turned.

At the far end of the atrium, a raised obsidian platform loomed. Upon it stood five officials in layered military robes—none more striking than the man at the center.

Headmaster Xypher Rhaegis.

He stood tall, gaunt, cloaked in armor dark as a starless sky. His eyes—cold onyx—moved like scalpel blades across the assembly. His presence alone silenced breath.

His voice, when it came, was a weapon.

"Welcome to the Dominion Institute."

A thousand spines straightened.

"Here, you are not children. You are not noble. You are not common. You are not safe."

He stepped forward, each word slicing through the air.

"You are weapons—unfinished, unstable, unworthy. It is our duty to refine you through blood, suffering, and obedience. Those who fail will be forgotten. Those who excel may live long enough to be used."

Nyra's jaw tightened.

Riven whispered under his breath, "Friendly place."

Nyx chuckled. "I like him."

A few students near the front turned and glared. One in particular stepped out of formation—tall, golden-haired, face chiseled like a statue carved to be admired. His uniform gleamed with high-rank pins and his sneer screamed entitlement.

"Looks like the rumors were true," he said, voice projecting just enough to be heard. "The king really did open the gate to the gutters."

Nyra's gaze snapped to him.

"Careful," she said. "You're speaking awfully loud for someone who's not ready to bleed."

A ripple of tension spread.

The boy stepped closer, tilting his head. "Is that a threat, bastard?"

Nyra didn't flinch. "No. A promise."

Before the standoff could escalate, a shadow appeared at the edge of the platform.

Kierian Voss.

His coat still stained from their last spar. Eyes just as cold.

He said nothing—just looked at them.

At her.

Nyra held his gaze.

No words passed.

But the smirk that tugged at his mouth was unmistakable.

Riven muttered, "Oh great. He's here too. Joy."

The Headmaster raised one hand, and the assembly snapped back to attention.

"We begin tomorrow. Your first evaluation will determine your placement. And who among you deserves to survive."

Then he turned and left.

The silence he left behind was suffocating.

As the students were dismissed in disciplined formation, Nyra caught one more glance—Voss watching from the shadows of a far corridor.

But he wasn't looking at the student body.

He was looking at her.

And this time, he didn't smirk.

He nodded.

The dormitories were cold.

Not just in temperature—but in design, in silence, in the way the walls seemed to absorb sound and spit it back twisted.

Their assigned quarters were located in the upper eastern wing of the Combat Division's residential tower—one of four such towers looming over the main courtyard. The building stood four stories high, all obsidian and iron, with magic-imbued walls that subtly shifted depending on the personalities of its occupants.

Nyra's room was the first to respond. The moment her boots crossed the threshold, the ambient magic stirred. The walls darkened to a deep matte black, absorbing all but the faintest light. Sharp crimson veins etched across the stone like cracks under pressure. The once-bare window reshaped itself into a tall, arched slit carved into the stone, offering a view of storm-tossed skies and distant mountains. Her bed twisted at the edges, becoming sleeker and more angular, as if braced for war. The single rune-light shifted to a pale silver glow—harsh but clear, casting long, dramatic shadows. The air felt heavier, like it carried the weight of violence and survival.

Seraph's room changed the moment she crossed the threshold—but unlike Nyra's, it didn't commit to one shape.

It reflected both her and Nyx.

The walls were smooth obsidian, but veins of violet and crimson ran through them like living nerves, shifting slightly with emotion. Her bed was half-moon in shape, but jagged on one edge—one half hovering serenely above the ground, the other anchored with iron studs. One corner held a meditation alcove with silver runes glowing softly beneath a floating cushion.

Across from it, a throne of black glass jutted from the floor—its arms spiked, its back curved like a fang.

Weapons adorned the walls above the headboard: elegant fans on one side, serrated daggers on the other.

The lighting responded to mood: soft blues when Seraph held dominance; harsh reds and flickering shadows when Nyx took over. A single mirrored panel shifted with their reflection—sometimes one, sometimes the other, and sometimes both, overlapping.

It was duality forged into stone. Balance on the edge of madness. Where Seraph's room invited calm, Nyx's dared the world to survive her presence. This was not a place of rest. It was a proving ground in stone.

Nyra dumped her bag onto the mattress and stood there for a long moment, staring at the wall. Her fingers brushed the obsidian necklace at her collarbone.

