The training hall is hushed in the dawn's first light. Sunbeams fracture through the stained-glass windows—red, gold, violet—transforming the floor into embers of colored flame. Agatha Von Ruby kneels before her sword, still sheathed and laid bare across the woven mat. In the very air around her she seems to tremble with anticipation.
She prays, voice steady but reverent:
"Oh flame of the carbuncle, blessed Ruby of our House, burn bright within me today. Lend me your strength."
As her words echo, the deep-red ruby at her blade's core flares. The air ripples. She rises—flames dancing over the sword's guard.
Across the hall, her master, Master Helm—a man in his sixties, lined with scars, white hair receding—mirrors her movement. They unsheathe simultaneously. Her blade ignites in a roaring blaze.
"Today is your last day here," Master Helm says. "So be ready to fight me with all your might."
Agatha's lips quirk in defiance.
"If I do that, you'll get hurt."
"I seriously doubt that..." His face flickers with sorrow more than challenge.
Their blades collide. Agatha lunges—her short brown hair caught mid-flight as she drives her blade overhead. Helm parries and counter‑kicks, forcing her off balance. A clean thrust follows—but she becomes flame, sliding low across the floor. Rebirth in ember, she stands, heart pounding.
"Would you like me to stop for now? You look tired!"
She doesn't respond, holding her stance tight. A beat passes.
"Well, since you're inviting me..." he says before surging forward.
Strength betrays speed. His blow shoves her rearward; she retaliates with fire-based subterfuge—flames erupting in his eyes. In that instant, she thrusts—but Helm twists, the blade grazing his plate only enough to tell her she succeeded.
He retaliates with a savage headbutt. She reels, blood blooming at her brow.
"If you don't have the guts to put some power on your attacks, they'll kill you there."
Agatha's tone remains calm, incredulous.
"But this isn't a real fight, why would I try to hurt you master?"
He lowers the sword, anger and affection warping his features.
"You don't get it, do you girl?"
He kneels beside her, gently tending her wound.
"You are going back to Carthenos today, and by tomorrow you'll be starting your first fight in that damn tournament. Don't think for a second that they'll treat you with any kindness there, if they strike you, it will be to kill."
Agatha's eyes darken at his words.
"Every Ten years that damn tournament has to happen" Master Helm sighed
"and every ten years I hear of the horrors that ensue there, of how people are torn to pieces in seconds, or frozen... or burned".
He glanced at her sword for a while, her blade still red-hot, but her fire no longer emanated from it.
"I don't have a choice… I'll have to fight. I'm old enough now." Agatha mutters, looking down at her feet.
"I know… that's why I worry about you there. If you don't have what it takes to overwhelm your enemy, to take a life… You'll die there Agatha."
She sighs, then quietly gets up and looks at her master. She bows low, and he repeats the gesture, then both leave the room and go their separate ways.
She left Master Helm with only a nod and a bow. His goodbye was short, but she understood the weight behind it. Not every farewell needs words.
Through silent halls Agatha walks, passing a wooden coffin resting against polished stone. She kneels, pressing a tender kiss to the lid—her father. There was no need for ceremony. Grief had long passed. He had lived with dignity, died in duty. The only thing left was to carry his legacy forward.
A carriage arrives to take them both home.
"Its more his home than mine" she thought, and a feint and brief smile crossed her face as she looked back toward her real home, the place she spent the last ten years on - The embassy of Carthenos, in the capital city of the Republic of Aria.
If she wanted to see this place again, she had to survive the tournament.
After an uneventfull ride to the port, she boards the airship—an antique wooden boat tethered to a broad canvas balloon. She glances back; the Republic of Aria fades below, clean and orderly under dawn's kiss. The sun was still high, casting short shadows over the spired city. She let herself wonder—just once—what life might have been like if she had stayed.
But that life wasn't hers to have.
She unsheathes a bit of her blade, and a single spark falls down the airship. Her last goodbye to Aria.
Thoughts of what awaited her in her place of origin haunted her.
Carthenos—once a proud and luminous nation of culture and strength—had long since vanished beneath the iron heel of empire. Not the kind built from unity, but from betrayal. A betrayal so deep it reshaped the soul of the nation.
Agatha had read the histories. She knew the facts. But history, on the page, had little weight compared to the cold breath of the airship's draft as it pressed against her back, whispering of what waited ahead.
The rot had begun decades ago when the throne of Carthenos—already strained by civil discord—was seized by a man cast out by his own kin. An exiled prince of the Diamond Crest family. Once condemned, now enthroned. Crowned in steel and blood.
