As the sands continued their steady descent and the entrance remained empty, the whispers grew.
Bolder. Louder. Caution thinned, replaced by certainty.
He fled.
A coward.
A hollow name stitched onto borrowed myths.
Among the Thirty-Ninth, many leaned into the whispers in silent approval. Eyes no longer hiding their gleam.
Above them, the Elders shifted with the crowd's mood—not openly, never openly—but enough. Enough to threaten the fragile alignment of whatever had been set in motion.
Garrek's patience frayed with every falling grain. The noise was unnecessary. Petty. The sound of people grown fat on ignorance.
And then.
A raised hand. Elder Mirell.
No announcement, no warning. Just a signal.
Across the Arena, the Silver Hand emblems stitched onto the black cloaks of the Hands flared once.
Acknowledged.
Steel slid free. Every line. Every column. Every position. One movement. One intent.
Silence returned, sharp and enforced.
Alison's smile deepened.
Mirell lowered her hand. Steel returned to sheaths. No acknowledgement followed.
Her gaze drifted back to Myra. Half irritation. Half inquiry.
If the boy does not appear—what then?
The question hung unspoken between them. But understood.
---
And somewhere below, far from the eyes of power above, near the base of the Nyxvalis columns where the lowest of the Hollow-Bloods stood in plain black robes—
a shadow materialised among them.
Just as tall. Twice as careful.
It appeared in the exact heartbeat when every eye followed the drawn steel—between one blink and the next.
The nearest Hollow-Blood stiffened but kept his gaze forward. To look was to acknowledge. And this was not normal.
His breath remained steady, gaze forward.
Then the whisper.
"Hollow Blood."
Two turned at once—one to the shadow's left, one to its right.
"What are your names?"
Neither answered.
In the Evernight, the tongue was the fastest weapon to draw—and the quickest way to die.
"I won't ask twice."
The voice came softer this time. Smoother.
"What are your names."
Not a question. Not this time.
They felt it then: not force, but something quieter. A threat like a cold draft slipping through a sealed door.
The one on the left spoke first.
"Natrix Nyxvalis… House Artyr."
A single nod from the shadow.
"And you."
The second one swallowed.
"…Meeka Nyxvalis."
Smaller, somehow.
"House Artyr."
The silence stretched.
"How old?"
"…Seventeen," Natrix said.
"…Sixteen," Meeka followed.
The silence settled, heavier now.
"Too weak to enter the first cycle," the shadow murmured. "And soon… too old to enter the second."
Neither replied. They didn't need to. The truth had lived inside them for years—bitter, rotting, unavoidable.
Past twenty-seven, the Chambers of Night closed forever. The next cycle of the Thirty-Ninth lay twenty winters away.
They would never enter. They had always known it.
Hearing it spoken changed nothing.
Perhaps just a reminder to grieve more actively.
"I meant no mockery," the shadow said. Its tone remained even, yet something colder moved beneath it. "Only context."
A measured pause.
"I have a proposition."
That word landed with weight.
"To soften your future… as Hollows of this clan."
Their silence changed—still wary, but no longer closed. Waiting.
"I need a disturbance," the shadow continued, its gaze flicking once toward the Hands stationed beyond the crowd. "Small. Controlled. Enough to draw attention. Nothing more."
It leaned in slightly.
"And in return… your names will be tied to the Twilight Sword."
Hope flared in their eyes—raw, ugly, desperate. Violet Nyxvalis. Fourth of the Thirty-Ninth. Descendant of the Iron Wolf. The name was too high, too distant from Hollow blood to mean safety.
Their gazes slid past the shadow, toward the Hands. And beyond them, the Black Attendants—executioners in all but title.
"The High Law just enforced silence. We could be executed for less."
"You could," the shadow agreed.
One heartbeat.
"Only if you do it like fools."
No comfort. Only clarity.
"There is no safe way to break order," it continued. "But a clever person could find one."
The question lingered in the air between them.
"Couldn't they?"
The weight pressed in: the crowd, the steel, the Black Attendants, the twenty winters they would never see.
"You have three seconds."
No urgency. Just arithmetic.
"Decide."
A beat.
"Will you—"
Another.
"—or should I find others in this ocean of your kind?"
Neither of them spoke. The weight of the offer pressed inward, suffocating.
Natrix's fingers twitched at his side. His gaze drifted first to the falling grains of crimson in the hourglass—then to Meeka's eyes, already waiting, already aligned.
"…we'll do it," Natrix muttered, before caution could take hold.
The shadow did not respond immediately.
Meeka swallowed.
"Good," the shadow said at last, its gaze sweeping across the arena. "But remember… make it obvious you're seeking attention, and I vanish."
The two stiffened.
"You understand?"
They both nodded.
"Very well. Make it quick."
The shadow stepped back, granting them a sliver of space—just enough for a hurried consultation. Their hands were unsteady. Their gazes flicked left and right like prey—assessing, reassessing, hesitating.
Should I find others?
Then—
A coin—pure Selerian gold—slipped from Meeka's palm.
Click.
Clink.
Soft against stone. Deafening in an arena strangled by silence.
One of the Hands twitched, turning toward the sound.
Natrix bent to retrieve it.
The shifting gap between ranks parted just enough—for the shadow to be seen.
No longer a shadow.
The hood fell back. No mask. No pretense of lowly Hollow-Blood.
Dark blue eyes. Well-kept black hair.
Authority.
The Hand's posture shifted in silent assessment. Not normal.
Then signaled another. Then a third. Then finally it reached its last.
An Attendant detached from the perimeter and strode forward.
The Hollow-Bloods nearby shifted with unease. Heads turned. Attention rippled outward as the formation subtly broke.
The Attendant approached.
Meeka went rigid.
Natrix tightened his grip on the coin until its edges bit into his palm.
The Attendant stopped before them. Well-kept suit paired with a dark expression.
"Hollow-Blood," he said coldly. "State your name. And your reason for being out of uniform."