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Chapter 37: Judgement.
Varn finally managed to turn.
The motion was sluggish. Heavy. Like his body no longer obeyed him. Like even the simple act of turning his head required him to lift a mountain. And yet, somehow, he did it.
His eyes found the thing behind him.
And in that moment—
Terror.
Not fear. Not panic.
Primal. Absolute. Animal.
It bled into his face, twisted his mouth open, stole his breath.
Ashvaleth stood.
The beast’s monstrous form seemed to bend the very air around it. Its massive head lowered, just enough for its burning, violet eyes to meet Varn’s gaze with a silent, patient hunger.
The scent hit next—rot and ruin, thick enough to taste. Its breath flowed over him in waves, warm and wet like open graves.
Spines of blackened bone jutted from the creature’s back and ribs, flickering with a sickly violet mist. Its maw was half-open, jaws drooping wide enough to swallow a man whole.
And the sound—
A low, guttural thrum, like a warning growl dragged from the depths of the void, so deep it rattled in the bones.
Varn’s knees buckled.
He didn’t fall—but he quivered.
His leg trembled. His shoulders twitched, stiffened by dread.
Somewhere, faintly, a child in the stands whimpered.
Ian approached.
Each step with intent. Slow.
His boots dragged slightly across the blood-slick sand, leaving behind prints that filled with shadow.
The daggers in his hands shimmered with ghostfire—Soul Flame, grey and silent, twisting like smoke in water.
Hungry.
Alive.
The crowd watched in stunned silence.
No more chants. No more cheers.
Not even the nobles moved. Some stood, unmoving. Some sat in wide-eyed stillness, clutching goblets they no longer sipped from. The only sound was the faint breeze—and the beast’s breath.
Varn’s lips moved.
A whisper.
Too soft to catch.
Too weak for most ears.
But Ian heard it.
"I... for... feit..." Varn rasped.
Ian halted, just a step away.
Head tilted slightly, as if not quite hearing.
"What was that?" His voice was low. Even. Cutting through silence like a whisper through snow.
Varn’s eyes weren’t on him.
They were locked on the daggers.
On the fire.
On death.
"I... said... I for—"
The sentence never ended.
There was no warning.
No pause.
Only a single step. A motion like a sigh.
And then—
Dagger cut through flesh.
A clean, sweeping arc—silent, like a falling leaf. Grey fire danced in the wake of the blade, consuming whatever it touched.
Varn’s head left his shoulders with a soft hiss.
It hit the ground with a dull, final thud. His body followed a moment later, heavy and awkward, crashing to the sand like a felled tree.
Ian stood above both.
Eyes cold. Still.
He scoffed.
Low. Irritated.
"Who told you that was an option?"
Then he raised a hand.
Ashvaleth dissolved. No roar. No show.
Just a fading mist—tendrils of violet curling up and away like fog in morning light, vanishing into the air without a trace.
The silence deepened.
In the stands, not a whisper came.
Even the nobles didn’t speak.
They stared.
At the corpse.
At Ian.
At the flickering flame still clinging to his daggers.
Flickering lower now.
But not out.
And then—
Boots.
The sound was sharp. Intentional.
Metal striking stone.
From the northern gate, a formation of soldiers marched out. Seven armored knights in gleaming silver plate, weapons drawn, helms reflecting sunlight.
At their head walked a man in black and gold vestments, every inch embroidered with intricate runes that shimmered in the light. His staff was not a weapon but a symbol—a long rod of white wood crowned with the sigil of the sun.
A priest.
The crowd spoke—finally.
Whispers bloomed. Mutters of recognition. Fear. Authority.
The knights fanned out behind the priest.
Ian didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
The priest raised a hand.
The knights froze.
"You," he called, voice unnaturally clear—amplified by divine magic. It echoed across the arena like judgment made manifest.
"By the authority of the Sanctum of Light, you are hereby accused of wielding infernal powers in combat. Of consorting with dark forces. Of using demon magic."
A ripple passed through the coliseum.
Gasps. Panic. Outrage.
Ian turned his head slightly, eyes sweeping across the priest, then the crowd.
"Demon magic?" he said. Flat. Dry.
"You summoned a beast not of this world," the priest continued, stepping forward. "You corrupted the field of honor with flame born of death. You wield magic that defies the Divine Order. Such power cannot go unchecked."
Ian’s voice was calm.
"And?"
The crowd reacted as if struck.
A noblewoman dropped her goblet. Wine spilled across her silk skirts, forgotten.
The priest’s eyes narrowed.
"You mock the judgment of the Light?"
"I deny your claim," Ian said. "What I wield is mine. No demon gave it to me. No pact was made. You’re mistaking what you fear for what you understand."
"You will come with us for purification and examination," the priest intoned. "Resist, and the Sanctum will deem you a threat to the realm."
Ian tilted his head slightly.
One dagger raised.
The flame still danced.
"Then consider me a threat."
The words echoed.
No one breathed.
Then—one of the knights snapped.
He lunged.
His blade flared, bursting with radiant magic, a streak of light aimed straight for Ian’s heart.
Ian lifted his dagger.
Ready.
The air split—
But the clash never came.
A hand was already there.
Wrapped around the holy blade.
Fingers pale. Relaxed.
The knight froze.
His sword trembled in Eli’s grip.
Ian blinked.
Eli stood between them.
Unmoving.
Calm.
He didn’t even look at the knight.
"Attempting to pull this shit in front of me?" he asked, voice soft, almost bored.
Then he squeezed.
The blade shattered.
Like glass under a hammer.
The knight stumbled back, stunned and disarmed.
Eli’s golden eyes shifted toward the priest.
They glowed now.
Bright. Burning. Dangerous.
"Aren’t you bastards getting a bit too bold?"
The light dimmed.
The shadows stretched.
And in the stands, the crowd remembered.
Who this man was.
What he had done.
The priest took a step back.
His staff trembled.
Ian said nothing.
But the flames on his daggers still burned.
