The moment the pressure released, the arena exhaled. It was not a sound so much as a sensation, like the ground itself loosening its grip.

  Then bodies began to react before minds caught up. Some staggered. Some collapsed. A few simply stayed where they were, knees bent, breathing like they had just finished arguing with gravity and lost.

  And what remained was not silence, but noise. Cheers broke unevenly, some triumphant, some bitter, some cut short by grief. The scent of sweat and even blood lingered in the air.

  Eryndor leaned against the railing, watching as handlers moved back and forth. Their movements were practiced and unhurried, pulling the unconscious clear of the arena floor and guiding the barely standing outside the arena.

  “Well,” he said mildly, “that was just the first trial.”

  “That was… culturally enriching,” he added with a grin.

  “And they already removed almost half of them.” Beside him, Garruk crossed his arms and let out a low whistle. His beard bristled as he stared down at the arena floor where handlers and attendants moved with practiced speed.

  “More than half who thought muscle would be enough,” Lirien said, not impressed as usual.

  “The rest will not get easier,” she added.

  Eryndor gave her a teasing look. “That is obvious.”

  Garruk huffed a laugh despite himself, and Eryndor looked away after she glared at him.

  He tracked the remaining candidates as they walked away. Some looked relieved. Others looked irritated.

  And he saw him.

  The panther-kin, Ashara Yavvara.

  Ashara walked toward the exit, his dark fur matted with dust and small traces of blood. He had not fallen when the pressure lifted. He had not rushed to straighten either. He simply waited a moment, then moved like someone who understood that timing mattered more than strength. No celebration followed him, only nods and murmurs, and a boar-kin quietly watched him.

  Eryndor watched them with interest for a long moment.

  They stood there a little longer, letting the aftermath settle. The city itself seemed to relax. The beast eased back into a less alert posture. The banners overhead sagged slightly, their colors muted now that the moment had passed.

  Then Eryndor finally pushed himself upright.

  “Alright. I am calling it. I have had my fill of stress, dust, and existential questions for one afternoon.”

  Lirien smirked. “You did not even fight.”

  “Exactly. Peak efficiency.”

  They turned to leave the arena and merged with the outward flow of the remaining spectators. The walkways vibrated faintly beneath their feet as the Herd-City adjusted to redistributed weight, its infrastructure humming along like a massive living creature.

  That was when Eryndor felt it.

  Something tugged at him.

  It was not hostile. Not yet. It felt more like a faint wrong note, like a chord struck slightly out of tune.

  Something was wrong.

  A subtle pressure bloomed within his body or perhaps his blood, followed by a sensation he could not easily describe. It was not fear. It felt more like an alarm, as if some hidden beast had lifted its head and begun watching him.

  Eryndor frowned.

  “You alright?” Lirien asked, her eyebrows knitting together.

  “Yeah,” he said automatically.

  The feeling deepened for half a heartbeat, as if he heard a whisper without sound. A warning without shape.

  Not here, something seemed to say. Or maybe pay attention. Or maybe nothing at all.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Eryndor exhaled slowly.

  Probably nothing, he told himself. He still did not understand the scripture well enough to trust every twitch and murmur.

  And this was The Karshvar, the living land. A place that was alive, ancient, and layered with power. False positives were almost guaranteed.

  He forced a grin. “I think I just overdosed on cultural significance.”

  Lirien studied him for another second.

  “If you collapse later, I am not carrying you.”

  “Fair,” he said with a shrug.

  They continued walking.

  The restaurant Garruk chose was louder than the last.

  It spread across a broad, terraced platform grown from thick vinewood, its edges open to the city’s inner canopy. Lanterns glowed overhead and cast warm amber light over tables crowded with patrons of every shape and size.

  The smell hit them first.

  Charred meat, fermented sap, sharp herbs, and something unmistakably alcoholic filled the air. The scent was strong enough to make Eryndor’s eyes water.

  “Ah,” Garruk said with satisfaction. “Now this is a proper place.”

  Eryndor watched a slab of meat being carried past them on a large platter.

  “I am ninety percent sure that thing was humming earlier.”

  “Adds flavor,” Garruk said cheerfully.

  They took a table near the edge. The surface beneath them shifted slightly as it molded to their weight. Eryndor leaned back and watched the crowd.

  Humans and other races were the minority there, but they were not absent. A handful gathered near one corner, merchants judging by their clothing. Elves sat apart as they often did, two slender figures with pale skin and eyes too sharp for comfort. Their clothing looked simple at first glance but was clearly expensive.

