The silence hung thick as Drask’s sharp gaze bore into the young Draekthar warriors. They refused to meet it, staring fixedly at the ground as they moved uneasily on their seats. Embarrassment rippled through them all, their failure laid bare. No one could dispute Drask’s cutting remark—the results of the competition spoke for themselves.

  Vrakdur sighed, rubbing his temple. “Enough, Drask.”

  Drask didn’t move, didn’t blink. “Tell me I’m wrong, Vrakdur.”

  Vrakdur hesitated. He couldn’t.

  A chuckle rumbled from Throrak’s throat, low and amused, savoring the scene. He had no love for Drask, but watching the Draekthar squirm had its own entertainment value.

  Drask smirked, catching the troll’s amusement. “Even this ill-tempered b*stard agrees with me.”

  Throrak’s amusement vanished in an instant, his scowl deepening. “Watch your tongue, whelp.”

  Drask ignored him, turning back to Vrakdur. “You know I’m right.”

  For a long moment, Vrakdur said nothing, his eyes resting on the defeated young thralgars. They sat rigid, fists clenched, shame burning in their downcast faces. “You didn’t need to humiliate them like that,” he said finally, his voice firm but lacking its usual weight. “There’s a time and place for that lesson. This isn’t it.”

  Drask’s grin faded. “No,” he said, voice colder now. “This is the best place for it.” His gaze swept over the younger warriors. “They should remember this shame. Let it carve deep into their bones so that next time, they fight like their lives depend on it.”

  Vrakdur started to argue, but Throrak cut in. “He’s right.” He placed a heavy hand on Vrakdur’s shoulder. “You go too soft sometimes. Warriors need a sharp tongue as much as a sharp blade. Harsh words sting, but they drive warriors forward. Coddling them won’t.” He exhaled, his expression darkening. “We can’t afford another disaster like the trial.” A hush fell over them at those words. The weight of the recent tragedy settled like a stone in their chests. Even Drask, for all his bravado, did not speak immediately. After a moment, Throrak continued, “I know they’re not the best of the bunch. But they need to be better.”

  “They do,” Drask admitted, his tone uncharacteristically sober. “And they won’t get there if we treat them like children.” His gaze flicked between the two clan leaders. “They are warriors. Train them as such.” Vrakdur exhaled, considering, while Throrak gave a slow nod. Then the thralgar’s lips curled again. “Still, I have to say… Gulthram’s young warriors may have won, but they had to pit their best against our second-rate ones to do it.” His grin widened as he saw the spark of realization flicker in Throrak’s eyes. “Not much of a victory, if you ask me.”

  Throrak stiffened. “You—”

  “And then there’s the rootless,” Drask mused, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Imagine how proud they must be, winning with such effort—only for one of their own to be humiliated by a mere outsider.”

  Throrak’s growl was deep, dangerous. “Watch yourself.”

  “Both of you, enough!” Vrakdur’s voice cracked, his patience splintering. His head throbbed from their bickering, his temples pounding like war drums. “I have no time for your petty jabs.”

  Drask and Throrak exchanged glares before looking away from each other, falling silent.

  Vrakdur exhaled slowly, gathering himself. “We have more pressing matters to deal with.”

  For once, Drask didn’t argue. He simply crossed his arms, though the smirk never quite left his face. Throrak, on the other hand, still looked like he wanted to tear something apart—but he held his tongue. For now.

  Vrakdur’s gaze swept over his young warriors, their eyes fixed on the ground. Shame and frustration hung over them like a dense fog. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Drask, get on with it. Finish the competition."

  Drask groaned, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an unseen weight. "Do I have to?" he muttered. "Tavrok’s here. Let him do it."

  Tavrok’s scowl deepened. "Do your duty, brat. The lord has spoken. Or did you forget? It is tradition—the strongest among the thralgar officiates Draen’Volruk’s trials."

