In the year 3010, the banners of the six great houses hung from the spires of the United Council City like gods watching over mortals.
Red and gold for Redborne.
Silver-blue for Shatterstar.
Radiant amber for Morningstar.
Emerald-threaded black for Greeneyes.
Deep violet for Orbscar.
And then there was Greydon.
Grey. Always grey.
The color of ash. The color of aftermath.
The color people wore when they whispered, bad omen.
Xander Greydon stood beneath his house’s banner and listened to the crowd pretend not to look at him.
They always pretended.
It has been one thousand years since the first Death Wish.
One thousand years since the royal houses decided that instead of endless war, they would kill each other properly every ten years.
One thousand years of champions.
And not a single Greydon had ever won.
Not once.
Statistically impossible.
Spiritually hilarious.
Prophetically tragic.
Pick your poison.
People said Greydons were cursed. That it was the price of the contract their founder made with a devil in the early 2000s, power, wealth, and a royal house in exchange for the souls of every Greydon born thereafter.
A dynasty built on a bargain.
A thousand-year losing streak built on consequence.
Xander didn’t believe in luck.
He believed in patterns.
And patterns could be broken.
Across the plaza, a group of Redborne cadets laughed too loudly. One of them glanced at him, then away quickly, as if eye contact might transfer something contagious.
He had seen that look his entire life.
Core-mixed.
Soul-bound.
Devil-touched.
Never lucky.
Never chosen.
Never victorious.
Xander flexed his fingers, feeling the faint hum beneath his skin, the randomness of a hollow core. His wasn’t elegant like a Sun-blessed flame or a Moon-shifted tide. It didn’t roar like dragon blood or fracture like an Omega.
Hollow cores were unpredictable.
Some were weak.
Some were strong.
Most were strange.
And that unpredictability scared people.
The announcement echoed across the plaza.
“Registration for the 3010 Death Wish will close in one hour.”
The crowd shifted. Tension rippled like a living thing.
The Death Wish arena loomed beyond the council towers, a structure rebuilt and redesigned every decade. No one knew its layout until the games began.
No one knew who would enter until the final bell.
Anyone could participate now.
Royal. Commoner. Hollow. Dragon. Omega.
All you needed… was a wish worth killing for.
Xander already had his.
He didn’t want power.
He didn’t want the throne.
He didn’t want Redborne’s legacy.
He wanted freedom.
For his house.
For every Greydon born with a soul already claimed by something older than the city.
If he won, he would stand before the mysterious wish-granter and say:
End the contract.
No more devil.
No more inherited debt.
No more thousand-year curse.
And when Greydon finally stands without shadow, the world would have to look at them differently.
They would have to look at him differently.
“Still planning on embarrassing us?”
The voice came from behind him.
Calder Greydon. His older cousin. Safer. Smarter. Already shaking his head.
“You know what they say,” Calder continued. “We don’t win. We implode. Tradition matters.”
Xander turned slowly.
“Traditions change.”
Calder snorted. “Not ours.”
“Someone has to be the first.”
“That’s what every Greydon who died thought.”
The words hung there.
Xander didn’t flinch.
“Then they died wrong.”
Calder studied him for a long moment.
“You really think you can break a thousand-year pattern?”
Xander looked toward the arena.
Toward the banners.
Toward the houses that had laughed, ruled, burned, and shone for centuries.
“I have to.” He said quietly.
Calder didn’t laugh this time.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so the plaza noise swallowed the conversation.
“Go home, Xander.”
Xander didn’t turn.
“I am home.”
“You know what I mean.”
Calder’s jaw tightened.
“Go back to Greydon City. Back to Mira. Back to something real. Don’t throw your life away chasing a story no one believes in.”
That name did it.
Mira.
His little sister.
Seven years old. Too curious for her own safety. Always asking why their banner was grey. Why other children’s cores glowed brighter. Why the teachers paused half a second before calling her last name.
She didn’t understand the contract.
She just knew the looks.
Calder pressed on.
“You think winning fixes that? You think the world just forgets a thousand years because you stand in an arena for a few hours?”
“I won’t stand for a few hours,” Xander said calmly.
Calder’s voice sharpened. “Exactly.”
A beat.
“Do you know how many Greydons have died in that arena? Not just lost. Died.”
“I’ve read the records.”
“Then read them again.”
