"King Augustus!"
"King Augustus!"
"The Pope—he's entered the kingdom!"
"They've requested immediate audience with Queen Alteria and—"
A fireball ripped through the chamber.
Not a warning. Not anger. Just an answer.
The jester's body scattered into ash and smoke before his words finished falling.
Fabric disintegrated mid-spin.
Silence landed harder than the blast.
Nyra lowered her hand.
Her breath steady, as if the strike had drained nothing from her. She leaned against the marble column behind her, eyes still closed.
"Father," she said calmly, "do we let the Drakos stand face-to-face with the Pope?"
Her eyes held a shed of wonder.
"What if he takes favor in him?"
Augustus didn't move.
His fingers wrapped around the head of his staff.
The royal mantle draped across his shoulders shifted with the air.
Trailing faint embers as the last of the jester's smoke settled. Gold-threaded names shimmered across the hem. Lineage. Legacy.
His own history worn like a declaration.
"Favor is not given," Augustus said. "It's earned. Then exploited."
Nyra pushed off the wall and stepped forward, boots clicking on scorched stone.
"And what if the Pope decides he's more valuable than we are?"
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A tentacle cracked through the air.
Steam hissed off stone, trailing behind the strike.
It passed within a breath of Raze's head.
Close enough to lift a strand of hair.
Cose enough to blur the edge of vision.
He didn't flinch.
Another one followed. Sharper. Coiled tighter.
It curved wide before slamming into the marble with enough force to leave a long.
Wet scar across the floor.
Alteria didn't hold back.
She stood at the far end of the ring.
Barefoot, no veil, her posture stripped of grace.
This wasn't a display. This was pressure.
Raze's foot slid back.
A second tentacle surged low.
He twisted, pivoted off the outer edge of his heel, and let the water snap past his ribs.
The heat beneath his skin flickered once, but he didn't call it yet. Not yet. She watched him.
Not for movement. For intention.
"Again," she said.
He said nothing. Just moved.
This time he didn't dodge.
He redirected. A palm to the side of the next strike, momentum twisted through his spine.
He let the water pass him, then spun with it. Used it to close distance. Three steps. Then four.
Alteria's stance shifted. Water circled her again, slower now. Controlled. Defensive.
Not to punish.
To read him.
"Is this how you want to meet the Pope?" she asked—no sarcasm, no heat. Just that even, soft-tipped tone she reserved for truths he wasn't ready to face.
Raze exhaled.
The flame in his chest didn't roar. It pulsed.
"I don't want to meet anyone," he said. "But I know how I want them to see me."
Tentacles retracted. The ring stilled. Water pooled around her feet and didn't rise again.
She stepped forward.
"Then stop flinching like you're waiting for permission."
His jaw tightened. The fire in him didn't blaze—it listened.
"I'm not flinching," he said quietly.
She paused just outside striking distance.
"Then prove it."
The floor cracked beneath him. Just slightly.
Enough to count. He surged forward. And this time, she didn't raise her hand.
Because she didn't need to.
Because he wasn't fighting her.
Because now?
Now he was burning for the right reason.
A fireball sparked to life in his palm. Not wild, not unstable. Measured. Controlled. He didn't throw it.
He let it drop.
It struck the floor and bounced. Once. Then again.
He caught it with his foot, dribbling it low.
Tight to the ground.
Each tap sent a small pulse through the ring. Heat rippled outward. The flames stayed coherent.
Alteria blinked. Her guard shifted.
Not defensive, just confused.
Another tentacle came.
He slipped past it, flame still moving, footwork smooth. Pivoted around the second.
Caught the ball with his heel, then let it arc upward.
He jumped.
Foot rose.
Time stilled.
He caught the fireball midair like a gift.
Like instinct. Like memory.
And kicked.
It flew. Not like a spell, not like a weapon.
Like a meteor pulled straight from the heavens, trailing heat and sound and truth.
It struck her veil just as she raised it.
Water shattered.
Steam engulfed the space between them.
And when it cleared, Alteria stood blinking.
Smoke trailing past her cheek, a hairline fracture carved into the stone at her feet.
She said nothing.
Just breathed.
"Again?" he asked.
Her eyes met his. Something sharp. Something proud.
Then she nodded.
"Again."