Riven dropped his gear onto his own bunk and glanced around. His room hadn't changed much—just tidier, cleaner lines, extra hidden compartments appearing in the walls like the space knew what he was.

He turned to Nyra. "Okay, that's unsettling. My room built itself a trap wall. Yours looks like it wants to murder someone."

Nyra looked up, eyes faintly glowing in the silver light. "It does."

Riven looked past her to the door across the hall. "And what about Miss Split Personality? You two comfy over there?"

Nyx emerged with a grin. "Comfy? Baby, our room's a f*cking temple of violence."

Seraph answered next, her voice layered beneath. "It's… functional."

"Functional," Nyx scoffed. "With flair."

Nyra smirked. "At least it suits you both. Equal parts peace and chaos."

"Better than what I expected," Nyra muttered, eyes still forward.

Nyx surfaced then, dropping into a chair that hadn't existed a second ago. It had shaped itself into something sleek and wicked—like a throne carved from shadow.

"One of these rich brats better try something," Nyx growled. "I need a reason to spill blood."

Seraph emerged with a slow breath, reclaiming control. "We're not here to start a war."

"We are the war," Nyra said quietly.

They didn't have long to reflect.

A violet rune pulsed across the wall, followed by a low chime.

A voice echoed through the room, clear and chilling.

"Cadets Vale, Caelum, and Seraph. Report to the Headmaster's private hall. Now."

Riven groaned. "Already?"

"They don't waste time," Seraph said.

"They're about to waste teeth," Nyra muttered.

The halls outside were silent. Torches burned blue in recessed iron sconces. A haze of magic hung in the air—residual from the enchantments that protected each floor. As they passed by the study lounges, they caught glimpses of other students—nobles cloaked in prestige, whispering and staring. Some wore colors that marked their allegiance to the five dominant factions—each one a political machine within the Institute.

None greeted them.

They reached the Headmaster's hall, a long, rune-carved corridor lined with red-glass lanterns and statues of ancient warriors mid-battle. At the far end, a door made of black soulwood creaked open by magic alone.

Inside stood Headmaster Xypher Rhaegis, flanked by two instructors in crimson. And across from them—standing not in shadow, but in plain view—was Kierian Voss.

No longer just their instructor.

A student.

A peer.

He wore the Elite Combat Division crest stitched into his collar, his uniform darker than the others—nearly black. He met Nyra's gaze without a smirk this time. Only silence. But there was something else in his eyes.

Challenge.

Xypher's voice cut through the tension. "Your evaluations begin now. You won't be alone."

He gestured to the platform as Voss stepped forward to join them.

"No audience. No ranking board. No distractions. And no advantages. You all bleed the same here."

Nyra's jaw locked. "You're putting us in the same trial as him?"

"Yes," Xypher said. "Because he requested it."

Nyra turned her eyes to Voss. He didn't blink.

"Bold move," Riven muttered. "Guy trains us, then wants to spar? Sadistic bastard."

"I like him even more now," Nyx whispered, low and thrilled.

The doors sealed behind them.

Darkness swallowed the chamber.

For a moment, there was nothing—just breath, tension, the hum of buried enchantments. Then, the floor beneath them shifted.

A circular arena formed from blackened stone, rising up from the ground with grinding groans. The glyphs around them ignited in sequence, casting a violet glow across their faces. The temperature dropped. The air thickened.

Xypher's voice echoed from somewhere unseen. "This trial will not test your ability to survive pain. You've proven that. This will test your control—over your magic, your minds, and each other."

Nyra's hand twitched toward her belt.

"Together or separate?" she asked, voice sharp.

"Together," came the cold response. "But understand—this arena senses fear, doubt, and hesitation. It will evolve. Adapt. What you bring into it will shape what it becomes."

Riven cursed under his breath. "So... it's a magical death trap that personalizes itself?"

Nyx cracked her neck, grinning. "Delicious."

The glyphs flared.

Voss stepped to their side now—not above, not behind. Equal.

"If you can't fight beside me," he said, quiet and grim, "you'll die beside someone weaker."

Nyra turned her head toward him, jaw locked. "Then try not to slow us down, Ruin."

He smirked. "Just don't get in my way."

The arena pulsed. The air snapped.

And then the stone beneath them split open—and from the chasm rose the first shape.

It had no face.

Just blades.

And teeth.