Xander finally turned.
“Every single one of them entered to prove something to the world,” Calder continued. “You know what they proved instead?”
“That we keep trying,” Xander replied.
“That we don’t learn.”
The plaza bells rang once, a reminder of the one-hour countdown.
Calder exhaled hard.
“She needs you more than the house needs pride.”
That landed.
Because pride wasn’t why Xander was doing this.
If it were pride, he’d have quit years ago.
“You think I’m doing this for reputation?” Xander asked quietly.
“I think you’re doing it because you’re tired of being looked at like a curse.”
“Well, I am.”
“And you think dying changes that?”
“No,” Xander said.
He looked toward the Death Wish arena again.
“I think winning does.”
Calder shook his head. “We don’t win.”
Xander’s eyes didn’t leave the structure of steel and stone.
“Then it’s long overdue.”
Calder grabbed his shoulder.
Not aggressively.
Desperately.
“Mira will not understand why you chose a death sentence over her.”
Xander’s throat tightened, just slightly.
He pictured Mira sitting cross-legged on their home balcony, watching the city lights flicker at dusk.
He pictured her asking, in that quiet voice:
“Do you think the devil listens when we sleep?”
He’d told her no.
He’d lied.
“If I win,” Xander said slowly, “She'll be able to live a normal life.”
Calder’s hand loosened.
“You don’t know if your wish will even override the contract.”
“I know it grants wishes.”
“Reasonable ones.”
“Freedom is reasonable.”
Calder searched his face for doubt.
There wasn’t any.
And that terrified him more than arrogance ever could.
“You’re not cursed, Xander,” Calder said softly.
“You’re human.”
Xander gave the faintest smile.
“In this city, that’s worse.”
The bells rang again in the distance.
Calder stepped back.
“I can’t stop you.”
“No.”
“But if you sign that registration…”
“I know.”
“You’re not just risking your life.”
Xander met his eyes.
“I'll win, Don't worry."
Calder didn’t argue again.
Because deep down, every Greydon dreamed of being the one who broke it.
They just never believed it could be them.
Xander began to walk away now.
The registration hall sat at the base of the arena like the mouth of something ancient.
No banners here.
No cheering crowds.
Just stone, steel, and silence thick enough to swallow doubt.
Xander walked through the archway without slowing.
The doors closed behind him with a heavy, deliberate sound.
Ahead stretched a long chamber lined with desks carved from black stone. Council officials sat behind them, robed in neutral white, no house colors.
A line of participants moved forward in slow, deliberate increments.
No one spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Power hummed in the air, different frequencies overlapping.
And beneath it all, the quiet irregular rhythm of Greydon.
Xander joined the line.
A few heads turned.
Recognition passed in subtle waves.
He could almost hear the unspoken continuation:
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Unlucky.
When his turn came, the official didn’t look up immediately.
“Name.”
“Xander Greydon.”
The pause was microscopic.
But it existed.
The official finally lifted their eyes.
“House.”
“Greydon.”
A thin tablet of dark crystal slid across the desk.
“Place your hand.”
The surface was cold.
The crystal pulsed once as it read him, heart core resonance, identity imprint, intent.
The air shifted slightly.
“You understand,” the official said evenly, “that participation in the Death Wish forfeits all claim to legal protection. The arena is sovereign territory. Death is permanent. The Golden Dragon grants one wish to the final survivor. Reasonable parameters apply.”
“I understand.”
“State your intent.”
Xander didn’t hesitate.
“To win.”
The crystal glowed brighter.
Not in approval.
In recording.
A thin line of light carved across the surface, etching his name into the registry.
It burned for half a second.
Then went dark.
“You are registered,” the official said.
That was it.
No ceremony.
Just permanence.
A second set of doors opened.
“Waiting chamber,” the official gestured.
Xander stepped through.
And the noise hit him first.
Not loud but charged.
Dozens of participants filled the circular chamber beyond.
Some stood alone, conserving energy.
Some trained in controlled bursts.
A Redborne heir leaned against the wall, scales faintly visible along their jawline.
Across from them, a Shatterstar woman traced crescent patterns in the air, moonlight pooling around her fingertips despite it being midday.
A Valemire boy sat cross-legged, eyes unfocused, likely skimming possible futures.
An Orbscar figure stood apart entirely.
And scattered between them were commoners.
