Meet Criks

The sun had begun to bleed orange across the rooftops of Aldor when Reid and Tarron finally entered the East Wing—a towering, many-tiered structure of polished marble and flickering runes etched along the columns. Reid climbed the steps in silence, his boots clapping softly against polished stone. 

The chaos from earlier—the maddened swirl of shadow beasts and the deafening calls to arms—had vanished like a storm that had passed over water. Only two words from the leaders had restored the balance:

Stand down.

Reid had to admit, he appreciated that kind of authority—sharp, clean, unquestioned. The words had fallen like a decree from the skies. The guards had lowered their spears. The mages had extinguished their spells. Even the torches dimmed as though in deference.

And Reid, for all his disdain for titles and ranks, could not deny the weight those two voices had carried.

"They walk like they own the stars," he muttered.

"What's that?" Tarron said, catching up behind him.

Reid shook his head, half to himself. Then, more plainly, "Those men. The ones everyone bowed to. Who are they?"

Tarron glanced around as though worried someone might overhear—even here, where the stairwell echoed only with their breath and footsteps. Then he leaned in to whisper, barely suppressing his excitement.

"Oh them? That was Morbius Rollen, leader of the House of Sylvan—the one the Mages bowed to. The other was Imambra Houlen, the Lord of the House of Mikir. Soldiers answer to him."

Reid raised an eyebrow. "And the pageantry? The bows and salutes?"

Tarron chuckled low under his breath, then sighed. "That's politics, my friend. Dense as treacle and twice as sticky."

Reid gave him a look.

Tarron continued more carefully this time as they entered the grand hall of the wing. Arena should be right ahead.

 "Anguth, for Mages, doesn't run on gold or grain. That's for commoners like us. In Anguth's world of spell, it is all about reputation. And reputation in this land is born from bloodlines older than memory—and the Houses who carry them."

He gestured upward as they passed a great tapestry bearing a five-pointed star, stitched in thread that shimmered with a pale glow.

"There are five High Houses," Tarron explained. "Like corners of a great pentagon. Each commands one arm of our aristocratic legacy —Sylvan for the Mages, Mikir for the Military, and three more—Draeghal, Ignis, and Arclore. You'll hear of them soon enough. Together, they form the foundation on which the Monarch sits."

"So the Crown is at the centre of all?"

Tarron nodded. "Nominally, yes. But if the Houses disagree, even a King's command can fall to ash."

Reid looked ahead. "So you're telling me no one sits at the centre."

Tarran glanced at him. "Someone does. He is just not the King."

A flicker of memory flashed behind Reid's eyes—of a pale-haired man standing over the wall, blazing brighter than the sun. 

"Who might be the man that rose from the foundation of the - "

" - Wall? No ideas about him. The Arena was built on the foundation of an old fortress, hundreds of years old. There are as many stories about it as there are bricks in that Wall. Maybe the Rune etched on the sculpture could tell something but I am not an expert on that."

Tarron shrugged and Reid did not pursue further.

He didn't need to. He understood.

As they walked deeper into the East Wing, passing beneath archways lit with soft magical light, he kept his thoughts to himself. He was still wrapping his thoughts around the words of that stranger when the entrance of the Arena came into view.

It was marked by a gate of floating glyphs, glowing softly as he passed through them. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the world stilled.

Inside was not what he had expected.

The air shimmered—heavy with silent magic. Instead of bustling humans or haughty officials, the arena's reception hall was manned by small, thin creatures with translucent, bony limbs and downturned, mournful eyes. They sat on platforms, clicking long fingers across shining screens that floated midair, shimmering symbols dancing beneath their touch.

Above them, a murder of crows sat perched on thick metal beams crisscrossing the ceiling. They cawed occasionally, each cry causing a name to flicker across the massive scoreboard that hovered in the reception hall. The names shimmered in, then blinked out again—a list of contenders, rising and falling like breath.

In the corner of the room, lounging like a goddamn prince, was another elk with narrow glowing eyes and long ears. It sat curled atop a heavy chest brimming with gold coins, grooming itself lazily between casual glares.

"What are these creatures?" Reid muttered, not so much to Tarron as to himself.

"They're Criks," Tarron said quietly, nodding toward the creatures. "Spellborn. They manage the whole Arena system. They're tied to their Script, or something close to it. Be respectful. We'll find plenty now that you have entered the world of Mages."

Reid grunted. His elk shifted in the pouch, as if in agreement—or warning.

A nearby Crik turned toward them, its sunken eyes blinking slowly. Its voice was gravel-soft and genderless. "Name?"

Tarron stepped forward enthusiastically. "Tarron! This is Reid. We want to enroll—"

The Crik—this one wearing a faint name-tag-like rune that read Baith—sighed. It was a sound that could only be described as centuries of disappointment exhaled at once. Then, without a word, Baith conjured a glowing quill in the air and gestured toward it. 

Tarron reached to grab it.

The quill instantly jerked out of his grasp.

Baith didn't even look up from its screen. "Don't harass Ponder."

"Ponder?" Tarron repeated, blinking.

"The quill," Baith said flatly. "He bites."

Reid exhaled through his nose, gaze moving to the scoreboard. His name wasn't there.

Yet.

He reached toward Ponder, and this time, the quill floated obediently into his grip.

Baith looked up. Just once. 

"We'll see if you last long enough to need a healer or a headline." Then, back to the screen. He carried the expression of a mourning bride. 

Reid didn't flinch. He scrawled his name.

Somewhere above, a crow cawed—and a new name blinked into existence on the board:

REID – New Entry

Class Pending.

Tarron leaned in and whispered, "You just declared war on mages from here to Thanes."

His eyes glowed with an evil glint, savoring the taste of what was yet to come. Reid looked up at the arena gates ahead.

"Good," he said. "Let them come."