Chapter Fifteen:

  “Death For Life”

  The light faded behind them.

  There was no burst of magic. No gate slamming shut. Just a final hush.

  John stepped out first. His boots scraped ash and gravel, the grit of a ruined world pressing up through thin-soled sandals.

  Behind him came Rai, her steps deliberate, eyes scanning the horizon. RW trotted beside her, fur slightly bristled, ears flicking at the wind that carried no scent. Helen followed a few paces behind, her expression unreadable, while Dorian brought up the rear, eyes darting warily between the ruins and the sky.

  Roland emerged last. He paused at the threshold, like he expected to be pulled back in, then stepped forward with the careful weight of someone uncertain gravity still applied.

  The six of them stood beneath the broken sky, ringed by the cracked remnants of old stone towers and columns that marked the outskirts of Nerathe.

  They had made it out of Nekrosyne.

  But the surface didn’t feel like salvation.

  “It’s too quiet,” Rai said.

  “No scouts. No birds.” RW confirmed.

  Dorian wiped a hand across his face, sweat mixing with ash. “Feels like we climbed out of one tomb just to find another.”

  John looked up. The coliseum still loomed in the far distance — bent, but standing. He hated how it still looked like it was watching them.

  Roland’s eyes were locked on the horizon, searching.

  “What are you looking for?” John asked.

  Roland didn’t answer at first. Then, quietly: “Something that proves this is real.”

  Helen gave a dry huff, barely more than a breath. “Oh, you’ll know it’s real soon enough,” she muttered. “I’d bet my life and sword on it.”

  Silence followed.

  The wind shifted — and with it, movement.

  Figures appeared on the ridge above. Three. Then five. Then more.

  Guards.

  They descended in silence. Not marching — flowing. Armored, streaked with red veins. Blades not drawn, but ready. And leading them: a man wrapped in crimson and gold, his face hidden by a mask shaped like a lion’s jaw.

  He raised one hand.

  “By order of the Triarchs,” he called, voice echoing through the stillness, “you are summoned to the Coliseum. A tribute has been called in your honor. You will not be late.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Failure to attend,” the man added, “will be considered rejection of favor. And treated accordingly.”

  John looked at the others.

  “They’re not asking,” RW said flatly.

  Rai nodded once. “Then we go.”

  They turned toward the path that led back — not down into the dark this time, but up toward the place where the gods wore human faces.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  And waited to be fed.

  They didn’t speak as they walked.

  The path back to the coliseum felt shorter this time—less like a journey and more like a return to sentence. The guards kept their distance but never broke formation, flanking the group with the quiet certainty of those who didn’t need weapons drawn to kill.

  When the coliseum came into full view, it looked different.

  The blood had been scrubbed from the sand.

  Banners hung freshly dyed, deep crimson threaded with gold. The three-crown seal of the Triarchs gleamed from the highest arch, repainted or reborn. No crowd waited in the stands—but something else did. Anticipation. Hunger. The air buzzed with it.

  Helen slowed at the gate. “This isn’t a tribute,” she said.

  “No,” RW said, tail flicking. “It’s theater.”

  They entered through the side tunnel, the guards stood aside and let them walk into the arena floor of their own will.

  The silence was immense.

  Then, a single chime rang out.

  It echoed far too long.

  And the Triarchs appeared.

  Damarion stood at the center of the royal box, his arms crossed, a great scar now visible across his jaw. Thessala sat to his right, her mask darker—lacquered in black streaked with pearl. Calix lounged to the left, half-shadowed, a new serpent wound around his wrist like living jewelry.

  Calix spoke first. “Welcome back, heroes.”

  Rai didn’t blink. “We didn’t ask for that title.”

  “Precisely why it fits,” Calix said with a smile.

  Damarion’s voice followed, harder. “You returned from where none should return.”

  Thessala tilted her head toward Roland. “And not alone.”

  The silence deepened.

  John stepped forward. “You summoned us.”

  Calix gave a small, polite nod. “Indeed. We owe you a tribute.”

  He gestured to the arena.

  A panel in the stone floor shuddered—then slid open.

  A body was raised—not dead. Alive. Bound.

  Helen’s jaw clenched. “What is this?”

  “A gift,” Calix said. “One last player, left in our care.”

  The figure on the platform stirred.

  It was a boy—barely more than fifteen. Blood crusted across his brow.

  Dorian’s voice was tight. “You’re giving him to us?”

  “No,” Thessala said softly. “We are offering you the choice.”

  Calix stepped forward now, his voice velvet and smoke. “You have walked through judgment. You’ve spoken your truths. Now show us what you’ve learned.”

  He extended a hand toward the boy.

  "One more debt to settle," Calix said, voice like silk over razors. "One soul to pay for the one you stole. Kill him here, and the balance is kept."

  Then he turned his hand toward the sky.

  “Or leave him to us.”

  John took a step forward.

  So did Helen.

  So did Roland.

  And the question hung in the air.

  The platform began to descend, slow and deliberate, as if daring them to choose. The boy's head hung low, blood matting his hair to his forehead. His wrists were bound, but loosely, as if inviting an easy kill.

  John stepped forward first.

  "Stop the platform," he said, voice cutting through the thick silence.

  The Triarchs did not move. But the platform stilled, halfway between heaven and sand.

  John turned to the others. No need for words. Helen was already moving, stepping to his side, sword hand twitching but empty. Rai’s eyes were narrowed to slits. RW’s tail lashed once. Dorian cracked his knuckles, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Over my dead body."

  Roland moved too—but slower, with a hesitance born of too much stolen time. Still, he moved.

  John faced the royal box. His voice didn’t waver.

  "We don't balance life with death. Not on your terms."

  The words echoed in the stone ribs of the coliseum.

  Damarion's arms tightened across his chest. Thessala tilted her head, Calix simply smiled, all teeth and shadow.

  "And what will you offer instead?" Calix asked lightly.

  John didn’t hesitate. "Ourselves. Our defiance. Our refusal."

  He stepped toward the platform and reached out.

  The boy flinched, too weak to fight, but not too weak to fear. John gripped the boy’s arm, steadying him, pulling him free of the bonds.

  The platform shook once, like a living thing denied its meal.

  Helen was there in an instant, covering John’s flank, blade drawn and ready.

  For a breathless moment, nothing happened.

  Then Calix laughed, not cruelly. Almost warmly.

  "Good," he said, lifting his goblet in mock salute. "Very good."

  The Triarchs exchanged a glance. Then Calix made a lazy flick of his hand.

  The guards moved instantly. One stepped forward and, with a single motion, drove a spear through the boy’s heart where he knelt.

  The body sagged. No scream. No ceremony.

  The decision had been made.

  Leave him to them, then.

  RW glanced up at the stands once, her fur bristling. Then she turned away.

  They left the arena in silence only for a moment.

  Then Helen’s voice broke the stillness, low and furious. "Cowards," she spat. "Murderers hiding behind ceremony."

  Dorian’s jaw tightened. "I’d carve their thrones into kindling if I could."

  Rai’s eyes burned. "We'll stop them," she said, voice raw. "Somehow. Some way."

  John didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The hatred in his stride said everything.

  Beside him, Roland walked in silence too, his hands clenched into fists, his gaze hollow with something colder than rage. Not hatred for the Triarchs alone, but for the weight of guilt that coiled in his chest. A life had been taken, they said, to ransom his own. And no matter how deep the hatred ran, it couldn’t drown the ache that he had been the price.

  Behind them, the boy’s blood soaked into the sand, unseen by the gods who demanded it.

  They had made their choice.

  And whatever came next, they would meet it together.