Hollows.
Unmarked humans.
All here for one thing.
A wish.
Xander stepped fully into the room.
Conversations dipped.
Just slightly.
A ripple passed through the chamber.
Greydon.
Some looked amused.
Some indifferent.
One or two wary.
He moved toward an empty section of wall and leaned back.
The arena loomed beyond the stone, unseen but waiting.
For one thousand years, Greydon names had entered this space.
For one thousand years, they had left it in silence.
Xander closed his eyes for a moment.
Not in fear.
In focus.
The waiting chamber never stayed quiet for long.
Bootsteps.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Not the sharp click of polished royal boots.
Leather.
Dust-worn.
Measured.
Xander opened his eyes.
The man approaching him did not glow.
Did not hum.
Did not bend the air.
He carried no visible core resonance at all.
Dark hair fell loosely around his face, just brushing his collar. His skin a light brown and slight facial hair around his jawline up to the chin.
His expression held an easy, crooked sort of smile, not mocking, not nervous. Just… relaxed. Like he was walking into a saloon instead of a slaughterhouse.
Two revolvers rested at his hips.
Real metal.
Old design.
Beautifully maintained.
Several participants noticed him.
Then noticed the lack of aura.
Whispers followed.
Coreless.
Bold.
Dead man walking.
The stranger stopped a few feet from Xander.
Looked him over once, not dismissively.
Assessing.
“Greydon,” he said.
His voice had that easy drawl to it. Lazy on the edges. Controlled underneath.
“You’re either brave or stupidly delusional.”
Xander tilted his head slightly.
“And you’re either lost or stupidly confident.”
The man grinned wider.
“Name’s Erron.”
He extended a hand.
“Just Erron.”
Xander didn’t take it immediately.
"Xander." He replied.
“You don’t have a core.”
“Sharp eye.” Erron lowered his hand without offense.
“Neither do you,” he added casually.
That landed.
Xander’s expression didn’t change.
“Hollow cores are unpredictable,” Xander said evenly.
“Yeah,” Erron replied. “That’s the polite version.”
He leaned back against the wall beside Xander as if they’d agreed to stand together.
The room’s energy shifted slightly.
Two coreless men. Well one coreless and one devil-touched.
Side by side.
In a room full of living weapons.
“I’ll save us both some time,” Erron continued. “You want to win to break a contract. I want to win because I don’t like the idea that people like us are supposed to sit in the audience.”
Xander studied him.
"How do you know I want to break the contract?"
"That a serious question? That's what most of you Greydons have tried to do in the past."
Xander stares in silence for a little bit.
“You assume we’re alike.”
Erron’s eyes flicked around the room.
“They don’t see much difference.”
That was true.
To most houses, coreless meant lesser.
Disposable.
Spectator.
“You’re asking to partner,” Xander said.
“I am.”
“In a battle royale.”
Erron shrugged lightly. “Temporary alignment. Until it isn’t.”
Honest.
Brutally so.
“You realize statistically,” Xander said, “Greydon entrants have a thousand-year losing streak.”
“Yeah.”
“And most coreless humans don’t survive the first few hours.”
“Probably.”
“And you still walked over here.”
Erron’s smile didn’t fade.
“Patterns,” he said quietly, “only hold until they don’t.”
Xander’s eyes sharpened slightly.
Interesting.
Erron tilted his head.
“You want to prove your house isn’t cursed.”
He tapped one of his revolvers lightly.
“I want to prove we don’t need glowing organs to matter.”
A pause.
The chamber doors at the far end groaned slightly, mechanisms preparing.
Time was shortening.
Erron’s tone shifted just a fraction, less playful now.
“Look around. Sun and Moon will clash. Dragon and Omega will go for dominance like they always do. The future-seers will try to outlast.”
He looked back at Xander.
“But no one expects two ‘lessers’ to coordinate.”
He extended his hand again.
“Let’s make it inconvenient.”
The chamber had gone subtly quieter around them.
Not because anyone feared them.
Because no one understood them.
Xander looked at Erron’s hand.
Then at the revolvers.
Then at the room.
A thousand years of failure.
He clasped Erron’s hand.
“Temporary,” Xander said.
Erron’s grin sharpened.
“Temporary’s all we need.”
The handshake ended.
The chamber noise slowly returned to its low, charged murmur.
