The sun blazes down on the King's Arena, turning the sand to warm gold that shifts under every step. Hythesion stands alone in the center, his hands raised slowly—palm outstretched toward the armored figure across from him, fingers splayed in a silent plea.
"Glynlie—Larry is messing with your mind!" His voice carries over the roar of the crowd, clear and steady despite the tightness in his chest. "I know you're stronger than that!"
She doesn't answer. Her face is a mask of stone—every muscle set, jaw clenched tight. The red glow in her eyes burns like embers, but as he watches, a single tear traces a slow path down her left cheek, cutting through the dust on her armor before vanishing into the sand below.
Before he can speak again, Ser Larry's voice booms across the arena, amplified by arcane magic that makes it shake the very air:
"LET THE TRIAL… BEGIN!"
The crowd erupts—thousands of voices screaming and cheering, their hands pounding against wooden rails and stone walls. Glynlie moves without hesitation, her gauntleted hands flying to the hilts at her hips. She draws both swords in one fluid motion:
In her left hand hangs her old blade—worn steel with a leather-wrapped grip, its pommel carved into the shape of a wolf's head. Hythesion knows it well—her father gave it to her the day she left home, and she'd carried it through every fight they shared in Silverlake.
In her right hand is something new: a sword of polished black metal that seems to drink the sunlight, its edge glowing with a faint, menacing red light. It hums with power, sending tiny waves of heat rippling through the air around it. Hythesion's brow furrows—he's never seen magic like it, but pushes the thought aside, focusing on the fight before him.
But his attention on the blades is his mistake. In a flash of movement too fast to follow, Glynlie whips her left arm forward and throws her original sword. It spins end over end through the air, its steel catching the sun as it streaks toward his chest.
Hythesion barely reacts in time—he twists to his side, the blade whistling past his ribs close enough to cut through the fabric of his tunic. It embeds itself deep in the sand ten feet behind him, the wolf-head pommel still quivering with force. Before he can catch his breath, Glynlie is moving—her boots kicking up clouds of sand as she charges forward, the black sword arcing through the air in a wide, devastating swing aimed at his neck.
"Mist Step!"
Hythesion's voice is sharp as he weaves the incantation. His form dissolves into a cloud of cool gray vapor that swirls and shifts, reappearing ten feet to his right. The black sword slams into the sand where he stood, sending sparks and grit flying in all directions. He drops to one knee as he solidifies, his breathing heavy—mist teleportation is fast, but it drains his mana quickly, and each use leaves his muscles tingling with strain.
He looks up just as Glynlie spins on her heel, moving back to snatch her thrown sword from the sand. She grips both blades now—her old steel in one hand, the glowing black metal in the other—and turns to face him, her eyes still empty save for that burning red light.
"Glynlie, wake up!" Hythesion shouts, pushing himself to his feet. "This isn't you—you'd never raise a blade against someone you care about!"
She doesn't respond. Instead, she lowers her stance, bending low like a predator about to spring. Then she moves—faster than lightning, her boots leaving deep gouges in the sand as she dashes forward. The black sword leads the way, slashing upward in a blinding arc that crackles with red energy.
Hythesion throws up his hands, channeling mana into a shield of solid blue light: "Arcane Ward!"
The sword slams into the shield with a deafening CRACK. The force of the impact sends shockwaves rippling across the arena floor, and Hythesion is thrown backward, his feet skidding through the sand before he slams hard against the stone wall of the arena. Pain shoots through his shoulders and back as he slides to the ground, the crowd roaring its approval at the display of power.
He gasps for breath, pushing himself up on trembling arms. His vision blurs for a moment, and when it clears, he feels it—a prickle of danger that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He looks up, and his blood runs cold.
Glynlie is in the air—she'd launched herself high above the sand, her body twisted into a perfect spiral as both swords are raised overhead. The sun is behind her, turning her into a dark silhouette with two glowing blades, and she's descending fast, aiming for a double slash that would split him in two.
"Mist Step!" he whispers to himself.
Again, he dissolves into vapor. The moment he reappears twenty feet away, Glynlie's swords crash into the sand where he'd been. The impact sends a massive shockwave rippling outward—sand explodes into the air in a golden cloud, and the force slams into Hythesion's chest, pushing him back even farther until he tumbles to the ground, gasping and disoriented
The crowd's cheers swell to a deafening roar as Hythesion struggles to push himself up, sand clinging to his sweat-slicked arms and legs. His vision is still fuzzy, his muscles screaming with every small movement—then a soft voice cuts through the chaos, clear and urgent inside his head.