The construct that rose from the pit was forged in nightmares—massive, jagged, stitched together with black iron and magic-seared bone. Its limbs twisted unnaturally, each joint wrapped in glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Its mouth stretched too wide across its eyeless head, lined with teeth shaped like daggers. Smoke hissed from vents in its chest.

And it moved like it was starving.

Nyra was already in motion.

"Fan out!" she barked, voice steel-wrapped venom.

Seraph phased left, slipping into shadow. Nyx surged through her, taking point with a vicious grin and daggers already singing. Riven vanished in a blink, reappearing above the creature, both blades drawn.

Voss didn't move.

He watched.

Waited.

Then struck.

He hit the creature dead center with a burst of raw force—but the thing didn't fall. It fed. The runes along its ribs glowed brighter, and it grew.

Riven landed hard beside Nyra, cursing. "It absorbs kinetic energy!"

"No brute force," Seraph hissed from the edge of the arena. "It's a spell-siphon. It wants our power."

"Then give it something it can't eat," Nyx snarled, blades flashing as she darted in, aiming for the exposed wiring behind its shoulder.

Steel met shrieking metal.

Sparks flew.

The construct screamed—lurching with unnatural speed—and backhanded Nyx across the arena. She hit the wall with a crack, then laughed as she rolled to her feet, blood on her teeth.

"Hit harder!" she howled.

Nyra flung her hand out, sending debris and shrapnel flying—not with a pulse, but with precision. She drove them through the gaps in its armor, each strike sharp enough to cut, not feed.

The creature howled.

It lunged.

And Voss was there, intercepting. Sword met limb. Metal shrieked. His face was emotionless, movements fluid, like every attack was calculated. Perfect. But even he grunted when the beast slammed him back.

"Less choreography," Nyra spat, sprinting forward. "More damage."

Seraph's illusion magic bent the creature's perception—clones of Nyra danced in and out of view, drawing its strikes wide. Riven used the distraction to blink behind it and drove both daggers into the back of its knee.

Bloodless.

But the limb buckled.

"Down!" Riven shouted.

"Not yet!" Nyra screamed back.

She surged forward, channeling her rage into a spear of compressed magic—dense, honed, wrapped in intent.

She launched it into the thing's open chest.

The detonation shook the entire chamber.

Smoke. Fire. Screams.

The construct reeled back, sparking and shrieking, half its chest exposed. The rune core inside blinked erratically.

"Now!" Voss barked.

All four launched.

Nyx went for the head, carving along the jawline.

Seraph wrapped the construct in phantom chains of moonlight.

Riven blinked upward, driving a dagger into the exposed rune.

And Nyra—

Nyra aimed for the heart.

"Shatter," she whispered.

Her blade struck true.

The construct exploded in a wave of magic and shrapnel.

But it didn't die.

From the crater, it rebuilt—the pieces dragging themselves together, new limbs forming from scattered wreckage.

Nyra's eyes widened. "It's evolving."

Voss stepped beside her, blood trailing from his lip, his blade humming with residual magic.

"It's not done," he said, voice ragged but firm.

Neither were they.

The arena shook again as the creature screamed—a keening, metallic shriek that echoed off the stone walls and made Nyra's bones vibrate. It didn't move like before. It glided, dragging blades in its wake, legs bent unnaturally like broken stilts. Sparks snapped from its chest as the rune core pulsed with chaotic energy.

Nyra surged forward, blades spinning beside her in midair. The sound of air splitting around them was like a war drum—shunk—shunk—shunk—as they carved arcs of wind.

Riven blinked across the arena in rapid bursts, reappearing to stab low behind the creature's joint, only to vanish again a second later, reappearing above to aim for its crown.

Nyx slid beneath its legs, laughing through a bloodied lip. "You can scream all you want, freak," she hissed, slicing upward into its undercarriage. "But I scream louder."

The construct kicked with unnatural speed—its leg swept Nyx back, but Seraph took control just in time, landing her clean in a combat crouch with her phantom fans already slicing outward.

Voss met the creature's charge head-on.

Their blades clashed in a burst of sparks. The clang of steel hitting enchanted metal sounded like thunder compressed into skin. Voss moved like a hurricane—precise, relentless, not wasting an ounce of motion.

The creature lunged.

Nyra leapt.

Her shoulder clipped the beast's arm, spinning her sideways. She turned midair, hurling two daggers that whistled through the air like banshees before slamming into the thing's neck plating.

