The sky is clear and pale, washed in steady light. Something bright cuts across it, moving high above the arena. Its glow lingers for a moment, sharp against the open blue.
Then a single cloud drifts into view. It slides slowly across the light, dulling it, softening the sky. The brightness fades just enough to cast a shadow downward.
Vyrrak stands at the very top bleachers of the arena, looking down. The cloud covers the sun behind him, and his face is left in shade as his gaze remains fixed below.
Today, is the first day of the tournament.
Once the first semester ends, every first-year student is tested and ranked through this tournament.
Usually, the highlight of this competition is the participation of the first year's Champions. It should be even more so for this year, considering everyone expects to see the Generation of Legends in action.
Yet, many spectators of all ages, of all backgrounds, are currently looking at the solitary Vyrrak.
The reason is simple: he's the only Champion who has so far entered the arena.
“Is that him? That’s Vyrrak, right?”
“He’s alone.”
“Did the others not show up yet?”
“They must, come on.”
“Still… standing there by himself feels wrong.”
“I thought the Generation of Legends would arrive together.”
Vyrrak is, for reasons that only the Generation of Legends really know, the only one of the original ten Champions to show his face here. He received a message from Jacob, who told him about Iskara's betrayal. Yet, he would feel much more comfortable if Jacob was there with him.
He said he needs a little time to finish whatever the was working on. Zibrek and Boomgar said it's probably about the Star Metal... Jacob, come on, show your damn face already.
Vyrrak is not just worried because of the pride of the Generation of Legends, but because the Dark Champions, knowing that Jacob figured out that they'd arrive, brazenly spread the information that they're coming to humiliate the Champions.
Now, all the people in the Academy, seeing the Champions as their representatives against the forces of Asmodeus, are starting to feel anxious about this.
“Did you hear what they’re saying about the Dark Champions?”
“About the Dark Champions? What are you talking about?”
“They’re coming to disrupt the tournament on purpose.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To humiliate the Champions, that’s what I heard.”
“Here? In the Academy?”
“Is that why only the Dragonkin Champion showed up?”
As the voice spreads along the bleachers, which are getting more and more filled up as people pour into the arena, many start looking around, stretching their necks, hoping to find their Champions.
Vyrrak hears the shift in the crowd without turning his head. The tone has changed. Curiosity soon gives way to worry.
So they really spread the rumor about their arrival, he thinks. Jacob didn't mention this.
Vyrrak keeps still with his hands at his sides, trying not to give away the tumultuous thoughts that crowd his mind at the moment.
Where the hell is he?
Vyrrak slowly scans the entrances to the arena with his eyes.
Suddenly, there's a commotion at one of the gates and Vyrrak almost exhales in relief then and there.
Someone important is clearly coming, and then, he hears.
“A Champion!” Someone shouts.
Knowing that it cannot be any of the other Champions, Vyrrak ever so slightly relaxes his shoulders, happy that Jacob made it in time.
Yet, when he sees the person crossing the gate, with many fanning around him, he frowns.
It's not Jacob.
It's Filr'etk, the guy who won the Champion's spot from Boomgar.
He had completely removed the existence of this figure.
For some reason, however, someone points at Vyrrak and Filr'etk slowly swaggers his way up the bleachers until he reaches the Dragonkin.
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“Hey, fellow Champion,” Filr'etk smiles toothily at Vyrrak.
Vyrrak looks at Filr'etk and doesn't answer for a moment.
If he fought Boomgar now...
He had completely forgotten about the red-skinned Goblin who had defeated Boomgar. For some reason, with all the major concerns in his life, Vyrrak had completely removed the existence of this person.
“Jaguar got your tongue?” Filr'etk says. “We haven't had time to familiarize with each other. I am Filr’etk Blackbounty. And where are all the other Champions? I've heard that these so-called Dark Champions are coming. I believe it's our duty to show these useless bastards what's what. I'll wipe the floor with them.”
“The Leader of the Dark Champions defeated all of us single-handedly,” Vyrrak says. “I don't think you should underestimate the threat they pose.”
“I've met her at the Trial,” Filr'etk says, shrugging. “She didn't seem like anything special. But she surely battered that Leader of yours. Maybe, we just need better people in our ranks.”
Vyrrak’s eyes narrow, though his voice stays even.
“You probably only saw a fragment of her power, Filr'etk,” he says. “Nimirea is a monster. Her power is hard to gauge. I don't think that she's ever shown anyone, even Jacob, what she's really capable of.”
“I think you're worrying too much about her,” Filr'etk shrugs and sits beside Vyrrak. “We'll destroy her, trust me. And with her, all the other stupid Dark Champions.”
Vyrrak crosses his arms to avoid putting his hands on Filr'etk's neck.
Vyrrak looks past him, back to the arena floor.
He's hoping for some peace now that Filr'etk stopped talking to him, but, it appears that this is not his lucky day.