"Sir Hythesion—what is happening? Why is Miss Glynlie attacking you?"
It's Maitara, her thoughts reaching his through the thread of her Mind Speak magic. Hythesion closes his eyes for a second, focusing his own mana to send a reply back.
"Larry is controlling her," he sends, gritting his teeth as he forces himself to sit upright. "She's not doing this willingly."
On the side bench, Geth leans forward, his scaled hands gripping the wooden rails so tight his knuckles turn white. "Did Sir Hythesion tell you what happened?" he asks, his voice tight with concern as he watches Glynlie advance on the fallen elf.
Maitara's eyes are locked on the arena floor, her brow furrowed with worry. "Looks like Miss Glynlie is under Ser Larry's mind control magic," she says, her voice barely audible over the crowd.
"We have to do something!" Akmenos roars, yanking at the iron cuffs around his wrists in frustration. His muscles strain against the metal—but then, with a soft click, one cuff slides free, followed by the other. He stares at his bare wrists in shock, shaking his hands as if to make sure they're real.
Geth glances down at his own arms, then lifts one hand—and the cuff falls away without resistance, clattering to the bench below. He looks at Akmenos, confusion etched across his face. "How long have we been free like this?"
"I don't know—and it doesn't matter!" Akmenos snarls, already moving. "Let's help Sir Hythesion!"
"Right!" Geth snaps, pushing to his feet. Together, they vault over the bench rail, landing heavily on the sand just a few feet from the arena's edge. They charge forward, their boots kicking up clouds of golden grit as they race toward the center.
Maitara stares at her own hands, watching as the cuffs loosen and slide off her wrists with no effort at all. She picks one up, turning it over in her palm—and sees a tiny, glowing symbol etched into the metal: a delicate music note that seems to dance and shimmer like it's alive. She leans closer, her eyes narrowing in recognition, but there's no time to think it through—not now.
In the arena, Glynlie raises both swords high, the black blade's red glow flaring brighter as she prepares to deliver the final blow. Hythesion braces himself, his hands already weaving the start of a defensive spell—when CLANG! A steel blade crashes against Glynlie's black sword, stopping it inches from his face.
Geth stands there, one sword locked against hers, his jaw set hard. "Damn—you're strong," he grunts, feeling the force of her grip push him back a step. He doesn't hesitate—he draws his second sword in a flash, swinging it in a wide arc aimed at her midsection. But Glynlie is already moving, stepping back with impossible speed until she lands lightly ten feet away.
As she regains her balance, Akmenos bursts forward in a low, fast dash. "Take this, sucker!" he roars, throwing a punch that connects with her armored chest plate with a thunderous CRACK. The force sends her skidding backward across the sand, her boots carving deep grooves in the ground before she manages to steady herself.
Geth and Akmenos move in front of Hythesion, positioning themselves shoulder to shoulder. Geth holds both swords at the ready, his eyes locked on Glynlie. Akmenos rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles as he glares at her. Together, they form a solid wall between their leader and the controlled warrior before them.
"What are you both doing?" Hythesion ask while gasping with air. Get out of here before you get hurt, worse get killed"
"Unfortunately Sir Hythesion, we are part of the retribution, so your battle is our battle too." Geth said proudly.
The crowd falls dead silent—thousands of mouths hanging open as they stare at Geth and Akmenos standing between Hythesion and Glynlie. Whispers ripple through the stands like wind through dry grass, confusion clear on every face. Why would two prisoners turn on the kingdom's beloved captain?
Just as Glynlie tenses to attack, a single sharp CLAP rings out across the arena—loud enough to cut through even the quietest murmur. Glynlie freezes mid-movement, her fists clenched, her eyes still fixed on the three warriors before her.
Ser Larry steps forward on his platform, his voice booming once more: "People of Neverwinter! What a beautiful scenery—criminals helping their fellow criminal! It seems the odds are stacked against our captain—but fear not!" He spreads his arms wide, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Let's see if they can withstand the might of our Glorious General Captain!"
The crowd roars back to life, their confusion melting into bloodlust as they cheer for Glynlie. Larry raises a hand, pointing directly at the trio in the sand. "Captain Glynlie—tear them into shreds!"
Without hesitation, Glynlie slides both swords back into their sheaths with a smooth shink. She rolls her shoulders, then tightens her fists—her knuckles cracking loud enough to be heard across the silent sand. In a blur of black armor and red light, she dashes forward and stops directly in front of Geth.