It staggered—just enough.

Riven landed a crushing blow to the knee. The joint buckled.

"Down!" he shouted.

Nyra moved like liquid fire, blades orbiting her in tight spirals. She pushed harder—telekinesis flaring out like pressure waves—guiding every shard into the monster's exposed torso.

The creature groaned, voice deeper now, more human, almost pained.

It howled again—a guttural, tearing wail—and struck the ground with both arms, sending shockwaves through the arena. The stone cracked. The light pulsed. Their ears rang.

Voss slid beside Nyra, bracing her. "We end this—together."

She nodded, breath ragged. "Then let's break it for real."

The creature roared—a sound not made for mortal ears. It charged again, and this time it didn't swing blindly.

It aimed.

A blade arm tore through the air and slammed into Riven's side, sending him skidding across the stone like a rag doll. His shoulder crunched against the wall, blood splattering in a wide arc. He gasped—sharp, broken.

"Riven!" Nyra shouted.

The beast didn't stop.

Its claws slashed across Nyx's thigh, ripping through leather and skin. Blood sprayed, hot and fast, and she snarled, eyes going wide with the kind of thrill only she could feel through the pain.

"Oh you bitch," Nyx hissed, limping into a roll, her hand already wet with her own blood as she stabbed upward into the thing's rib cage.

The blade pierced.

And the creature screamed.

Its blood was thick and black, like crude oil laced with molten silver. It splattered onto the floor with a hiss, burning the stone as it landed. The smell was iron and rot, electric and wrong.

"Got you," she grinned, face and hands coated in gore.

The creature's face twisted, the jagged maw gaping wider. Bone plates slid across its neck like armor plates. A second limb sprouted from its back—then a third.

Seraph slipped behind it, silent and sure—until the creature's new appendage speared her shoulder with a blade of bone. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as blood ran down her arm in dark, sticky ribbons.

Nyra's rage flared.

She moved.

She didn't think.

Her magic surged out in a scream of metal. Shards of broken blades lifted around her, orbiting in a storm. Her eyes glowed silver-white.

She dove beneath the creature's guard and drove a twisted iron spike into the exposed sinew under its arm. The flesh split with a wet, grinding tear.

It shrieked.

A high, metallic wail that made blood vessels twitch.

Voss was already moving, silent and brutal.

He hacked into the creature's leg, splitting muscle from metal. Black ichor sprayed across his chest and face. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch.

"Drive it down!" he shouted.

Riven, blood dripping from his mouth, blinked behind the beast and stabbed upward, his blade piercing just below the ribcage. The monster howled.

Nyra climbed its back, her hands sliding in blood, and drove her blade through its throat, carving deep.

Black blood geysered up. It soaked her face, stung her eyes. She didn't stop.

Nyx appeared beside her, dagger in one hand, her other dragging across the creature's side, slicing deep lines into its ribs.

The beast collapsed to one knee.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

But slower.

Wounded.

Nyra dropped to the ground, her face a mask of gore.

"End it," she growled.

The monster was on its knees.

But it wasn't dead.

It wheezed—if the sound could be called that—something between a mechanical whine and a gurgling groan, like metal twisting inside a throat that shouldn't exist. Black ichor poured from its wounds, hissing where it touched stone, burning through floor tiles like acid. Its spine arched unnaturally. Limbs twitched and realigned, even as severed muscle sparked and spasmed.

Nyra stood before it, breathing hard. Blood clung to her face, sticky and warm, mingling with sweat and grime. Her ribs ached with every inhale. Her left shoulder throbbed from where the recoil of her own magic had snapped bone against bone.

But she didn't care.

She moved forward.

Even as pain screamed through her body, her legs responded—half instinct, half rage. Shards of broken weaponry hovered behind her, controlled by sheer will. They jittered in the air, slicing wind with a whssssh—whssshhh sound as they followed her like wolves.

To her left, Riven dragged himself upright, limping. His blade was cracked, dripping ichor, his jaw swollen and split.

"Still with me?" Nyra growled.

Riven coughed blood onto the floor and spat. "Barely. Let's kill this thing before it eats someone's soul."

Behind them, Seraph flickered into visibility, one arm held against her side, soaked in blood. Her breathing was sharp. Her movements sharper. Nyx pushed forward with her presence, eyes gleaming madly through the pain.