But something felt… focused.
Xander felt it before he saw it.
A steady gaze.
Unblinking.
Intent.
He shifted his eyes slightly, not his head, scanning the room.
There.
Across the chamber.
She stood near one of the curved stone pillars.
Silver hair cascading over dark green and black fabric, a thin gold vine pinned near her temple. Her eyes were unmistakable.
Bright, unnatural green.
Not decorative.
Not cosmetic.
Green eyes.
Valemire blood.
She wasn’t speaking.
Wasn’t moving.
Just watching him.
No.
Watching them.
Her expression wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t amused.
It was… calculating.
Like she was comparing what she saw to something only she could see.
Xander exhaled once, quietly.
“Someone’s staring.”
Erron didn’t look immediately.
“Yeah? Should I flex?”
“Green eyes.”
That got his attention.
Erron’s head turned slowly, casual as a man checking the weather.
He followed Xander’s line of sight.
Found her.
Paused.
Then leaned slightly closer to Xander.
“Well,” Erron murmured, “looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”
Xander turned his head just enough to look at him.
Expression blank.
Deadpan.
Erron held the look for a second.
Then lifted both hands lightly.
“I jest. I jest.”
His tone softened.
“She’s evaluating.”
Across the chamber, the Valemire woman tilted her head the slightest degree.
Not flirtation.
Adjustment.
Like a chess player reconsidering a move.
Valemire leaders inherited memories. Fragments of previous rulers. Future-sight that ranged from seconds to weeks or much more.
Which meant...
She might already know something about them.
"What do you think she wants?" Xander asks.
Erron shrugs.
"I'm not the guy you should be asking about what women want, I couldn't tell you."
The woman’s gaze didn’t waver.
Then, slowly, deliberately...
She blinked.
And looked away.
A deep metallic vibration that silenced the room entirely this time.
Participants straightened.
A voice echoed overhead.
“Contestants of the 3010 Death Wish. Prepare for entry.”
The Valemire woman stepped away from the pillar and moved toward a different section of the chamber.
But before she disappeared into the shifting crowd
Her eyes flicked back to Xander.
Just once.
Measured.
As if committing him to memory.
Erron rested a hand lightly near one of his revolvers.
“Tell me something,” he muttered.
“What.”
“If the future-seer is watching us…”
“…does that mean we’re important?”
Xander didn’t answer immediately.
The arena doors began to part.
Blinding light spilled through the widening gap.
"I don't know."
The arena doors opened.
Light swallowed them.
For half a second, Xander saw nothing but white.
Then...
Green.
Endless green.
They stood in a vast forest clearing, sunlight filtering through towering trees older than the council city itself. Moss-covered stone ruins dotted the landscape, half-consumed by roots.
The air smelled alive, damp earth, leaves, distant water.
Birds scattered at the sudden arrival of over a hundred participants.
It was… beautiful.
Too beautiful.
A voice boomed across the sky, neither male nor female, neither near nor far.
“Welcome to the 3010 Death Wish.”
The sound vibrated in the bones.
“This arena contains six active biomes.”
The trees rustled as if listening.
“Forest. Jungle. Desert. Snow Mountains. Volcano. and The Ocean.”
In the far distance, beyond the tree line, Xander thought he saw something shimmer. It was impossible to tell what though.
“Biomes will remain stable. Boundaries may shift. Survival is not guaranteed.”
A pause.
“Begin.”
No horn.
No countdown.
Just silence.
The clearing held its breath.
For one strange, suspended moment, everyone looked at everyone else.
Calculating.
Choosing.
Then...
A streak of flame cut across the clearing.
Someone screamed.
A Moon-blessed retaliated, crescent arcs slicing through bark and flesh alike.
A dragon-blood roared as scales burst through skin.
The forest exploded into motion.
Chaos.
Erron swore under his breath.
“Shit."
A body flew past them.
Someone crashed into Xander’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over.
“Move!” Erron barked.
Too late.
The ground shook, sucking three participants Inward before snapping shut with a sickening crunch.
Xander ducked as a spear of condensed sunlight split the air above his head. He rolled, coming up just in time to see a Hollow summon something clawed and wrong into existence.
He grabbed Erron’s sleeve...
And lost him immediately as a shockwave tore between them.
“Erron—!”
Gone.
The noise was deafening now.
Metal.