In a cruel turn of fate, that exile claimed not only the title of emperor but the pride of the nation. The other noble houses, families older than steel, older than parchment, older than language itself, bent their knees in silence. Fear ruled their hearts more than loyalty. Those who did not yield—who dared lift their chins in pride—were struck down, their names etched into the annals of treachery. Carthenos, in the years that followed, became less of a kingdom and more of a whisper. A once-great house reduced to a cold, watchful empire ruled by divine blood and sharpened, diamond-incrusted teeth.
But such whispers were only echoing in the streets of the Republic of Aria, a place free of censorship and far away from the grasp of the empire. If she dared to speak of this in Carthenos, Agatha knew she would not live to tell the tale, and her family would not step in to protect her.
For the emperor, even if he is an userper, is a Diamond Crest, through and through. The founding family. The most prestigious bloodline Carthenos had ever known. Their name was not merely legacy—it was law. Myth.
Agatha remembered the stories whispered in the embassy's quiet halls. The legend of the first Diamond Crest—how he climbed the Carthagenean mountains alone, how he stumbled upon a hidden cave wreathed in ice and shimmering crystal. There, beneath stalactites like the fangs of ancient gods, he met the Diamond Carbuncle—a radiant creature born of gemstone and light. It was no mere beast. The Carbuncle was a guardian spirit, a creature that chose its allies carefully, and never without cost. The Diamond Crest's founding ancestor had made a pact. He would receive the creature's blessing—power, longevity, sovereignty—and in return, his bloodline would offer a sacrifice every decade, to keep the blessings in their blood.
Not through silent execution or solemn ritual. No, the pact demanded a spectacle.
Thus, the tournament was born.
"Warriors of Judgment"
Once every ten years, the sacred altar—shaped like a coliseum—would become the crucible. Young nobles, heirs of ancient blood, would be summoned to spill that blood in service of the pact. The arena would roar as blades clashed and magic flared. The stronger lived. The weaker bled for the old gods.
In two days, Agatha would enter that arena.
Carthenos greeted her with silence.
Night had fallen by the time the ship reached the capital. No procession. No heralds. No family members waiting. The grandeur she had expected did not materialize. She was just another passenger, stepping off a battered ship into streets that stank of old rain, sweat, and desperation.
The carriage she hailed creaked worse than the airship. The streets of Carthenos had changed. Once polished stone and patrolling knights—now dirt-caked alleys and flickering lanterns. Beggars lined the corners, women of the night leaned against pillars once carved with the histories of heroes.
This was not the capital she remembered as a child of eight. And it was no longer a city for dreaming.
When she finally arrived at the Ruby Crest estate, her fingers hovered at the gate's edge for a moment before she pushed it open. To her surprise, the estate was still pristine. Immaculate gardens flanked the entrance, the smell of night-blooming flowers thick in the air. The ancestral halls were polished, the windows cleared, the crest above the main door bright with fresh polish.
But Agatha knew better than to attribute that to nostalgia. A few years ago, a letter from her sister had arrived—short, bitter, final.
"Dear sister,Mother is dead. Anya assumed the house.She will live here with her husband and son now.I'll leave this place as soon as I can and go somewhere else, I can't stand living with her anymore.Make sure to visit me when you return.—Lisa"
Her mother's passing hadn't struck her. The woman had been a ghost in Agatha's life. She had never visited her in Aria, never sent letters, never sent comfort. Her presence, or absence, felt the same.
Lisa, her middle sister, had always visited, though. Year after year, she came bearing gifts and laughter, sampling Aria's wines, praising its sweets, throwing herself into the local culture like a tourist but staying long enough to feel like family.
Anya had stopped coming the moment she married. There had been no words, no goodbyes. Just silence.
Inside the estate, a servant greeted her with a muted bow and led her to the dining hall. The atmosphere there was stifling.
Anya sat at the head of the table, rigid and still, her long black hair was loose and flowing, with a single half-ring braid in the back. Her eyes flicked toward Agatha once—sharp as flint—then returned to her plate without a word.
Brimm Garnet, Anya's husband, stood and bowed formally. His family, the Garnets, owed fealty to the Ruby Crest family, even if his political standing was arguably superior. He greeted her with polite distance, careful not to overstep.
Then Lisa.
Lisa launched herself from her seat with a grin and wrapped Agatha in a crushing hug, ruffling her hair like a favorite pet. "You didn't abandon us after all!"
