The time to bet was over.
Caelvir now stood before the Queen and her nobles — not as a slave of the Dust, but as a survivor. As a victor. As a man wielding Seren's blade, forged in anonymity, baptized in blood. He stood alone on the scorched sand, sword in hand, face still carrying the sweat and ash of his hundredth fight.
The nobles sat above him in the Royal Balcony like gods observing their own game. Venara's eyes had not left him since the horn had blown, signaling the end of the match. Her chest was still, her posture perfect, her lips a fine line of intent.
Venara leaned forward slightly in her seat.
Investment turns to value, she thought. And now, it is time to collect mine.
But she wasn't ready to claim him — not yet.
She wanted to see him tested one final time.
Her eyes scanned the semi-circle of nobles seated on the Royal Balcony. Masquien sat in his usual lazy posture, his goblet tilting with careless ease. No — he wouldn't move. Too smug for that. Too clever, perhaps. He understood the value of the man who now stood below — a man who had not only survived a hundred battles, but faced death and spat back.
Men like that were rare. They were not merely fighters — they were forged.
Blood, steel, fear, and silence molded such warriors into more than mere muscle. They became instinct sharpened into action. Wisdom learned through every cut that didn't kill. A hundred fights left marks on more than just the skin.
And Caelvir… Caelvir had danced at death's edge and returned.
Masquien sees all that, Venara knew. And still he will not act. He suspects I am watching. He suspects I intend to move.
Faron, then? Young, ambitious. Bright — but prone to leaping before looking. Yes, he might make an offer. He, too, would value the dust-born bird that now soared above the rest. He saw himself in such creatures. His father dead, the head of House Elandar gone, the weight of legacy crushing those untested shoulders. Faron had everything to prove.
A warrior like Caelvir could help him carry that weight.
Then there was Lord Talen.
General of Velrane's armies. A warlord in all but name. He had dismissed Caelvir once before — back when the man had been fighting twenty blind men in the Dust, and he'd failed to see the potential within him. That oversight would sting.
But Talen was not a fool. He might try to amend his mistake. A man of war recognized war-made men. Caelvir bore the scars of the battlefield better than any noble-blooded officer Talen had trained.
Lord Eleazar was the question mark.
The quiet candle in the dark. House Tenebor's lord. Keeper of scripture, patron of the divine. His house ran the Grand Libraries and whispered through the ears in the kingdom. Spies, priests, archivists, and masks — all beneath the holy veil.
He wouldn't make an offer. Venara was sure of it.
A candle in darkness would not care for a blade drenched in fire.
He had probably already known Caelvir's name long before the rest of them.
No, it would fall to Faron or Talen.
And that was good. She wanted them to try. She wanted to see Caelvir refuse. One by one. Sword into sand. Rejection after rejection. Only when all had turned their heads, only when no offers remained—then she would rise.
And he would raise his sword to her. To House Goldmere. To Venara.
A man who had chosen her not from debt, not from favor or desperation — but because he wanted to. She had told Elowen as much.
She wanted to be chosen.
She clenched her gloved hands slightly. She could already see it play out — the stunned nobles, the whispering crowd, her name on Caelvir's lips as his blade lifted skyward. Her victory wouldn't just be political. It would be personal. Intimate. A mark of mutual recognition. A bond forged not from power, but desire.
A rare thing.
A true thing.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it.
Faron stood.
Just slightly. Enough to prepare the gesture of offer. His posture straightened, his gaze turned toward the arena. And then, beside him, Talen shifted as well — not standing yet, but leaning forward, a clear sign of intent.
Yes. Good. Let them go first.
Her heartbeat picked up. This was it.
The moment was forming — until it shattered.
A ripple passed through the nobles like wind through tall grass.
All eyes turned.
The Queen had risen.
Selene Aria Valehart, ruler of Velrane, descended a single step from her throne. The shift seemed simple, but the air around her changed. What had been nobles observing became a court holding its breath. Her royal guards moved with her, not a second delayed, cloaked in crimson and shadow.
Venara's breath caught in her throat.
Why is she rising?
The Queen's shoes echoed against the polished stone. The hem of her gown trailed like moonlight behind her. No herald. No trumpets. Her presence alone sufficed.
She spoke with quiet power. "Great warrior of the Dust."
Caelvir did not speak.
"I, Selene Aria Valehart, Queen of the realm, commend you for your victory."
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
The fourth clap hung in the air — deliberate. Heavy.
Caelvir bowed his head, the motion almost reluctant. Eyes shut, then opened. A breathless calm in his stare.
"To have come this far," the Queen said, "you must be rewarded properly."
Venara's heart pounded.
No…
"I hereby honor you with the right to bear the name of House Valehart," the Queen said. "You shall fight in the arenas ahead, not as a slave of Dust, but as a blade of the Crown."
A wave of shock crashed through the balcony.
The air thickened.
Venara's lips tightened. Her composure held, but her insides curled.
Even Masquien blinked.
Faron's face paled.
Talen's jaw clenched hard enough to make the scar on his temple twitch.
The Queen had offered him everything.
Even the gladiators in Solinar's Sapphire Arena hardly had an offer from the crown — not even there, at one of the highest tiers where champions earned the right to be seen by kings and queens. And now… this? Here? In the Dust?
It wasn't just rare. It was unprecedented.
Damn, Venara thought bitterly. That's not how it was supposed to go.
But she didn't say a word.
But Elowen noticed. The slight shift in Venara's breath. The way her glove curled into a fist.
The crowd roared, awed and breathless. The announcer was stammering, trying to recompose himself.
Venara didn't listen. Her mind spun.
She can't do this. She did this. And I… I can do nothing now.
To make an offer now would be more than bold. It would be war.
It would mean declaring her house equal to the Queen's. That her banner could stand against the Crown itself.
That could not happen.
She clenched her fists tighter. Her vision blurred at the edges with frustrated heat. Elowen leaned in subtly.
"Not now," she whispered. "Don't do something foolish."
Venara remained silent.
Powerless.
She couldn't move.
She couldn't speak.
She was nothing but another noble in a sea of faces, watching the crown claim what she had fought to acquire.
She could only watch and wait.
The sword had not moved yet.
But it would.
Of course it would.
Who would reject the Queen?