Fire.
Cracking bone.
Power screaming against power.
Xander weaved through it, heart hammering. He wasn’t trying to fight.
Not yet.
Not here.
This wasn’t a battle.
It was a purge.
He dodged a blade of ice. Slipped past a Sun-burst. Shoved someone off balance to avoid being trampled.
Something slammed into his ribs.
He staggered.
Pain flared.
Before he could regain footing,
A flash of purple.
A girl no older than him, lavender hair whipping behind her, eyes wild and focused.
She didn’t hesitate.
A blade slid between his ribs.
Low.
Precise.
Into his side.
Hot.
Cold.
Wrong.
Her eyes didn’t even register him as important.
She ripped the blade free in one clean motion.
Blood followed.
Then she pivoted and drove the weapon into someone else’s throat without breaking stride.
Xander dropped to one knee.
The forest sounds warped.
Distant.
Muted.
He pressed a hand to his side.
Warmth soaked through his fingers.
Not like this.
Not in the first minute.
Around him, bodies were already falling.
Some dead.
Some dying.
Some crawling away.
He forced himself to breathe.
Stay upright.
Stay...
A gunshot cracked through the chaos.
Loud.
Sharp.
Different from everything else.
Another shot followed.
A Sun-blessed stumbled, clutching their shoulder.
Xander looked up.
Erron.
He moved through the chaos like he belonged in it, controlled, deliberate. One revolver raised, firing clean, measured shots. Not wild. Not panicked.
He reached Xander in seconds.
“Don’t you dare,” Erron muttered, gripping his arm and hauling him up.
Xander nearly collapsed, but Erron steadied him with surprising strength.
“Can you stand?”
“Yes,” Xander lied.
Another attacker lunged toward them.
Erron turned smoothly and fired.
The bullet struck true.
The attacker dropped.
Erron didn’t celebrate it.
He just adjusted his grip and began backing them away from the densest part of the fighting.
“First rule,” Erron said through clenched teeth, “Don’t be where everyone wants to be.”
They moved.
Stumbling.
Dodging.
Erron fired only when necessary. Precise shots to dissuade pursuit rather than chase kills.
Xander focused on staying upright. Every step sent fire through his side.
Blood trailed behind them.
The clearing became a blur of flashing powers and falling bodies.
A dragon-blood crashed into the ground nearby, shaking the earth. A Hollow’s summoned creature tore through undergrowth. A Valemire participant vanished deeper into the trees, clearly having predicted this opening massacre.
“Left,” Erron snapped.
They cut toward thicker forest.
Fewer combatants.
More cover.
Branches whipped against them as they pushed through the treeline.
Behind them, the clearing descended fully into carnage.
The first wave was thinning.
The smart ones were leaving.
The reckless ones were dying.
Erron didn’t slow until the noise dulled to distant echoes.
He eased Xander against a moss-covered trunk.
“Show me.”
Xander removed his hand.
Blood soaked his side.
Not fatal.
But deep.
Erron exhaled slowly.
“Great,” he muttered. “We’ve been alive five minutes.”
He scanned the treeline.
The forest around them was quieter.
For now.
“You still planning on breaking a thousand-year curse?” Erron asked.
Xander forced himself upright despite the pain.
“Yeah...”
Erron gave a short, breathless laugh.
“Good.”
He reloaded calmly, the metallic clicks steady and grounded.
“Because if you die, I'll have to explain this to your secret admirer.”
Even bleeding, Xander gave him the same emotionless look as before.
Erron smirked faintly.
“I jest.”
Then his expression hardened.
“Now let’s get you cleaned and patched up." He kneels.
"No need." Xander said quietly.
"You a fan of infections or something?"
"It'll heal."
Erron is about to reply, before noticing the wound slowly closing on its own.
"How in the..."
"Devil-touched, remember?"
Erron nods slowly.
"Handy."
Xander slowly gets up, dusting himself off.
"Yeah I guess... If you ignore the soul stealing part."
The forest never truly went quiet.
Even this far from the clearing, the sounds carried.
Metal clashing.
Trees splintering.
A scream cut short.
Then...
A roar.
Not human.
Not even close.
Both of them looked up instinctively.
Through breaks in the canopy, shadows swept across the sky.
Massive wings.
Scaled bodies.
Red and gold glinting in the sunlight.
Dragon-blood.