Agatha laughed, briefly forgetting the weight on her chest. "I did leave. This is only a stop on the way to something far less cozy."
Lisa pulled back and frowned. "Right. The tournament…"
She was silent for a moment. Then shrugged. "Well, don't worry. I don't think anyone will have the balls to kill you in front of me."
Agatha wanted to believe that.
Dinner was uneasy. Lisa filled the silence with stories and teasing, but the weight of the coming bloodshed lingered in every glance, every unspoken word. Agatha flinched when asked about the tournament and made the mistake of praising the Republic when Lisa cracked jokes about Aria's endless debates.
That was when Anya finally spoke.
"Speak carefully when defending foreigners," she said coldly. "Some here still remember what it means to be loyal to Carthenos."
Agatha retreated early, her appetite gone. Lisa followed not long after, fury brimming behind her smile.
"We dreamed about this day," she said to Anya before storming off. "And you couldn't even say 'hello'?"
Silence swallowed the hall once more.
Later that night, Agatha stirred from half-sleep at the sound of her door creaking open. A figure entered—quiet, hesitant. She tensed, but softened as fingers brushed her hair with familiar gentleness. She knew that touch. No servant would dare. Lisa would have stomped in like a hurricane.
It was Anya.
She said nothing. Just stood there, hand against her hair, fingers moving slowly, like a memory trying not to fade. Then she turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Agatha stared into the darkness, tears catching in her throat. Maybe, beneath all that armor and duty, Anya hadn't forgotten how to love.
Agatha slept soundly that night.
When she awoke, the morning sky outside her window was a muted silver, blanketed in a mist that hadn't yet lifted. Carthenos was always colder than she remembered, the chill slipping in through the windowpanes and the cracks in the old stone walls. She rose, dressed slowly, and made her way through the wide halls of the Ruby Crest estate. Ten years away, and yet she still knew each step of this house. The silence within was heavy, but not unfamiliar.
The living room was already stirring with life. Her family had risen early, as she expected. When she stepped inside, she saw them all—each one a stark image of martial discipline, already armored and prepared for the day ahead.
Lisa adjusted the leather straps of her shoulder guard as she spoke with a servant. Her armor was practical, cut for agility and impact, yet every detail—from the finely worked fire-etched runes along the gauntlets to the glimmering crest on her chest—proclaimed her pride in their house. Agatha's middle sister always had a flair for war.
Anya was seated, quiet and composed, her armor heavier and more austere, a red dress covering most of her leg armor. The cold steel plates of her gear reflected little light, and unlike Lisa's, there was no attempt to embellish them past the few ruby cristals necessary for her carbuncle powers to flow. She had already placed her greatsword on the table beside her, and calmly watched her son, Salazar, finish his morning porridge under Garnet's supervision.
Only Garnet wore no armor. He stood at the window, watching the mist shift over the garden. He had passed the tournament trial ten years ago, before he had even met Anya. His role today was that of a father and a silent spectator. The years had grayed his temples, but he still held a certain quiet strength in his posture.
Agatha hesitated for a moment at the threshold, then stepped inside. Her arrival was met with barely a glance. Lisa gave her a nod, then returned to tightening her boots. Garnet offered a polite smile. Anya didn't look at her at all.
Agatha's eyes drifted toward her eldest sister. She recalled the gentleness of the night before, the way Anya had entered her room and stroked her hair without a word. But now, that softness was gone—locked away behind the glacial exterior of the soldier she had become. Agatha smiled faintly, half-hopeful. Anya turned her head away in return.
She felt the warmth of that brief connection vanish, like breath in the cold.
They gathered without words, the final preparations already made. A single black carriage awaited outside, polished to a mirror sheen, bearing the ruby crest of their house on the doors. Agatha climbed inside with her sisters. Salazar stayed behind, clinging to Garnet's leg, wide-eyed and silent. Anya offered her child no farewell beyond a curt gesture—her hand lifted halfway, then lowered again.
As the carriage rolled down the cobbled streets of the capital, Agatha pressed her forehead lightly to the windowpane. Her thoughts churned beneath her composed expression.
The city had changed.
Even through the morning mist, she could see the crowds already gathering. Throngs of people, commoners and nobles alike, moved toward the same destination. Flags bearing family crests fluttered from balconies. Vendors lined the street, selling bread, sweets, wine, and trinkets in the shapes of legendary warriors or sacred beasts. Drummers pounded rhythms from corners, and somewhere far off, a choir was singing a solemn hymn to the Carbuncles.
