Seraphine di Ironhold vs. Lady Elyria Sylvaris
The arena lights glinted off Elyria's golden hair as she circled Seraphine, her silver-blue robes swirling like liquid moonlight. Seraphine adjusted her grip on her sword, the blackened Ironhold armor creaking slightly. The crowd's murmurs died away - this wasn't just another tournament match. This was personal.
Elyria struck first, her blade a silver flash. Seraphine barely parried in time, feeling the wind of the strike against her cheek. Again and again Elyria pressed the attack, her movements impossibly graceful, her blonde hair whipping like a banner behind her. But Seraphine stood firm, reading each feint, countering each thrust.
A thin red line appeared on Seraphine's arm - first blood. She barely noticed. Instead, she smiled. Finally, a real challenge.
Their blades locked, sparks flying as they strained against each other. Elyria's blue eyes widened slightly when Seraphine began pushing her back, inch by inch. The noblewoman disengaged with a fluid twist, but Seraphine anticipated the move, her boot catching Elyria's knee.
Elyria staggered. For the first time, she looked...surprised.
Gunther's Gambit
In the shadows beneath the western stands, Gunther hefted a smooth river stone in his palm. His "gift" - strength far beyond any normal man's - made the weight feel insignificant. The bombs were all in place: beneath the noble's gallery, near the main gates, at the servant's entrances. Crude but effective, each one rigged to detonate when struck with sufficient force.
He didn't need fancy triggers or timed fuses. Not when he could throw a stone hard enough to crack castle walls.
Gunther peered through a gap in the seating, watching the duel below. Seraphine was winning - actually driving Elyria back. Perfect. Let them all be distracted by the spectacle.
He drew his arm back, muscles coiling with that strange, unnatural power. The first stone left his fingers with a sound like a cracking whip.
Chaos Reigns
The bomb near the noble's gallery exploded first, the concussive blast sending splinters of wood and shreds of velvet raining down. Elyria flinched - just for an instant - but it was enough. Seraphine's elbow caught her jaw, sending the blonde noblewoman reeling.
Before Seraphine could press her advantage, a second explosion rocked the eastern gates. Screams filled the air as panic spread through the crowd.
Elyria wiped blood from her lip, her eyes darting between Seraphine and the chaos. With one last, unreadable look, she melted into the fleeing masses, her golden hair disappearing in the smoke.
Seraphine hesitated only a moment before turning toward the source of the explosions. She knew that handiwork.
Chaos in the Dome
The first explosion shattered the silence—a deafening roar that sent tremors through the Ironhold Dome. Dust rained from the ceiling as the crowd screamed in panic.
"EVACUATE! NOW!"
Elite soldiers in gleaming armor stormed the arena, their commanders barking orders. Combat students moved swiftly, guiding spectators toward exits. But before evacuation could complete, dark figures emerged—black-robed, masked shadows pouring from service tunnels.
Their attack formation was perfect.Their timing was precise.
Yet nothing happened as planned.
The Terrorists' Confusion
"Pillar Seven," the leader hissed through clenched teeth. "Why hasn't it detonated?"
"I don't know!" his lieutenant snapped back. "The runes were activated! Twelve and Twenty-Three should have followed!"
"Then what in hell's name was that first blast?"
Silence hung between them.
Their flawless plan—collapse key supports, trap the nobility, strike amidst chaos—was failing. Only one explosion had rocked the dome. And it wasn't theirs.
"We attack now," the leader growled. "No more waiting. Cut them down where they stand."
Gunther's Unseen Hand
Through the smoke and chaos, Gunther moved like a ghost. No mage, no scholar of runes—just a man who understood the power of distraction.
His single, crude explosion had done its job. Panic first. Confusion second.
Now the enemy danced to his tune, forced into the open too soon.
A noblewoman's gaze lingered too long as he guided her group to safety.
"You're no ordinary guardsman..." she murmured.
Gunther kept walking. Some questions were better left unanswered.
The Jenuvian League's Last Stand
The black-clad figures of the Jenuvian League emerged from the shadows, their masked faces unreadable as they brandished curved daggers and whispered incantations. For a moment, the air itself seemed to tremble—until the Ironhold elites struck back.
It wasn't a battle.
It was a slaughter.
General Voss's soldiers moved with terrifying precision, their enchanted blades cutting through the League's defenses like parchment. Within minutes, the would-be assassins were disarmed, forced to their knees, their magic silenced by iron shackles.
Then came the blood.
One by one, the prisoners' heads snapped backward—not by any visible blade, but as if invisible wires had yanked them taut. Crimson arcs sprayed across the marble floor before the bodies collapsed.
"Blood magic," General Voss spat, wiping gore from his breastplate. "Search the entire academy! I want every stone turned!"