One dove sharply, something in its claws thrashing before going limp. Another spiraled upward, fire trailing behind it like a comet scar across the clouds.
The arena suddenly felt much smaller.
Erron let out a low whistle.
“Well,” he muttered, “that escalated.”
A distant explosion shook leaves loose from branches. The ground trembled briefly.
Erron spoke.
“We need to move.”
“I’m aware.”
“No,” Erron said more firmly. “We need to move smart.”
He scanned their surroundings, dense undergrowth, thick roots, uneven terrain.
“This is the first hour. Everyone’s running on adrenaline and ego. That’ll thin the herd fast.”
Another dragon’s shadow crossed overhead.
Erron lowered his voice.
“After that? It becomes survival.”
Xander nodded once.
“Food. Water.”
“Exactly.”
Erron crouched briefly, touching the soil, studying the moss, the direction of light filtering through branches.
“Forest means freshwater somewhere. Stream or pond. Animals too, if they haven’t already been incinerated.”
A crash sounded somewhere to their right, something large tearing through trees.
They both froze.
Silence.
Then distant shouting.
Not coming toward them.
Yet.
Erron stood.
“We don’t want to stay near the starting zone. That’s where the predators circle.”
“You include yourself in that category?” Xander asked quietly.
Erron smirked faintly.
“Working on it.”
He adjusted one of his revolvers, then looked at Xander more seriously.
“Can you keep pace?”
“Yes.”
“If you collapse, I’m dragging you. But I will complain about it.”
“I expect nothing less.”
Another roar echoed, closer this time.
And beneath it...
A strange, rolling rumble.
Not combat.
Movement.
Deep. Massive.
The forest canopy trembled as wind rushed through it unnaturally fast.
Erron’s eyes narrowed.
“That didn’t sound organic.”
Xander glanced through the trees and thought he saw something impossible in the distance...
Sand.
A thin, shifting wall of gold creeping between trunks.
The edge of the desert biome.
Moving.
“Boundaries may shift,” Xander repeated. Like the voice said.
Erron swore softly.
“Of course they do.”
The air temperature shifted subtly, warmer, drier.
Leaves rustled as if confused by the change.
“Okay,” Erron said quickly, slipping into calm efficiency. “We head opposite that. Water first. Higher ground if possible. Avoid open clearings.”
“And dragons?” Xander asked.
Erron looked up again as another shadow passed overhead.
“We let them fight each other until there’s fewer of them.”
He started moving, weaving through trees with controlled speed.
Xander followed, ignoring the burn in his side.
Behind them, the forest trembled again as the creeping desert swallowed another stretch of green.
The Death Wish wasn’t just a battlefield.
It was alive.
Adapting.
Hunting.
And this was only the first hour.
Somewhere ahead, water trickled faintly.
Erron caught the sound first.
He glanced back at Xander.
“See? I’m useful.”
Xander gave him a flat look.
“You fired a gun at a Sun-blessed.”
“And it worked.”
A beat.
Then, more quietly...
“We survive today,” Erron said, eyes scanning the trees, “And tomorrow we start thinking about winning.”
Through the branches, something moved parallel to them.
Not large.
Not loud.
Watching.
They run into a small lake.
Erron's face lights up.
Xander's stays the same.
The lake is too still.
Then both Erron and Xander spot a woman, hunched down, drinking out of the lake with her hands.
No wind. No ripples beyond the ones she made when she cupped the water in her hands.
Xander sees her before his brain fully catches up, the pale lavender hair, darker at the tips, loose and slightly messy like she’s been running. The black suit jacket, the deep violet shirt underneath. Silver rings catching faint light. The same person.
The one who drove a blade into him.
Erron feels Xander go rigid and both look at each other. He doesn’t say her name, because they don’t know it, but the tension says everything.
They both take one slow step back.
Then...
“You two are not very quiet.”
Her voice cuts across the water, calm. Almost bored.
She doesn’t turn immediately. She finishes the sip she was taking, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then slowly rises to her feet.
Only then does she look at them.
She looks sharp. Glasses slightly fogged from the lake’s mist. Eyes an unsettling shade of violet, not bright, but heavy. Measuring.
Erron’s hand shifts subtly toward his revolvers.
"I wouldn't try that."
She spoke in a bored tone.
Erron paused.