And yet, there was unease beneath the pageantry.
Among the crowd, Agatha noticed something strange—figures in dark robes, blindfolded, with silver-threaded veils draped across their faces. They stood still while others pushed past, whispering prayers with their hands raised toward the sky.
Lisa followed her gaze and spoke under her breath. "The Acolytes of the Crystal Moon. You probably haven't heard of them. They popped up while you were away."
Agatha didn't respond, but Lisa continued.
"They say a goddess saved them. Gave them a vision. Took their eyes in return. Or they gave them willingly. Who knows. Still… they see somehow. Don't ask me how. It gives me the creeps."
Agatha turned away from the window. The palace and the arena were coming into view.
The Sacred Altar—so the arena was called. But it was more than that. It was a monument, a tradition carved into the heart of Carthenos, lined with ancient stone arches and obsidian walls. The coliseum held tens of thousands. And today, it was full.
Guards in ceremonial armor ushered them through the rear entrance reserved for competitors and their families.
Anya glanced at her husband with the same indifference she wore all morning, then stepped ahead, her back straight as a blade.
Garnet took a seat at his reserved spot.
The noble families who were not participating had already taken their seats above the arena, each in private boxes marked with their family banners. The Diamond Crest box towered above the rest, a throne-like platform where the highest seats of power sat in judgment.
Agatha felt her stomach knot as they entered the preparation halls. The stone was cool and dimly lit by lamps, the air filled with tension and the low murmur of voices. This was where blood was spilled for honor. Where a person's worth— their noble blood—was tested before the nation.
The sisters took their seats along the wall of the waiting chamber. Anya said nothing. Lisa stretched and grinned as if this were merely sport.
The arena above thundered with cheers as the announcer's voice echoed through enchanted crystals embedded in the walls.
"Today begins the sacred tournament of Carthenos, honoring the pact made by our forebears and the sacred Carbuncles of the Ice Mountains. Let the descendants of the divine blood prove their strength and devotion."
The crowd roared louder.
"In the first match: Kasper of the Crystal Moon, faces against Anya Garner Von Ruby!"
Agatha's breath caught.
Anya stood, nodded once, and strode toward the entrance. Her greatsword was sheeted to her side, hands ready to unsheath it.
Agatha moved to speak—maybe to wish her luck, or say anything at all—but the words stuck in her throat. Anya didn't look back.
Agatha was still gripping the edge of her seat when the fight began. She watched through the glass wall that overlooked the arena—her vantage point was high and regal, the same height as the thrones of the noble families, giving her an unfiltered view of everything. Below, Anya faced her opponent with complete calm.
The man, Kasper, wielded a Naginata and a green-threaded veil on his face— he really was an acolyte of the Crystal Moon. He moved like he had been trained since birth—sharp, disciplined, confident. But so had Anya, unbothered by his theatrics, unmoving, like a tower of red and grey iron.
Kasper lunged.
In one swift motion, Anya enchanted her longsword, and with a blaze of fire surging from its edge, cleaved through both weapon and man in a single stroke. Agatha flinched as the body split in two. The crowd erupted in gasps and muted cheers, and somewhere below, judges signaled for the match to end.
Anya stood without fanfare. The blood at her feet didn't seem to faze her. She simply turned, exited the arena, and passed through the corridor outside the waiting room. On her way by, she glanced through the glass and raised a hand toward Agatha. Her voice carried through the open vent in the wall.
"Good luck."
Agatha couldn't speak. She wasn't sure if it was the violence or the indifference that left her shaken. Her sister's brutality hadn't shocked her—but how cleanly it had been executed, how efficiently. It was a reminder of what this tournament truly was.
"Polite sister you have," a voice beside her said, cool and amused. "I wish my siblings were like that."
Agatha turned and saw the man who had spoken—young, dressed in layered dark cloth, his features sharp and deliberate. On his chest gleamed a crest. A Diamond crest. Or it had been, once. Now it was broken cleanly in half.
Even fractured, it sparkled.
His black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and his eyes—those eyes—caught the light from the arena like fractured glass. Prism-like. Beautiful. Too beautiful.
Agatha stared for a second longer than polite.
"That crest…" she started.
Lisa's voice cut in, sharp and cold as a blade.
"Yes. He's a Diamond Crest, Agatha. Or, was."
She approached them without slowing, eyes trained not on her sister but on the man.