  Drask clicked his tongue, turning back to Vrakdur. His clan leader simply raised a brow, waiting. "Tsk. This is annoying," he grumbled before shifting his gaze over the gathered warriors. His eyes landed on Sybil. The human stiffened under the scrutiny, his hands clenched into tight fists.

  The young thralgar warrior suddenly pushed himself to his feet."I didn’t lose," he declared, his voice raw with frustration. "He cheated. He had outside help."

  A beat of silence. Then Drask turned, his frown deepening. "How?"

  The young warrior, still seething from his defeat, rushed to explain, pointing an accusatory finger at Elysian. His words tumbled out, heated, bitter, recounting the fight in excruciating detail. When he finished, Drask followed his gaze to the noble, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Great. Another lunatic with absurd strength has taken notice of me. Just what I needed.’

  Elysian sighed. For a moment, he considered protesting, but he knew better. So he simply met Drask’s gaze—calm, indifferent. Not defiant. Just tired. He had no patience left for this.

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  Drask grinned, sharp and wolfish, before lazily shifting his attention back to the young thralgar. "Go sit down. We’re moving on."

  The warrior’s face twisted in disbelief. "What? That’s it? You’re ignoring my complaint?"

  Drask sighed, rubbing his temple. "What I’m ignoring is you wasting my time."

  The young warrior bristled, anger overriding his caution. "So that’s it? You’re siding with the rootless because he fought for your clan? That’s unfair!"

  Drask arched a brow, unimpressed. "And?"

  The thralgar whirled toward his clanmates, seeking support. "Look at this! They’re conspiring, cheating because they know they can’t win fair and square! Are we really going to let them get away with this?" His clanmates said nothing. A while ago, they had thrown the same accusation. Now, they looked away, shifting uncomfortably, unwilling to back him when it truly mattered.

  The young warrior’s rage burned hotter at their silence. "Cowards! You all saw what happened!" A sharp snort cut through his tirade.

  Drask, watching with amusement, glanced toward Throrak, who remained eerily silent. The Gulthram leader’s gaze had darkened, fixed not on Elysian but on the disgraced young warrior from his own ranks.

  Drask smirked. "Did you hear that? This is what your young ones have become? A pack of sore losers?" He let the insult settle, savoring it like a fine drink. "Ours may not be the best fighters, but at least they know how to take a loss with dignity."

  The young thralgar snarled. "You—"

  "Enough." The single word was quiet, but it held the weight of a mountain. Throrak’s voice was calm—too calm. And that was far more terrifying than any roar.

  The young warrior turned, his breath hitching as he met Throrak’s eyes—cold and furious. All the fire in him died at once. His shoulders locked. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

  "You dare disgrace Gulthram further?" Throrak’s voice was soft, yet it slithered through the air like a blade being unsheathed. "You lost. And instead of wearing that loss, learning from it, you whine?" The young warrior’s bravado shattered like brittle glass. He lowered his gaze, his face pale. Throrak exhaled, a slow, measured sound. "Pathetic."

  Silence swallowed the space, heavy and suffocating. The air felt thicker, the tension curling around them all like a tightening noose.

  Drask chuckled under his breath. "At least now we’re in agreement on something." Throrak said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the disgraced warrior, who slowly retuned to his seat, the weight of his disappointment suffocating. Drask, meanwhile, yawned exaggeratedly, breaking the spell. "Are we done? Can we move on now? I’d rather not stand around listening to children cry."

  Vrakdur exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Enough. Start the next fight."

  Drask stretched his arms with an exaggerated sigh. "Finally." But just as he turned, his gaze flickered back to Elysian—sharp, measuring. A glance that said more than words ever could. The noble met his stare without flinching, but his shoulders tensed. That wasn’t the last of it. He knew.

  Then, movement. Across the platform, a young warrior from Clan Gulthram pushed himself to his feet, eyes locked on Elysian with unmistakable intent.

  ‘Am I the next to fight?’