"And you. You heal fast." She looked at Xander, realizing his wound has already been healed.
Somewhere in the distance, a roar splits the sky.
A massive dragon silhouette passes overhead, wings blotting out the light for a moment before vanishing into clouds. The tremor of distant fighting echoes again.
She doesn’t flinch.
“You should leave,” Erron says evenly. “We’re not looking for trouble.”
A faint smirk touches her mouth.
“Funny. I could say the same.”
Her fingers flex once, not reaching for a weapon yet, but ready.
The air between the three of them feels like a drawn bowstring.
She studies Xander more closely now.
"We're just here to collect some water."
Xander spoke with a diplomatic tone.
"Oh why didn't you say so? Step right up then."
She grinned.
Erron clears his throat.
“Well,” He says casually, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve, “Small world. We really have to stop meeting like this.”
She blinks once. “Huh?”
“I know, I know. You just can't help but gravitate near my presence.”
Her gaze shifts to the lake, then back to him. “I'd rather gravitate somewhere else.”
Xander stays quiet.
He watches the way her shoulders sit, not tense. She doesn’t look threatened. Which means she isn’t.
Which means she thinks she doesn’t need to be.
Erron steps a little closer to the lake, hands raised in harmless surrender. “Look, we’re all clearly exhausted. You’ve got water. We’ve got… incredible company. I feel like there’s a mutually beneficial arrangement waiting to happen.”
She tilts her head. “Are you always this embarrassing, or is today special?”
Xander almost sighs.
Erron places a hand dramatically over his chest. “You wound me.”
“Try harder next time,” She replies flatly.
Xander’s mind is elsewhere.
The water is clean. Clear enough to see the stones beneath the surface. No obvious toxins. No ripples that suggest something lurking below. The treeline behind her is dense, but the wind’s in their favor if this turns into a fight, he could blind her with dust or use...
No.
Too loud. Too risky.
And she already knows they’re there without turning around. That means her awareness is sharp. Maybe enhanced.
Erron tries again, leaning slightly closer with a grin. “You know, we never got your name. It feels rude to almost fight someone without proper introductions.”
She studies him for a long moment.
Then, finally: “You’re not getting the water.”
Straight to it.
Erron laughs softly. “See, that sounds like a challenge.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
Silence stretches between them.
Xander steps forward just enough to be seen clearly. His voice is calm, measured.
“We don’t want trouble.”
Her eyes flick to him. They linger.
“Funny,” She says. “You didn’t look like someone who avoids trouble.”
“Look, I don't have time for your games."
A faint smile touches her lips at that.
Erron glances between them. “Oh great. You two are doing the intense staring thing now. Should I leave?”
Rings glint at her hands. She doesn’t reach for a weapon. Doesn’t need to.
“If you want water,” She says, voice cool, “Earn it.”
Erron perks up. “Define earn.”
She gestures lazily toward the forest where distant smoke rises above the trees.
“There’s a supply pack half a mile east. Loads of them dropped all around.”
Matter-of-fact. No emotion.
“Bring it back. I’ll share.”
Xander narrows his eyes. “And if it’s a trap?”
She shrugs. “Then you’ll learn something.”
Erron grins. “I like her.”
Xander doesn’t respond.
He’s already calculating.
If it’s real, they get water and supplies. If it’s a trap, they’ll see it coming. And if she’s lying entirely…
He studies her expression.
She doesn’t look like someone who lies without purpose.
“Fine,” Xander says.
Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Half,” He adds. “Of whatever’s in the pack.”
She considers that.
Then nods once.
“Half.”
Erron claps his hands together lightly. “See? Diplomacy. Romance. Negotiation. I’m multi-talented.”
She walks back to the lake’s edge, crouching again but her eyes never leave them this time.
“Try not to die,” She says dryly.
As Erron starts walking, he mutters to Xander, “She definitely likes me.”
Xander gives him a sideways look.
“She definitely doesn’t.”
The smoke thinned as they moved deeper into the forest, drifting like a torn ribbon across the bruised evening sky.
Erron walked ahead, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes fixed upward like he trusted the column of grey more than he trusted the ground beneath his boots.
Branches snapped underfoot. The air smelled damp and metallic.
Xander finally broke the silence. “What was that back there?”
Erron didn’t look at him. “What was what?”
“The flirting.” Xander’s voice was flat. “With the girl.”
