On the seventh night, Arius stood alone in the Ember Ring—a flaming circle used to forge weapons and warriors alike. Here, he was meant to shape his true weapon. But as he reached into the flames, a voice called to him.
"Arius…"
It wasn't Lysaria. It wasn't any god he'd met.
He turned—and saw a boy, maybe his age, draped in a dark cloak embroidered with silver threads. His eyes glowed violet. A strange aura surrounded him, one Arius couldn't place.
"You don't belong here," the boy said. "You think you're chosen? You're just a pawn in their game."
Arius gripped the edge of the forge. "Who are you?"
"Someone like you," he said, stepping into the flames without flinching. "A mistake the gods made. But I've stopped being their puppet. Join me, and we can burn this arena to the ground."
Before Arius could answer, the boy vanished—leaving only ashes behind. The fire hissed unnaturally, as if protesting the boy's presence.
That night, Arius forged his blade. It pulsed with blue and gold light—a weapon of balance. Order and chaos. Mortal and divine. As he poured his essence into the metal, visions raced through his mind: his parents standing before a council of gods, being condemned for loving across realms. The fire showed him the truth—the arena wasn't just a battleground; it was a cage built on fear.
And he was meant to shatter it.