He barely has time to raise his swords before she lashes out with a right kick that connects with his side. The impact sends him flying sideways, his body skidding through the sand for twenty feet before he crashes to a halt, gasping for breath. Before Akmenos can move to help, she spins on her heel and throws a fast jab straight at his face. He reacts in time to block it with his forearms—but she follows instantly with a front kick to his chest that launches him backward, his boots leaving twin furrows in the ground as he tumbles to a stop.
Hythesion scrambles to his feet, his hands already glowing with orange flame. "Incarnate!" he shouts, unleashing a burst of fire that explodes outward in a wide arc. But Glynlie is already on him—she grabs his wrists with her left hand, wraps her right arm around the back of his head, and hurls him across the arena like he weighs nothing at all. He slams into the stone wall opposite, sliding down to the sand as stars dance in his vision.
As he pushes himself up, he sees her old sword streaking through the air toward him—she'd thrown it without looking back. Acting on instinct, he holds up a hand and shouts: "Gravity Feybras!" A wave of blue magic ripples out, slowing the blade until it floats to a stop just inches from his face, then clatters harmlessly to the sand at his feet.
Across the arena, Glynlie turns and begins walking steadily toward him—each step deliberate, each movement precise. But behind her, Geth forces himself up, his swords still gripped tight in his hands. "Double Slash!" he roars, launching himself forward and swinging both blades in a cross-shaped arc aimed at her back.
Glynlie doesn't even look around. She twists her body to the side, the swords whistling past her armor by a hair's breadth. She spins and throws a punch that catches him square in the chest, sending him flying toward Hythesion where he lands hard in the sand beside him.
Akmenos is up next—he charges forward with a roar, launching a powerful roundhouse kick aimed at her head. It connects with a loud THUD—but Glynlie doesn't even flinch. She stands perfectly still as he stares at her in disbelief, his leg still raised in the air. Before he can pull back, she grabs his ankle, drives a punch into his jaw that sends his head snapping back, then spins him around and hurls him through the air to land beside Geth and Hythesion.
All three lie in the sand, breathing heavily and battered. Hythesion pushes himself up on one elbow, his eyes wide with concern as he checks on his friends—both are conscious, but clearly struggling to move. Glynlie continues her slow, steady advance across the sand, her red eyes fixed solely on him.
The crowd's cheers stretch into slow motion—each shout echoing like thunder as Glynlie moves toward them, her black sword already halfway out of its sheath. Hythesion pushes himself up on trembling arms, his body screaming in pain, his eyes drifting to the sand where her old steel blade lies half-buried, the wolf-head pommel catching the sun.
He knows he can't move fast enough to grab it. He knows he can't cast another spell—not with his mana drained and his muscles burning like fire. Glynlie breaks into a run, her armor gleaming, the black sword fully drawn now—its red glow flaring bright as she raises it high for the killing blow.
The blade descends—
PING.
A single, clear note cuts through the arena like crystal shattering glass. Soft at first, then swelling into a wave of pure force that ripples across the sand. The sound hits Glynlie square in the chest, slamming her backward with enough power to send her skidding twenty feet before she plants her feet firmly, her sword raised defensively as she stares toward the source.
Hythesion lifts his head, his ears ringing but his attention sharp. The note hangs in the air, vibrating through every stone and grain of sand in the arena. The crowd has fallen silent again—this time not in confusion, but in awe.
A gust of wind sweeps through the arena, carrying with it a shimmer of silver light. From above—seemingly dropped from the very clouds—a figure descends, landing lightly on the sand in a spray of golden grit.
Standing between Hythesion and Glynlie is Ethan.
His white scarf billows out behind him, so wide and full it spreads like massive wings or a celestial sail catching the wind. The fabric shimmers with brilliant light, glowing so bright it makes the sun seem dim by comparison. Woven into the center of the scarf, the intricate symbol of the Celestial Council blazes with silver and gold—its towers and spires sharp against the sky as if the very fortress itself has been etched into the cloth.
He holds his flute to his lips still, the polished wood gleaming like amber in the light. His posture is no longer hunched or uncertain—he stands tall, shoulders squared, his eyes clear and fierce as he faces Glynlie. The air around him hums with power, every thread of his being radiating the strength of the Celestial Council he serves.
The scarf continues to unfurl until it drapes across the sand like a bridge of light, connecting him to the three fallen warriors behind him. For the first time, he looks every bit the Council Knight he claimed to be.
"Ethan…" Hythesion breathes, staring in disbelief as the familiar musician stands transformed before them.