Elite scouts fanned out, their lanterns casting long shadows across the now-silent dome.
Gunther's Performance
Amid the chaos, a breathless guardsman stumbled toward Lady Seraphine—his uniform disheveled, his eyes wide with perfectly feigned terror.
"My lady!" Gunther gasped, grabbing a pillar for support. "The—the eastern corridor! I saw more of them!"
His chest heaved with convincing panic, but Seraphine's gaze lingered on the too-clean blade at his hip.
A blade that had clearly not been drawn tonight.
The Duke's Chauffeur
Gunther had spent years mastering the art of invisibility—just another uniformed employee in the Duke of Ironhold's motor pool. But when Lady Seraphine's piercing gaze found him across the smoke-filled dome, his carefully maintained cover teetered on the edge.
With a calculated wince, the Duke's daughter gripped a marble column for support.
"Gunther! My ankle—" Her voice carried perfectly across the chaos.
The effect was immediate. Nearby nobles turned while royal guardsmen paused their sweep of the area.
Gunther's fingers twitched toward the concealed pistol beneath his chauffeur's jacket. This wasn't in the evacuation plan.
"My lady," he said with practiced deference, "the armored car is standing by. If you'll permit me to—"
"Don't be tiresome." Seraphine extended her hand like a queen expecting fealty. "You're the Duke's chauffeur. Transporting me is literally your job."
Her smile didn't reach her winter-gray eyes.
The Viscount's Interlude
Viscount Durak materialized in a cloud of imported cologne, his dress saber clinking against medals that hadn't been earned in combat.
"Lady Seraphine! My armored carriage is—"
"Gunther." She didn't acknowledge the viscount's existence. "Now."
The unspoken threat vibrated between them—she knew about the explosion. Knew he wasn't just a driver. And she was reveling in her advantage.
With royal guards checking credentials and his escape window closing, Gunther had one option: perform his role flawlessly.
"At once, my lady."
He swept her up in a formal bridal carry, the way all Ironhold chauffeurs were trained to transport injured nobility. Seraphine settled against his chest with a satisfied exhale, her lips brushing his ear as she murmured:
"The 1927 Daimler. Not the Rolls."
Of course. The Daimler had the reinforced interrogation compartment.
As Gunther carried his dangerous cargo past gawking nobles, he noted three royal guards suddenly studying him too closely. Seraphine's little performance had just made him memorable—exactly what an operative in his position couldn't afford.
The Duke's Daughter and Her Chauffeur
The crowd around them froze in disbelief.
Lady Seraphine di Ironhold—the famously untouchable silver-haired beauty, the Duke's prized daughter—was allowing herself to be carried like a bride in the arms of her aging chauffeur. And not just carried—held close, her fingers curled possessively against his uniform, her lips nearly brushing his ear as she murmured something only he could hear.
It was scandalous.
It was intimate.
And Seraphine didn't seem to care who saw.
The Onlookers' Reactions
Nobles whispered behind gloved hands. Some stifled laughter, others gasped in shock. A few of the younger ladies even flushed, their eyes darting between Seraphine's defiant smirk and Gunther's stoic expression.
"Is she drunk?" someone hissed.
"No, she's making a statement," another murmured back. "That's not just a chauffeur—that's her chauffeur."
And then there was Elyria.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, her golden hair catching the dim light, the noblewoman's usually composed face was a rare portrait of shock. Her blue eyes widened slightly, her lips parting as if she wanted to speak—but no words came.
She had seen Seraphine dismiss kings, humiliate suitors, and walk away from alliances without a second glance.
But this?
This was something entirely new.
Gunther's Inner Turmoil
Gunther kept his face carefully blank, his steps measured as he carried Seraphine toward the waiting Daimler.
But inside?
Inside, his mind raced.
Why was she doing this?
Was it a power play? A way to humiliate him in front of the court? Or—
(And this thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit)
—was she actually enjoying this?
He had spent decades as the perfect servant—invisible, reliable, forgettable. But now, with Seraphine's body warm against his, her scent (jasmine and something sharper, like steel) filling his senses, he felt something dangerous stir in his chest.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
No.
He crushed the emotion before it could take root.
This was just another game.
And he refused to lose.
The Discovery
The moment General Aldric Voss stepped into the shadowed underbelly of the Ironhold Dome, he knew something was wrong.
The air hummed—not with the residual chaos of the earlier attack, but with something far more dangerous.
Magic.
His boots echoed against the stone as he moved toward Pillar Seven, where one of his scouts stood frozen, lantern light trembling in his grip.
"General," the man whispered. "You need to see this."
Aldric didn't flinch. He'd faced worse than traps in the dark.