"But he's not as powerful as you might think," she added, lips curled with visible disdain. "You see—this one's a bastard."
The man tilted his head, then grinned. "Now THIS ONE sounds more like my siblings, alright."
Agatha let out a small, involuntary laugh. The insult didn't seem to bother him, and Lisa's venom felt strangely misplaced. It made the stranger's levity seem even funnier.
Lisa walked off. The man gave her a cheerful wave once she turned her back.
That made Agatha laugh again, this time a bit louder than it should.
His humor was only half the reason why Agatha was laughing so much though.
She was nervous.
"I'm Agatha Von Ruby," she offered, steadying her voice.
"Nice to meet you, Agatha," he replied. The faint, constant smile never left his face.
"I just returned from the Republic of Aria," she said. "It's been ten years. I don't really know what to expect from this tournament…"
He didn't seem the slightest bit concerned. If anything, her anxiety amused him.
"You'll be fine," he said. "Houses like yours don't usually kill each other off. Too many old alliances, too much decorum. But watch out for the ones who don't care about all that. Some come here to make enemies bleed."
She nodded. His words were comforting—well, the first part was.
"Thanks for the warning. But… you never told me your name."
"Ah," he said, blinking. For the first time, he looked genuinely caught off guard. He laughed—loudly. It echoed against the walls of the waiting chamber.
A few nearby competitors looked over, frowning.
Agatha turned away, feigning disinterest.
"I'm Amin," he said after a beat. Still smiling, still calm.
He didn't offer a surname.
Agatha eyed the broken crest again. "A Diamond Crest… but broken. Exiled?" she wondered, but didn't ask aloud.
A loud buzz rang through the arena walls. Her name was called.
She stood. Amin offered a casual wave. "Good luck, Agatha."
She blinked, but said nothing.
As she exited, she caught a glimpse of Lisa stepping into Amin's peripheral vision. He turned to her with a wider grin, inviting her to sit beside him. Lisa didn't reply—but she did take the seat.
They watched as Agatha stepped in.
She stepped through the gate, alone, into the dim sunlight that bathed the coliseum floor. The arena felt far larger when you were inside it, ringed with banners and judges and the hungry eyes of noble houses. Her boots touched down on dust speckled with dried blood.
Across from her stood a brute. Towering, shirtless, muscles slicked with oil, wielding a hammer far too large for finesse. His expression was almost blank. Not cruel. Just certain.
The gong sounded.
He lunged.
Agatha moved—not with force, but with speed. She pivoted, boots sliding, blade drawing a curved trail of fire as it slashed across the man's shoulder. He roared and spun, trying to meet her in the same motion, but she was already gone—slipping beneath his reach and searing another shallow cut down his flank.
From the waiting chambers above, Amin sat back in his seat, elbows rested on the chair's arms like he was watching a play.
"She's not fighting," one of the warriors beside him murmured. "She's just running."
"No," said another. "She's poking him. That's not enough to win."
Lisa didn't answer. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Amin turned to her. "Do you see it?"
"Of course," she said.
The others glanced between them, puzzled.
"What are you talking about?"
Amin's tone was casual, but his eyes didn't leave the arena. "She's giving him what he wants. Letting him think he's leading. Same dodge angles, same fire bursts. Over and over."
Lisa crossed her arms. "She's building a pattern. Something he can read. Something to lure him in."
Back on the sand, Agatha was breathing hard. Blood stained her sleeve. Her leg had been clipped—nothing too deep, but it showed. Her steps slowed. Her flame flickers weakened.
The brute grinned.
He charged.
A wild, clumsy lunge. No precision. Just power and overconfidence. His hammer arced downward in a brutal swing.
Agatha didn't meet him.
She vanished.
A sudden bloom of light exploded in front of the man's eyes—pure, blinding, white-gold flame. He stumbled, off-balance, blinking rapidly. His foot slammed down and caught nothing.
The alarm screamed across the arena.
He was out of bounds.
The crowd erupted. From the noble balconies to the commoner bleachers, a roar climbed the coliseum walls.
The two warriors in the chamber above stared.
"Did she just—?"
"Flashfire!" the other cried, laughing.
A new name had been born. A tradition upheld. Victory in the first match earned a fighter a name from the arena itself—and hers had arrived like lightning.
Flashfire.
Agatha stood still, chest heaving. Her vision swam from pain, but her balance held. Before she could take a step, a figure in a dark hood emerged from the judges' tunnel. Silent, quick. The woman touched her arm gently, then guided her away, vanishing with her into the healer's corridor.