"Time to tear out its heart," she hissed.

Then—

Voss.

He moved without warning.

One second standing. The next—a blur of shadow and velocity. His sword roared as it sliced through air, a deep vibrating whoomph that cut through the chaos. He descended on the creature's back, blade flashing like black lightning, carving a deep groove into its spine.

The monster screamed—a wrenching, metallic screech that echoed off the arena walls and sent tremors through the floor.

The sound made Nyra's ears bleed.

She pushed forward, ducked a flailing limb, and drove her shards deep into the joint behind the creature's right arm. The bones cracked with a wet crk-crk. Black blood sprayed over her, stinging her neck.

Seraph twisted left and spun low, her phantom blades slashing tendons behind the knees. The creature buckled again.

Riven blinked in above its head and rammed a shattered dagger down into the socket where its eye should've been. It stuck. The beast roared and slammed its skull into the ground, nearly crushing him in the process.

"MOVE!" Nyra screamed.

They all did.

Exhaustion blurred the edges of their vision, but they fought through it. Ignoring the pain, the blood, the fractures in bone and will.

Because this was survival.

And survival was war.

Voss reappeared beside them, blade drenched, eyes wild.

"Pin it!" he ordered.

Nyra responded instantly, flinging a wave of force that cracked the floor beneath the creature's legs, locking its movement.

Riven slashed across its throat.

Nyx drove both her blades into the sides of its torso.

And Voss—

Voss leapt.

Sword overhead.

And with one deafening cry, he brought it down.

The blade pierced the creature's chest, driving deep into the core.

The rune at its center shattered with a blinding flash of silver light.

The monster let out one final scream—a howl like a storm collapsing in on itself—and then… silence.

Its body jerked once.

Twice.

Then fell.

Dead.

But the monster didn't stay down.

It twitched.

Once.

Twice.

And then it screamed—a sound that wasn't just rage, but pure agony-turned-fury. Its rune core pulsed violently, fractures glowing like molten veins. A wave of force rippled out from its chest, knocking all four of them back across the arena.

The creature convulsed and shifted, its limbs elongating, metal plates tearing apart to reveal coiled muscle cords and glowing bone. Claws sprouted anew—serrated, jagged, twitching. A third arm ripped itself free from the ribcage. Its face warped, jaw unhinging into a split-mouth howl, revealing rows upon rows of fangs. Black ichor poured from the open wounds, sizzling across the stone.

It had gone berserk.

Nyra slammed into a pillar, blood spraying from her mouth. Her right arm hung at a bad angle—dislocated. She shoved it back into place with a scream that shook her ribs.

Her face was a canvas of blood, grime, and fury.

Riven limped forward, his coat shredded, one eye nearly swollen shut, a gash splitting his brow.

Seraph clutched her ribs, breath coming in painful hitches. Her robes were torn and soaked through with blood. Nyx emerged anyway, spitting crimson and grinning through a cracked tooth.

"Let's finish this."

The beast charged.

It moved like lightning, limbs slicing air with whsssht-whsssht, each strike cutting shockwaves through the arena. Its roar was lower now—guttural, primal, rattling in the bones.

Nyra sidestepped a strike, barely, the wind slicing her cheek. She drove a telekinetic lance through its knee—it shattered, but the beast kept coming.

Riven blinked behind it, slashing both blades in an X across its back, but the creature's tail lashed out, catching him mid-air and snapping his leg with a sickening crrrkkk.

"Fuck—!" he gasped, crumpling as blood gushed from his thigh.

Nyx rolled under a claw and countered with both daggers buried in the beast's gut. The creature screamed in her face and bit her shoulder.

It bit her.

Nyx shrieked, fury and agony overlapping as Seraph pulled back control, staggering away, blood pouring from the gaping wound.

"Enough!" Nyra howled, eyes glowing like fire.

She summoned every last shard from the battlefield—broken swords, shattered tiles, jagged glass—and hurled them like a cyclone. The debris tore into the creature's flanks, slowing it, anchoring it.

Then Voss moved.

He sprinted forward, faster than he should've been, pain forgotten, eyes burning with something deeper than rage.

The creature turned toward him.

Its jaw opened.

Voss launched upward, a vertical slash carving through the monster's chest. He twisted mid-air, landed on its shoulder, drove his blade down through its collarbone.

It didn't stop.