  Elysian drew a slow breath and shifted his weight to stand— A figure beside him moved first. A blur of dark braids and lean muscle. Elysian blinked in surprise as the young thralgar stepped forward instead, casting a quick glance back. He wasn’t challenging, wasn’t testing. Just… offering a brief, friendly smile. Elysian returned it, a flicker of warmth. “Good luck.”

  The thralgar dipped his head in thanks before striding forward.

  ‘I was so caught up in everything—Sybil, Drask, the looming fight—I barely noticed him before. But he’s been the only one, aside from Kaerthlyn, who’s treated me with anything close to civility. And I don’t even know his name.’

  Kaerthlyn must have caught his expression, because she chuckled. “You don’t need to worry.” Elysian turned to her, brow raising at her confident smirk. “Vyrrak will win.”

  Elysian rolled the name over in his mind.

  ‘Vyrrak. So that’s his name.’

  He studied the thralgar in question, now rolling his shoulders as he prepared to fight. “How can you be so sure?”

  Kaerthlyn’s smirk deepened. “Of our generation, he’s one of the most gifted.”

  Elysian’s brows lifted slightly as he observed Vyrrak more closely. He looked solid—agile, balanced. “If he’s that gifted, why wasn’t he in the previous group? Weren’t they supposed to be the strongest?”

  Kaerthlyn’s expression faltered, the pride in her eyes dimming. She hesitated, exhaling through her nose before answering. “There were… personal matters. His reasons were his own.” A pause, a breath, then quieter, “But if he had joined them, he might not have returned.”

  Elysian glanced at her. A flicker of sorrow passed over her features, a shadow of grief that constantly pervaded her that day.

  ‘Not might not. He wouldn’t have.’

  A beat of silence. Then he spoke, softer. “And he might not return now.”

  Kaerthlyn inhaled sharply, blinking as if just now realizing the full weight of her words. She exhaled, gaze lowering before she nodded. “You’re right. We all might not.” There was no bravado in her voice. Just the quiet truth. And yet, in that admission, her resolve only hardened. She turned to Elysian, eyes steady. “If it’s so dangerous, why are you joining?”

  Elysian let out a breath, something almost like laughter but edged with something heavier. "Do I have a choice?"

  Kaerthlyn hesitated. The weight of the question settled between them, unspoken yet understood. Her gaze drifted back to the front where Vyrrak stood, stretching his arms. "Maybe not," she murmured. The words lingered, stripped of comfort.

  Elysian shifted, catching movement beside him. Sybil had taken Vyrrak’s spot, his posture tense, shoulders drawn inward. He wasn’t celebrating. If anything, he looked smaller. "Congratulations. You won."

  Sybil exhaled, staring at his hands. "Did I?" He turned his head slightly, studying Elysian. "I wouldn’t have without your help."

  Elysian nodded, voice level. "Yeah. That was obvious. Everyone saw and hear it." He paused and then, he continued, "Winning wasn’t the point. Do you know what was?"

  Sybil clenched his fists, then released them. His face was taut, his jaw set. "I always thought I was talented. That I had potential," he admitted, voice low. "But coming here…" His fingers twitched. "I’ve seen it for myself. I’m nothing compared to them. There are warriors here—stronger, faster, more gifted. And not just them. Other races, too, with advantages I can’t even begin to match."

  Elysian watched him, waiting. Letting the words settle. Finally, he asked, "So now what?"

  Silence stretched between them. Sybil’s frustration warred with something deeper, something raw. He inhaled sharply and met Elysian’s gaze, eyes no longer clouded with doubt. "I can’t change my race. Can’t change my talent. But I can work harder. Harder than them. Train smarter. Adapt. If I can’t match their strength, I’ll find a way to stand toe to toe with them. Better yet—surpass them."

  A slow grin tugged at Elysian’s lips. "Good," he said, the approval in his tone unmistakable. "The world’s cruel, Sybil. It doesn’t wait for you to catch up. But it rewards those who fight for every inch."

  Sybil exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing, replaced with something steadier. "Then I’ll fight for it."

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