But when his eyes traced the intricate runes carved into the pillar's base—the pulsating glow beneath the symbols, the barely contained energy thrumming through the stone—his blood turned to ice.
"Rune-bomb," he growled.
And it was still active.
The Inspection
Aldric knelt, gauntleted fingers hovering just above the glowing script. One wrong touch, one misplaced breath, and the entire dome could collapse.
Idiots. Whoever planted this didn't just want casualties—they wanted annihilation.
"Report," he snapped.
His mage, a wiry woman named Livia, pressed her palms flat against the stone floor. Her magic pulsed outward, tracing the bomb's connections.
"Two more," she said after a heartbeat. "Pillars Twelve and Twenty-Three. Same design."
Aldric's jaw clenched. The three primary supports.
This wasn't sabotage.
This was demolition.
"Can you disarm it?"
Livia's fingers twitched. "Maybe. But if they're linked—"
"Then we're already dead," Aldric finished.
Somewhere above them, nobles still laughed, oblivious to the death lurking beneath their feet.
The Disarmament
Livia worked in silence, her magic threading through the runes like a surgeon's scalpel. Aldric watched, every muscle taut.
One slip.
One misread symbol.
And—
"Got it," Livia breathed.
The glow beneath Pillar Seven flickered. Died.
Aldric didn't relax. "The others."
Two more bombs. Two more chances for everything to go to hell.
As Livia moved to Pillar Twelve, Aldric finally allowed himself the luxury of a single, furious thought:
Whoever did this would burn.
The Aftermath: Aldric and the Mage
The last rune still pulsed faintly under Livia's fingertips, its dark glow a silent threat. Aldric stood over her shoulder, his shadow stretching across the pillar as he studied the intricate markings with a deepening frown.
"This makes no sense," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "The bombs are armed. The runes are active. So why haven't they detonated?"
Livia wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her breathing still uneven from the strain of examining the volatile magic. "That's what's troubling me, General. There's no timer, no trigger mechanism we can detect—just pure, raw destructive energy waiting to be unleashed." She traced a finger along one of the glowing lines. "These runes... they're designed to collapse the entire dome inward. Not just bring it down—pulverize it. And anyone inside."
Aldric's gaze snapped to hers. "You're saying this wasn't just an attack on the event. This was an assassination."
Livia nodded grimly. "Whoever planted these wanted to ensure no one walked out alive. But the precision..." She hesitated, then pointed to a cluster of runes near the base. "See this pattern? The magic is concentrated toward the center of the arena. The blast radius would have been strongest where the combatants stood."
Aldric's expression darkened. "Elyria," he said, the name sharp on his tongue. "They were after her."
Livia opened her mouth, then closed it again. She hadn't specified which fighter the bombs were targeting—but the General had already drawn his own conclusion.
"We need to secure the perimeter," Aldric continued, his voice hardening. "If someone's bold enough to try this, they won't stop here."
Livia bit back her correction. Now wasn't the time to argue. But as she glanced once more at the runes, a quiet unease settled in her chest.
The bombs hadn't been triggered.
And that meant whoever had planted them was still out there.
The Aftermath: Aldric's Investigation
The moment Aldric stepped into the parking area, the scent of burnt metal and smoke filled his nostrils. His armored car—the one meant to transport him back to headquarters—lay in ruins, its reinforced plating twisted like paper. The blast radius was precise, almost surgical.
Not a rune-bomb.
He crouched beside the wreckage, gloved fingers brushing over the debris. Black powder coated the ground, sticking to his fingertips. He rubbed it between his fingers, frowning.
"Charcoal?"
It didn't make sense. Rune-bombs left traces of magic, scorched sigils, residual energy. This? This was crude. Almost amateurish. And yet, the destruction was too controlled to be an accident.
He moved to the second blast site near the gates. Same thing. Charcoal dust. No runes. No magical residue. Just the lingering stench of gunpowder and something faintly acidic.
The Conversation with His Lieutenant
Captain Rylan, his sharpest scout, approached with a grim expression. "General, we've swept the perimeter. No additional explosives found."
Aldric held up a handful of the black powder. "You see this?"
Rylan frowned. "Charcoal residue. But… why?"
"Exactly." Aldric's voice was low, controlled. "We have two different attacks here. One—sophisticated, magical, meant to level the dome from the inside. The other?" He gestured to the destroyed car. "Crude. Physical. Almost like…"
"A distraction," Rylan finished.
Aldric's jaw tightened. "Or a message."
They stood in silence for a long moment. The pieces didn't fit. The rune-bombs in the dome were still armed, untouched. The explosions outside? No clear motive. No clear target.
"Interrogate every witness," Aldric ordered. "Someone saw something. And I want to know who the hell uses charcoal in a bomb."