Chapter 90 – Blood Upon the Stone
The coliseum fell silent.
Jean and Gareth stood in the center ring, their blades drawn. The ancient runes beneath the arena floor pulsed with light—Trialfire, awakened only for duels that could change the course of the clan's destiny.
Envoy Knights circled the outer ring, serving as witnesses.
Kael, arms crossed in the stands, leaned forward, whispering to Whitney, "This is no ordinary trial… This is for the soul of the Luther Clan."
Whitney growled low, watching intently.
The voice of the High Envoy boomed from above.
"By rite of succession and the will of the Patriarch, this is a sanctioned Blood Duel. No mercy. No surrender. The winner takes their place as Heir Apparent."
Jean exhaled slowly.
Gareth grinned. "You should've stayed with your gods and your pretty little wolf. The arena is no place for saints."
Jean said nothing.
And then—they moved.
---
Gareth came in first, glaive a blur of death. Jean met him mid-air, Luxclade ringing with divine resonance. The clash sent shockwaves across the arena.
The second strike shattered stone.
The third tore open the sky.
Jean spun low, slicing at Gareth's legs, but he jumped, spinning, bringing the full weight of his cursed glaive down. She blocked—and was sent skidding across the ring.
He pressed forward.
"You don't belong here!" he roared. "You think divine power makes you one of us?"
Jean parried, countered, spun beneath him. Sparks flew.
"I am one of us," she snapped, "and I'm the one who remembers what that means!"
---
Their aura fields exploded—silver light against obsidian flame.
Gareth's glaive extended into a spear of black lightning. "Let me show you what our grandfather really taught me."
He lunged.
Jean sidestepped—and slashed diagonally up, slicing across his chestplate.
Blood flew.
The crowd gasped.
Gareth staggered—but laughed.
"You've grown," he said. "But you're still soft. Just like our parents."
Jean froze. Her aura faltered for a breath. "What…?"
Gareth's eyes gleamed with something dark.
"They didn't die to a dragon. That's what you were told. But Grandfather's orders—our 'betraying' parents—?"
Jean's heart thundered.
"They were trying to flee the Clan," Gareth said. "With you. Because they knew what Charles would turn you into."
The arena pulsed with silence.
"Liar," Jean said, but her voice cracked.
"You felt it, didn't you?" Gareth said. "The day they died. The tremor in the earth. That wasn't a dragon. That was Charles."
Jean's hands trembled. Memories flickered. Screams. Fire. Eyes she never understood, watching her from the shadows.
She screamed—and her aura exploded.
---
Silver wings burst from her back, pure light forged from faith, rage, and divine truth. The coliseum was drowned in white fire. Luxclade surged with holy wrath.
Jean charged.
Not as a sister.
But as an avenger.
---
They met in the center of the ring. The final clash.
Luxclade and the cursed glaive collided—and the world shattered.
A crater erupted beneath them.
Stone split. The sky wept. And both siblings were blown backward.
Gareth fell, unconscious, bloodied, broken.
Jean fell to one knee, breathing hard.
The Envoys rose—but none stepped forward.
Because Charles Luther himself was already walking down the stairs of the arena, clapping slowly.
"Well done," he said, voice like iron.
"You've proven you have the will to rule."
---