Amin watched the retreating figures with interest.
"A Crystal Moon healer... I should have guessed" he muttered, his smile always present.
Lisa stood. Her name had just been called.
"Amin Broken Crest," came the voice of the herald a beat later.
There was a pause in the waiting chamber, subtle but sharp. Lisa rose first, already cracking her knuckles. Amin followed more slowly, brushing invisible dust from his coat.
They turned to each other as they moved toward the steps. No bows, no false courtesy.
"I'm surprised you showed," she said. "After last time."
He smiled with teeth this time. "I've grown since we were children. But so has your club, apparently."
They stepped out of the room.
"You're actually going through with this?" she said, not quite facing him.
Amin tilted his head. "Why wouldn't I?"
Lisa scoffed. "You've got a habit of running, Broken Crest."
"Only from your cooking, I bet you still don't know how to peel potatoes" he muttered.
Lisa turned, and for a moment, their eyes locked. A flash of old history. They had fought once before—children still. She had humiliated him back then, though it came at a cost, and she had never let him forget.
"You're the reason Agatha grew up without a family," she said coldly. "You're the reason she learned to bow before strangers in a foreign court instead of knowing her own name."
The smile slipped from Amin's face. Just for a second.
Then it returned. Tighter. Masked.
"No one learns faster than a child who has no choice," he replied softly.
The gate opened.
They walked out together, side by side, not speaking.
As soon as the starting horn blared, Lisa charged—no patience, no mercy. Fast. Violent. Her spiked club, as thick as her torso, lit with runes and burst outward in a controlled eruption as she swang it left to right.
A blast of fire, stone, and heat swept the arena. Amin's body flew through the smoke and dust, crashing past the arena boundary.
The out-of-bounds siren shrieked.
The crowd buzzed in confusion at the speed of it all.
Lisa chuckled to herself and turned to leave.
She took ten, slow and loud steps, each ticking with time.
Tick, Tack, Tick.
The siren blared again.
She froze mid-step.
As she looked back, Her eyes narrowed.
Amin still stood in the same spot he had started, hands in his coat, completely untouched.
The figure she'd struck had never been him.
Just a trick of light.
An illusion.
Same as the first siren blare of the arena boundary warning.
His smile returned, calm and amused. He took a few steps forward, passed by Lisa's side, whispered something in her ear, and gave a polite nod.
Lisa's face twisted in fury. She rushed him with her club raised again.
But as she reached him, a shape moved between them—smooth as water.
The tall hooded woman, the same who had guided Agatha, caught Lisa's swing with a single gloved hand. The club stopped mid-arc, motionless.
Lisa gritted her teeth. "You think this is over?"
The woman said nothing. She didn't need to.
Amin was already walking away, back into the tunnel.
Amin stepped into the corridor, the noise of the arena fading behind him like a tide retreating from shore. The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of old stone and metal polish. His steps were quiet, unhurried, until he noticed Agatha waiting just ahead—leaning against the wall near the waiting room doors, one hand still gripping the edge of her coat where her wound had been wrapped.
She didn't speak right away. She just looked at him, eyes flicking once to the broken crest on his chest, then back to his face.
"I need to learn how to do what you did in there," she said, her voice tight but steady. "That light illusion... I tried something similar before, but never quite like this."
Amin tilted his head slightly, curious. She continued before he could say anything.
"I want to train with you. I'll pay you if I have to," she added quickly, as if it might make the request more legitimate. "Just… teach me. Please."
She bowed her head.
For a moment, Amin simply studied her. There was something in her expression—earnest, but not desperate. Determined.
He smiled then, quiet and restrained, as always. "You want to know the secret behind my illusions then?"
Agatha nodded once.
"I don't care about payment," he said. "I'll do it."
Behind the wall, in the dim corridor branching off the main path, Anya stood still in the shadows. She hadn't meant to spy, but something in her wouldn't let her leave just yet.
She listened to her sister's voice, to Amin's, and something in her chest tightened—The past lingered between them, unspoken but present in every pause.
"So this is how you repay your mother's debt to her... Amin" Anya concluded, the figment of a smile almost forming in her cheeks before quickly being repressed.
Amin held out his hand to Agatha.
"Then let's begin," he said, his smile widening just enough. "From now on, you're my apprentice."
Agatha took his hand. The weight of it settled between them—past and future, debt and promise—held firm in that simple gesture as the corridor fell quiet once more.