The Spire’s corruption pulsed in Liam’s veins like a second heartbeat as he parried Helena’s strike, their blades screeching against one another in the dim glow of the training grounds. The night air smelled of steel and sweat, and his muscles burned from the relentless drills. Helena had never been one for leniency, but tonight, she was particularly ruthless.

  “Faster!” she barked, her aura sharpening the air around her. “The Inquisition won’t wait for you to catch your breath!”

  Liam barely managed to duck her next swing, rolling to the side before thrusting upward. Spire-fire flickered along his sword, the obsidian flames licking Helena’s shield. The golden veneer cracked but held firm. Helena grinned, feral.

  “Better,” she admitted. “But still predictable.”

  A flick of her wrist sent a concussive force through the blade, knocking him off balance. Before he could react, she followed up with a brutal kick to his ribs, sending him skidding across the courtyard’s smooth stone. He landed hard, his breath punched from his lungs, his cheek scraping the rough surface. Blood trickled from his nose—a familiar sensation these past two years.

  Nearby, Evelina watched from the library’s arched window, her frost-pale fingers tracing the edges of a battle report. Inquisition sightings near the northern mines. Convergence Mark detected. Amara’s face flashed in Liam’s mind, her laughter echoing beneath the silk wrappings that concealed her mark. Every training session, every lesson, every scar—it all led to this.

  “Enough.” Evelina’s voice cut through the courtyard like a blade. “The boy bleeds more than he breathes.”

  Helena sheathed her sword with a sharp click. “Bleeding teaches faster than your dusty scrolls.”

  Evelina’s gaze was like ice. “And arrogance gets children killed.” She turned to Liam. “Attend me.”

  Liam hesitated, glancing at Helena. The older woman crossed her arms, but there was no protest. His training was done for the night. He pushed himself up, wiping the blood from his face before following Evelina into the library’s labyrinthine corridors.

  The Library of Whispers

  Evelina’s lessons were no less brutal than Helena’s, only her weapons were words, her battlefield one of knowledge and strategy. She spread a map across the oak table, its edges singed from the Veyra purge. Liam had seen maps like this before, detailing the slow but inevitable encroachment of the Inquisition. This one, however, had something different—something worse.

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  “The tournament,” she began, her voice controlled, “is a trap.”

  Liam stiffened. “Grandfather said—”

  “Your grandfather says what serves his ends.” Evelina tapped the capital’s emblem with a slender finger. “The Inquisition sponsors this year’s games. They seek to publicly brand you a heretic.”

  Liam clenched his jaw, his Spire-scarred hand trembling slightly. “Then why let me compete?”

  “Because we trap the trappers.” Her finger traced a route through the Frostspire Mountains. “You’ll enter as Adrian’s heir, but leave as something... more.”

  He frowned. “More?”

  “More than their pawn. More than their victim.” Evelina’s gaze was unwavering. “You will turn their spectacle into a reckoning.”

  The door creaked, and Liam turned. Amara toddled in, clutching a charred doll—his old toy, half-melted from his first Spire surge. Her tiny hands smudged with soot as she held it up to him, her wide eyes pleading.

  “Lee-Lee fix?” she lisped.

  Liam’s throat tightened. He knelt, summoning delicate threads of light mana, willing the fabric to mend. The doll’s scars smoothed, but its eyes remained hollow. He swallowed hard.

  Evelina watched, unreadable. “Can you fix yourself as easily, I wonder?”

  Liam said nothing.

  The Gathering Storm

  Later that night, Adrian called for him. The grand chamber was dimly lit, lined with bookshelves and relics of old wars. His grandfather sat by the hearth, his silhouette casting long shadows.

  “You’ve grown,” Adrian mused, sipping a dark liquor. “Stronger. But not ready.”

  Liam remained silent, knowing better than to respond to half-spoken provocations.

  “The Inquisition believes they set the board,” Adrian continued. “They believe they control the outcome. They don’t.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You will win this tournament, Liam. But you will not play their game—you will shatter it.”

  “And if I lose?”

  Adrian’s expression didn’t change. “Then you were never meant to stand in the first place.”

  Liam gritted his teeth. “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” Adrian said, swirling his drink. “It’s a lesson.”

  The Tournament’s Precipice

  The days leading up to the Grand Tournament were a whirlwind of preparation. Helena drilled him in combat from sunrise to dusk, her relentless discipline forging his body into a weapon. Evelina bombarded him with intelligence reports, testing his ability to dissect alliances and subterfuge. And Elara—Elara challenged his heart.

  “You look like hell,” she said one evening, her voice edged with amusement as she leaned against a balcony railing, watching him. The city below glittered with false serenity, a thousand hidden daggers masquerading as candlelight.

  “I feel worse,” Liam admitted.

  She studied him, the humor in her expression fading slightly. “You’re ready,” she said at last.

  “I don’t feel ready.”

  Elara smirked. “Then you’re smart enough to survive.”

  He turned to her, and for a moment, the war, the Inquisition, the Spire—it all faded. He reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away.

  But the moment was brief. A shadow loomed over the city, and the tournament awaited. The path forward was set, the crucible of legacy waiting to test him.

  And he had no choice but to endure it.