  The rest of the space was dominated by Beastfolk. Their voices boomed across the room, and their laughter rolled like distant thunder.

  “So,” Eryndor said, folding his hands, “the first trial.”

  Lirien raised a brow while Garruk focused on a glass of beer sitting in front of him.

  “Do you not find the first trial interesting?” Eryndor continued.

  “The structure is not just a spectacle or a challenge.” He pointed toward the arena outside.

  Garruk finally paid attention and grunted.

  “It is a filter. Same as any good trial.”

  “Pressure, heat, and a lot of things breaking so the right ones don’t.”

  ”

  Lirien took a sip of her drink.

  “You sound impressed.”

  “I am,” Eryndor admitted. “I believe not just me but many others, including you, should have found the first trial different. Unique. Kind of refreshing.”

  “Indeed,” she said with a nod.

  Shortly after, their food arrived.

  Eryndor’s plate wriggled slightly before settling.

  “I am choosing not to ask,” he said, and began eating.

  The atmosphere shifted about halfway through the meal.

  It started with raised voices. They were not shouting yet, but the tone had an edge.

  Eryndor noticed because nearby conversations began to fade. Attention drifted sideways like iron filings toward a magnet.

  At a nearby table, a human man stood with stiff posture and one hand clenched around a mug.

  “I said we paid,” the man snapped. “The same rate as everyone else.”

  Across from him, a broad-shouldered beastfolk, a bull-kin likely from the Aruq clan, snorted.

  “You paid the city rate. This table charges for broken customs.”

  An elf seated nearby lifted his gaze from his drink.

  “Perhaps if your customs were clearer, misunderstandings would be fewer.”

  The bull-kin turned his head toward him.

  “Perhaps if elves did not speak like everything was beneath them, people would listen.”

  Eryndor sighed quietly.

  “Here we go.”

  Lirien’s hand moved slightly closer to her sword.

  Garruk cracked his knuckles once.

  The human bristled. “We followed the rules.”

  “You followed some rules,” the beastfolk replied. “Then sat where you were not invited.”

  “It is a table,” the human said sharply. “Not a sacred altar.”

  That did it.

  The air thickened. Chairs scraped against the floor. Nearby Beastfolk shifted, some amused and some irritated.

  The elf stood slowly, his graceful movement tight with irritation.

  “Careful,” he said coolly. “You are confusing tradition with entitlement.”

  Eryndor stood.

  Not abruptly. Just enough to be noticed.

  “Alright,” he said calmly, his voice carrying across the nearby tables. “Let us all take a breath before someone makes tonight memorable for the wrong reasons.”

  Several heads turned toward him.

  The bull-kin studied him.

  “Who are you?” His tone was not friendly.

  “Hungry,” Eryndor replied. “Tired. And very invested in finishing my meal without anyone flipping a table.”

  Lirien muttered quietly, “You really cannot help yourself.”

  Eryndor continued, ignoring her comment.

  “Look, misunderstandings happen. Especially in cities that are alive, ancient, and full of people who believe their way is the only correct one.”

  The elf raised a brow.

  “You speak boldly for a human within this city.”

  “I practice,” Eryndor said pleasantly. “If it is about seating, we can move. If it is about payment, I will cover the difference. If it is about pride…”

  He glanced between them.

  “…that one is harder, but not impossible.”

  The bull-kin studied him for several seconds.

  Then he snorted.

  “You talk too much.”

  “Yes,” Eryndor agreed. “But notice how no one is bleeding yet.”

  The beastfolk huffed, then waved a hand dismissively.

  “Fine. Sit somewhere else. And keep your voices down.”

  The human exhaled as tension left his shoulders. The elf inclined his head, stiff but accepting.

  As the crowd slowly relaxed, Garruk slapped Eryndor on the back.

  Hard.

  “You have a talent for standing between bad ideas and worse outcomes.”

  “Very funny, old man,” Eryndor replied as he sat down again.

  “It is a curse,” Lirien said while shaking her head, though her lips curved faintly.

  “Truly, one day your mouth will get you killed.”

  “Not impossible,” he said with a shrug and a smirk. “But not tonight.”

  They returned to their meal.

  And Eryndor felt it again.

  That faint pressure.

  That quiet insistence.

  He chose to ignore it.

  For now, the city was calm. The night was warm, loud, and alive.

  Whatever the covenant was trying to say, whatever shadow stirred at the edge of his awareness, it could wait.

  Tomorrow would come soon enough.

  Thank you for reading!

  If you enjoy what I do, consider supporting me on ! Every little bit means the world!