The beast bucked, howled, claws flailing—one tore across Voss's back, splitting flesh and fabric, but he held on.

He dragged his blade downward, cutting through the rune core's exposed cavity.

"I said—STAY DEAD!" Voss roared.

He ripped the core free, holding it aloft as the monster's body spasmed violently—one final death spasm—before collapsing with a thunderous crash.

Black blood erupted like a geyser, drenching him.

And then—

Silence.

Real this time.

The arena was rubble.

They were broken.

But the beast was dead. Finally.

Silence.

Not peaceful.

Not victorious.

The kind of silence that follows a battlefield—raw and wet, where the only sound left is breathing.

The creature's body lay shattered across the stone, twisted metal and torn flesh still hissing where its black blood met the cracked tiles. The rune core—a gnarled mass of pulsing light—flickered weakly in Voss's hand, until it dissolved into ash, falling like dying embers around him.

None of them spoke at first.

Because none of them could.

They stood in a broken circle—bleeding, breathing, alive.

But barely.

Nyra was covered head to toe in black ichor and blood, her cloak shredded, her skin torn in at least six places. Her right arm was swollen and crusted with dried blood. Her face—once so composed—was streaked with dirt, bruises, and gore. One eye had begun to swell. Her lip was split. Her left boot was missing, and her bare foot bled freely across the stone. But she was upright.

Riven had propped himself against a shattered column, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. Blood had soaked through his pants and pooled beneath him. His shirt was half-missing, revealing slashes along his ribs and a puncture near his shoulder. His face was pale, slick with sweat and blood. But his eyes—sharp, bright—were still locked on Nyra.

Seraph/Nyx stood with one hand braced against a wall, their shoulder wrapped in a self-made sling of torn fabric. Their robes were shredded nearly to the waist, and their entire left side was soaked in blood. Their face was split—one half calm and distant, the other smiling, feral. Hair matted, lips dark with dried blood, their expression held both serenity and madness.

And Voss—

Voss stood in the center, drenched in gore from shoulder to boot. His coat hung in tatters, blade still gripped in one trembling hand. A long gash ran down his back, soaking his spine in red. He hadn't cleaned the blood from his face. He hadn't moved since the core turned to ash.

The silence deepened.

Then the walls shifted.

The rune-lined stone glowed and peeled back, revealing the watching figures of Xypher and the crimson-robed instructors beyond the glass.

The illusion of privacy was shattered.

They had been watched the entire time.

Nyra's eyes locked on Xypher's.

He didn't blink.

Didn't speak.

Then the door hissed open with a groan of stone.

And instead of applause or recognition…

There was only more silence.

A medic stepped in—hooded, faceless—and moved to Riven first.

Then to Seraph.

Then to Nyra.

No words.

Only pressure, gauze, magic-slick gloves.

And then the lights began to dim again.

Voss finally turned.

His eyes met Nyra's.

And everything else fell away.

It wasn't triumph.

It wasn't even pride.

It was energy—raw and coiled between them like lightning held in breath. An unspoken current passed in the air between their bloodstained bodies. Her chest rose with exhaustion; his hands trembled with residual adrenaline. But in that moment, all of it—the ache, the blood, the silence—meant nothing compared to the fire in their locked gazes.

It was dread.

It was recognition.

It was something they weren't ready to name.

Nyra blinked first.

She exhaled through gritted teeth. "You're staring, Ruin."

Voss's voice came rough, quiet. "You're still breathing."

Behind them, Riven groaned from his place against the pillar. "Ugh, gods, can you flirt after the medics pull my damn femur out of my stomach?"

Seraph smirked faintly through a split lip. "You look like a drowned corpse."

Riven turned his head slowly, blood still running down his face. "Says the one who got bit and is still wearing half a monster's jaw on her shoulder."

Nyx took over just enough to chuckle. "I keep trophies. Wanna see where I stuck the claws?"

"Pass," Riven groaned. "Hard pass."

Nyra limped toward him, one arm wrapped tightly around her side. "You smell like scorched bone."

"You look like vengeance crawled out of a swamp," Riven said, half-laughing, half-hurting.

Nyra smirked, then winced. "Yeah… fair."

They all stood there, broken but upright.

Bleeding. Grinning. Reeling.

And in that moment—despite the pain, despite the silence—they were still alive.

But none of them said what they all felt.

That whatever came next would make this look like mercy.