The arena has very few boxes that are meant for dignitaries and important people. And there are so many incredibly powerful people that, while usually one box would be filled by a King and its entourage, only the King himself now would be able to enter one of the packed boxes. And most of the nobles, even some of the strongest, do not qualify for one of the boxes.
The reason for this is that the Headmaster, Vyrrak's grandfather, is not a person who likes separating nobles and everybody else.
And, by some stroke of poor luck, Vyrrak sees two almost-identical looking humans rudely pointing at him.
“Are you Vyrrak the Champion?” One of them, the one with shorter hair asks.
Vyrrak currently ponders about the rules of the Academy, and if he could ask a reprieve from his grandfather in order to get a box--or perhaps just use his stealth spell.
“He is,” Filr'etk says, narrowing his eyes at the two. “Who are you two peasants to address a Champion so rudely?”
Vyrrak feels a pulsating vein on his forehead, but he promised Jacob not to start any trouble before the Dark Champions arrive.
“I am Marcel Valemont, future Champion. And this is Cassian Valemont, another future Champion. We are Jacob's cousin. And we're going to take his place and restore the dignity that a position such as Champion has.”
Filr'etk seems to find the arrogant manners endearing and nods approvingly, “I like your spirit. Good luck. That Jacob is a disgrace. I'm sorry he's part of your family.”
“He's just a bastard,” Marcel says with disgust painted all across his face.
Vyrrak turns his head at that.
Slowly.
His eyes settle on Marcel, calm and cold. The noise of the arena seems to dull for a moment, as if the space around them tightens.
“You should be careful,” Vyrrak says. His voice is low. Flat. “About how you speak his name.”
Marcel scoffs. “Why? Afraid he’ll hear me?”
“He doesn’t need to,” Vyrrak replies. “I will.”
Cassian shifts, his smile less certain now. “We’re just stating facts. He abandoned his duties. He didn’t even show up.”
Vyrrak looks back toward the arena floor.
“For now.”
Filr’etk laughs and makes the mistake of elbowing Vyrrak. “Come on, Champion. If he was so great, he’d be here already.”
Vyrrak gently puts a hand on the Goblin's arm and, looking at him straight in the eyes, without saying anything, and squeezes. Filr'etk inhales sharply and nods quickly, immediately understanding what he did wrong. The Dragonkin relents and gets up, “I need some air.”
But Marcel walks in front of him with arms crossed.
“Why do you defend Jacob? He's weak. He's useless.”
“I have better things to do than argue with you,” Vyrrak says slowly. “Move.”
Cassian walks up to Marcel, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Let him pass. We'll soon be Champions as well. Pardon my brother for his rashness. Once we defeat Jacob and the other unworthy Champions, we'll show everyone what we can do.”
“Well said!” Filr'etk says from behind.
“And you want to become Champions knowing that the Dark Champions are coming?” Vyrrak exhales.
Marcel shrugs.
“We’re not afraid of Dark Champions. Or traitors,” he says.
No one among the Champions is strong enough to take Nimirea. It's all resting upon Jacob's plan. If he doesn't succeed in his gambit, we're going to suffer the greatest humiliation the Academy has seen in known memory.
Once again, as if the world was conspiring against Vyrrak, as he's about to walk past Marcel, he feels a terrifying aura locking him in place.
“Father,” Vyrrak says, feleing his own scales heating up at the aura.
An imposing Dragonkin walks up the stairs until, despite being on several steps lower, his eyes are level with his son's.
King Skaernex looks at his own son in silence and gestures for Vyrrak to get closer.
Vyrrak slowly walks up to his father, who towers above him.
King Skaernex places a hand on Vyrrak's scaled cheek. It could have been a paternal move, something to convey a sweet reconjunction. But there's nothing of that. It's a cold touch that makes Vyrrak feel as if he was prodded by a creature of the abyss.
A few moments later, King Skaernex removes his hand from Vyrrak's cheek and nods to himself.
“Your grandfather ordered us to have dinner with him after the tournament.”
That's the only thing that King S
kaernex says before turning and starting to walk away. For a moment, he stops and barely glances over his shoulder.
“Have some good luck.”
King Skaernex resumes his walk, ever so awkwardly, away from his son.
“Have some good luck?” Someone around them says. “Did he mean good luck?”
“Shush! Do you even know who that is?! That's one of the strongest men in the world! That's King Skaernex, the fiercest Dragonkin alive!”
Vyrrak is rigid and says nothing at the awkward encouraging words of his father.
Grandfather must have told him--ordered him, more likely--to be nice.
Yet, King Skaernex, who's walking toward his own father's box, ponders to himself about what just happened.
I hope that was good.
His wife, Vyrrak's mother, threatened him with the highest threat a wife can make to her husband. And if he doesn't learn to act nicely toward Vyrrak, he's going to spend many lonely nights on his obsidian couch.