Erron huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh. That.” He stepped over a fallen trunk. “Tried a different tactic.”
“You call that a tactic?”
“It was a negotiation strategy.” Erron glanced over his shoulder, grin crooked. “Charm. Distraction. Confidence.”
“It failed.”
“Relax.” Erron waved a hand like he was brushing off dust. “You didn’t get stabbed this time. That’s improvement.”
Xander’s jaw tightened slightly at that. The memory of her violet eyes flicked through his mind.
Sharp, calculating, not surprised in the slightest when she’d sensed them behind her. She hadn’t even needed to turn around at first. Just called them out like she’d been expecting company.
Erron continued, tone lighter than the situation deserved. “We’ll find supplies near the smoke. Water, food, maybe weapons.”
“Or ambushes.”
“Or alliances.” Erron shot him a side glance. “Who knows? Maybe Lavender will decide she likes us.”
“No.”
Erron slowed slightly. “No what?”
“We don’t need more partners.”
Erron arched a brow. “Why?”
“She stabbed me.”
“And?”
Xander stopped walking.
Erron took two more steps before realizing and turning back. “You healed.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
For a moment, Xander didn’t answer. Wind moved through the trees, leaves whispering overhead. In his mind, calculations spun.
Her stance, her awareness, the way she’d mocked Erron without losing focus. She wasn’t reckless. She was controlled. Dangerous in a way that didn’t rely on brute force.
“We don’t need variables,” Xander finally said. “Two is stable.”
Erron studied him for a second longer than usual. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He turned and resumed following the smoke.
Xander fell into step beside him. The forest grew thicker, shadows stretching longer as the light faded.
And they finally reached the supply pack.
The crate lay half-buried in churned dirt; its parachute collapsed beside it like a shed skin. Smoke still curled faintly from the impact site.
But that wasn’t what held their attention.
A man straddled another figure on the ground, fist rising and falling in brutal rhythm. The sound was sickening.
Dull thuds against bone and soil. The victim’s arms barely twitched anymore.
Xander and Erron slowed.
They exchanged a look.
Erron’s hands moved first, revolvers sliding free with smooth precision.
Xander’s fists tightened at his sides.
The ginger-haired man finally stopped.
His shoulders rose and fell once. Twice.
Then he stood.
Blood coated his knuckles, streaked across his cheek, soaked into the fabric wrapped around his neck. His eyes were hollow, not wild, just exhausted in a way that felt older than the forest itself.
He turned toward them.
For half a second, no one moved.
Then his palm lifted.
Fire erupted outward, not a spark, not a flare, but a violent, roaring blast that devoured the space between them in an instant.
“Move!” Erron barked, already diving sideways as heat scorched through the air where he’d stood.
Xander didn’t.
He shut his eyes.
The name echoed inside him like a word spoken in a cathedral of bone.
ESPUD.
The air shifted.
When Xander’s eyes opened again, the white had vanished, swallowed into pitch. His eyelids darkened to ash-grey; veins faintly shadowed beneath his skin.
The fire was almost on him.
He raised one hand.
And the world bent.
A thick wall of blackness tore upward from the earth, not stone, not smoke, something denser. It rose like liquid shadow hardened mid-surge, curling forward with a low, distorted hum.
The flames struck it.
Instead of exploding, instead of scattering...
They vanished.
Swallowed whole.
The fire didn’t burn out.
It was consumed.
Silence followed, heavy and unnatural. The only sound was the faint crackle of leftover embers licking at empty air.
Erron rolled to a knee, guns trained forward, eyes wide despite himself. “Well,” He muttered, smoke drifting past his shoulder. “You good, Xander?"
He doesn't respond.
The ginger-haired man stared at the wall of black.
There was no surprise in his expression.
Only recognition.
His fingers flexed, embers dancing weakly across his palm again.
“You,” he said quietly, voice roughened by smoke and something deeper. “You’re a Greydon.”
The dark wall pulsed once before dissolving back into the soil like ink sinking into paper.
Xander stepped forward, eyes still black.
“And you're an Ember Monk."
"Was, once." The red-haired man replied.
"Somebody wanna fill me in?" Erron chimes in.
The ginger-haired man's palms grow bright orange, embers sparking.
While Xander's palms remain clenched.
Both stare each other down.
CHAPTER 1 END
