Chapter 121: THE BURNING VEIL.
The arena still burned in my bones. Even after the clash, even after the silence that followed steel against steel and the final cry that had cut through the circle, I could still hear the echo of it inside my chest. The duel had ended, but its ghost lingered in the marrow of my body, in the twitch of my fingers, in the metallic sting at the back of my throat. Victory had not felt like triumph. It had felt like swallowing fire.
The circle of ash around me had not yet cooled. The wards, though dimming, still shimmered faintly in the air, like the breath of a dying god reluctant to abandon its creation. I stood at the center, my boots planted in soil carved and scarred by spells and blood. My hand trembled on the hilt of my sword, though whether from exhaustion or grief I could not tell.
A hush clung to the audience beyond the circle. Soldiers, lords, enemies, allies—all of them looked upon me, and yet I felt unseen. Their gazes blurred into one wide, faceless weight pressing down upon me. For within the circle, it was not their victory or loss that mattered. It was mine. Mine alone.
I dragged air into my lungs, and the taste of it seared. Iron, ash, and smoke. The scent of the other man’s blood still clung to me, staining my sleeve, marking my cheek. I could not bring myself to wipe it away. To smear it would be to desecrate him further. To remove it would be to pretend I had not stood across from him, blade to blade, as he fell.
The circle of a duel was a sanctum. That was the truth I had been raised into, the creed whispered by warlocks and warriors alike. Inside its bounds, no man was friend, no man was foe, but both. It was not only death that was decided there, but the shape of memory.
And now memory wrapped itself around me like barbed wire.
I staggered one step, then another. My knees threatened to buckle. The cheers that began to ripple outside the circle did not reach me as sound—they reached me as distant thunder, like a storm breaking far across a plain. My ears rang with something else entirely: the ragged sound of breath that had stopped too soon. The hollow silence that followed a body collapsing.
I had won.
And yet I felt undone.
The body still lay behind me, shadowed by the flickering remains of the circle’s barrier. His eyes—those eyes that had burned with hatred and something dangerously close to understanding—remained open. The duel did not grant mercy of closure. Only the living had the right to close the eyes of the dead, and I had not yet found the courage to kneel.
"Ryon."
The voice pierced the veil of my thoughts, quiet but steady. I did not turn immediately. My eyes remained fixed on the edge of my sword, still dripping. I waited until the final drop slid free and fell to the soil before lowering the blade entirely.
When I lifted my gaze, she stood just beyond the shimmering arc of the circle—her features pale, her eyes raw, her lips pressed tightly together as if to hold back words that would break her. She did not cheer. She did not smile. She simply looked at me, as if searching for the man she had known before this moment.
But the man she sought was gone.
I inhaled sharply, the breath rattling in my chest. "It’s done." The words came out hoarse, cracked.
She shook her head. "No, Ryon. It’s only begun."
The circle groaned as its wards released. The shimmer collapsed, the magic receding like the tide, leaving behind the stark reality of earth, blood, and bodies. The audience surged forward with sound—cheers, cries, shouts of triumph, gasps of disbelief. But none dared cross the edge of the field yet. The sanctity of the duel still lingered, its invisible law binding even the boldest tongue.
I forced myself toward him. Each step felt like walking against a gale, my legs heavy, my shoulders bowed by unseen weight. At last I knelt, the ground biting into my knees.
His face was still. Too still. The fury that had driven him in life had drained, leaving behind only the fragile shell of what once was. For a long moment, I could not move. My hands hovered, trembling, over his face. Finally, with a breath that scraped my throat, I lowered them and closed his eyes.
The silence that followed inside me was not peace. It was a hollowing.
The world outside roared.
Hands reached toward me as I rose again—some to praise, some to clutch, some to demand. I pushed them aside with a glare that burned as much from pain as from anger. Their voices blended into a single cacophony that meant nothing.
I wanted none of it.
I wanted only to leave.
But the duel’s aftermath would not permit such retreat. The laws of blood and ash demanded acknowledgment. To kill in the circle was to inherit more than victory—it was to inherit consequence. And so I stood, my sword heavy at my side, as the heralds declared my name.
"Ryon of the South," the cry rang, "victor of the circle, bearer of the warlock’s will, breaker of the northern blade!"
The crowd thundered. I flinched.
For the title they thrust upon me was not honor—it was a chain.
My gaze swept once more to the body. No one else had yet stepped forward to claim him. No mourners, no brothers, no comrades willing to break the line and kneel. I felt a bitterness rise in my throat. He had been many things—enemy, rival, threat—but he had been human. And now he was nothing more than spectacle.
I turned sharply, cutting through the crush of bodies, forcing my way free of the field. The weight of stares followed me, heavy as shackles. I could feel the expectation in them—demand for words, for declaration, for triumph. But my tongue was ash.
The corridors beyond the arena stretched before me, dim and narrow. Each torch guttered as I passed, as if recoiling from my presence. My hand clenched at my side, blood drying on my knuckles.
Inside, the duel replayed again and again. Every step, every strike, every cry. His face when my blade broke through his guard. His eyes widening, not with fear, but with something else—acceptance, maybe even relief.
And it cut deeper than any blade had.
I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, closing my eyes, fighting the tremor that ran through me. For the first time since the duel began, I allowed my breath to break. A shudder tore free, shaking me, leaving me hollow.
The silence in that corridor was heavier than the roar of the crowd.
It was then that the truth settled: victory had cost me something greater than defeat ever could.
I had not only killed a man. I had killed a part of myself.