She met the Attendant's gaze without flinching.
His expression did not change.
"I am Violet Nyxvalis," she said evenly. "Of House Nyxvalis."
A breath.
"I bear no uniform… for I am the Fourth Mantle Bearer of the Thirty-Ninth."
That was enough to cause a shift. Not shock. Not fear. Unease. Subtle—but there. And utterly out of place on a Black Attendant.
He said nothing. His hand slipped into the fine-lined interior of his coat, fingers brushing parchment before drawing it into the light.
He checked it once. Assigned positions. Entry times. Verified passages.
Then again.
Nothing. No record of her entrance. No cleared passage. No decree permitting late arrival.
His gaze lifted briefly—measured. His certainty did not waver.
She had not entered with another, nor had she been present longer than ten minutes—and even that was generous.
Which meant—
He stopped the thought there.
Would he say anything?
Absolutely not.
Despite his station, he understood the cost of entanglement. The quiet games of Mantle Bearers—even new ones—were never worth the price.
So instead—
He bowed. Deep. Immediate.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said. "I beseech thee—take no offense at my ignorance."
A pause.
"I did not recognize you."
The shift was instantaneous.
Around them, the Hollow-Bloods stiffened, unease sharpening into something more focused—attention, recognition… fear.
Beyond them, the disturbance spread. Across the columns. Up through the layered stands. Even at the highest tiers, heads turned.
They were looking—
Not at confusion. Not at disruption. At a carefully constructed truth.
Not late. Not absent. Simply… misplaced.
Would they believe it? Not fully.
But belief was never the goal. Only doubt—the kind that stills questions before they can be asked.
Above, Leah finally exhaled—air returning to her lungs in fragments.
Below, Violet stepped forward, closing the distance by a single pace.
"All may be forgiven," she said softly, her voice lowered just enough to carry pretext, "if all you saw… was a Bearer out of place, seeking a closer view of the Trial."
The Attendant's gaze sharpened.
Then—understanding. Brief. Fleeting.
Of course. How typical.
"Of course, Bearer," he replied.
His hand moved again, drawing quill to parchment. Ink kissed the page in swift, precise strokes—a correction of reality. Small, but binding.
Gazes followed—the right ones, too distant to discern what truly transpired below.
A heartbeat later, it was done.
"Allow us to escort you," he continued, "to your proper position."
A gesture followed. The Hollow-Bloods parted further, forming a clean path as the esteemed Bearer ascended the stand with a private entourage of Hands.
Left behind, two Hollow-Bloods stood frozen in the wake of it.
Natrix.
Meeka.
Between them lay a single handkerchief—marked with the sigil of the Fourth of the Thirty-Ninth.
Proof. Or perhaps illusion.
It didn't matter. Enough eyes had seen. Enough to soften a lifetime of hardship—even if only for a moment.
The lonely Selerian coin in Natrix's palm now felt like a divine blessing. A reason to glorify the Empire.
**********
The Hands delivered her to her row and withdrew without ceremony.
Seven seats. The Fourth through the Tenth of the Thirty-Ninth occupied this narrow band of stone. Above her, three thrones curated in crimson excess—Nyxvalis architecture at its most indulgent. Reserved for the top snakes of her generation.
She did not look up. Not to measure their expressions. Not to grant them that satisfaction.
She looked right.
Isodle Nyxvalis. Fifth Mantle Bearer.
The cost of his ascension had been absolute. Someone in the Chambers of Night had torn his jaw from his face, ripped his tongue out by the root, and left him alive to understand the loss.
That someone was dead now. At least, that's what he believed.
What remained was a dark metal prosthetic hidden beneath the severe rise of his high collar.
His gaze found her. She ignored it.
Instead, her gaze settled on Leah. A single heartbeat of acknowledgment passed between them. All was well. Nothing more was needed.
Then—
the hourglass.
A handful of grains left. No more.
Her unease deepened. Just enough.
The attention from above pressed into her—accusing, speculative, laced with conclusions they lacked the courage to voice.
Bastards.
She faced forward. Nothing changed.
Like their fossilised Elders above, the Thirty-Ninth made no effort at dignity. They stared. Openly. Shamelessly. Hungry for implication.
Let them. She had already made her choice. Weighed the loss. Measured the gain. That devil of a bastard was the key to consolidating power in this blood pit. They didn't know how she would wield it. Or when. That was enough.
Her gaze dropped to the center.
The Herald.
All in white. Robes. Hair. Smile. Crimson eyes. She studied him the way one studies a wolf draped in silk. A problem. Problems were meant to be erased before they became complications.
Her gaze shifted right again. Leah caught it. No question this time. Leah's eyes moved—subtle, immediate. She understood.
Good.
Violet's attention returned to the floor and settled on another.
Viren of the Iron Veil.
Her jaw tightened. Monster. Certain.
Then—the walls. Ringed with Hands. Backed by Black Attendants. Her breath stilled. Complications. All of them. Waiting.
Beyond them, Highbloods. Specialists of House Kallistyr and House Tiago working the Primordial stones—caskets and monitors humming with purpose. And there—a cluster. Two dozen Highbloods of House Morge and House Oryn. Healers. Morticians. Pretending purpose shamelessly.
Not good.
Above—three wyverns had already passed overhead in the brief time she had been in the arena. Their wingbeats were distant. Heavy enough to feel through stone.
And this… this was only what she could see.
Her throat tightened. If he survives…
Then—back to the sands.
Where is he?
Her pulse quickened. Faster than during that blood-soaked wreck of a surgery. Was he—
No. He was fine. He said he was fine. She had seen him walk. Talk. Swing.
The thoughts began to spiral. Her gaze snapped from the sands to the entrance. Unease sharpened, deepened, coiled inward.
Ten seconds…