The tourament

Elieren leads Damakos from the guarded pavilion into a quiet gallery, while Paladin Sola follows at a respectful distance. The healers and wardens remain behind.

Banners hang beneath vaulted stone: Elterra’s crowned griffon, faded standards from older reigns, and relics displayed beneath glassless crystal wards.

She slows beside an ancient silver helm, its crest dulled by centuries. Sola remains near the gallery entrance, watchful but silent.

His declaration travels quietly beneath the vaulted ceiling, without flourish or appeal. The gallery’s crystal wards catch his reflection in broken silver fragments, showing many angles of the same resolve.

The effort of standing through the conversation pulls sharply at Damakos’s bound arm. Fresh pain travels from wrist to shoulder, a concrete reminder that tomorrow’s tournament will demand a price.

Elieren inclines her head, accepting the purpose without trying to possess it. Beyond the gallery, wardens murmur around the sealed stair, while the tournament banners wait for morning.

His words settle beneath the vaulted ceiling, plain and unwavering. The crystal wards reflect his blue skin and silver hair in fractured images, each face carrying the same resolve.

A distant bell marks the closing of the evening watch. Beyond the gallery, wardens continue their prayers around the sealed stair, while the tournament banners wait for morning.

Elieren turns toward the quiet passage leading back to the healers, leaving the choice of departure to Damakos. Morning promises the tournament, while beneath it the sealed darkness can wait.

Damakos flexes his bound arm. The stiff movement pulls sharply beneath the linen, reopening a small spot of pain and leaving his fingers briefly trembling.

Elieren’s measured composure gives way to open curiosity. Sola steps from the gallery entrance, his attention fixed on Damakos’s arm and the claim behind his words.

Elieren studies the bound arm once more, then gestures toward the healer’s passage. The gallery doors open, revealing a waiting attendant with fresh linen and a sealed tournament writ.

The attendant offers Damakos the writ. Its wax bears Elterra’s crowned griffon and the tournament seal, granting him a protected place among tomorrow’s contenders.

Damakos turns toward the healer’s passage, carrying the sealed writ while the wrapped purified blade rests within the attendant’s careful grasp. Elieren steps aside.

The attendant leads Damakos through the gallery and down a guarded stair toward the temporary sanctuary. Sola follows until the clerics’ warded doors come into view.

Within the sanctuary, the clerics receive the wrapped weapon with both hands. White fire passes over the cloth without touching it, confirming the blade’s purification, and the legendary weapon is returned to Thrasi’s keeping.

The clerics guide Damakos into a quiet chamber beneath the sanctuary, where warm lamplight and the scent of cedar replace the arena’s dust and smoke.

They settle him upon a narrow cushioned cot and remove the outer bindings from his arm. Cool water cleanses the strain, while a mild blessing eases the lingering ache.

A silver ward blooms across the chamber’s doorway. Beyond it, quiet footsteps pass and sacred voices murmur, but nothing intrudes upon the measured peace of recovery.

The draught takes hold gently. Damakos’s breathing steadies, his injured arm rests supported beneath fresh linen, and the sanctuary keeps faithful watch until dawn.

At first light, Damakos wakes beneath the sanctuary’s cedar-scented lamps. Fresh linen supports his arm, and the purified sword rests before the altar within a circle of pale ward-light.

He places his hand upon the hilt and draws the binding sigils through the air. Silver radiance answers his touch, threading from blade to palm and settling into a steady shared pulse.

The final sigil closes. The sword’s magic folds inward, no longer dormant beneath consecrated cloth, and its quiet strength returns to Damakos’s grasp.

Damakos secures the rebound sword and accepts the tournament writ. The sanctuary doors open onto a cool morning, where bells call contenders toward the royal arena.

He sets off beneath Elterra’s banners, walking steadily through the waking corridors toward the tournament grounds. Behind him, the sanctuary wards close, keeping the buried darkness undisturbed.

The Arch-Cleric approaches the altar and raises both hands over the hilt. Pale sanctified fire descends, passing through silver steel and Damakos’s joined grip without resistance.

The sword gives a single clear chime. Silver radiance travels from its pommel to its edge, then settles into a calm pulse matching the ward-light around the altar.

The sanctified flame withdraws. The sword remains steady in Damakos’s grasp as bells sound beyond the sanctuary, calling the contenders toward the renewed tournament.

Damakos follows the bells through the sanctuary corridors and into the morning light. Elterra’s banners stir above the tournament grounds, bright against the clear sky.

The arena has been restored around its cracked circle. Sanctified wards mark the sealed stair, while attendants prepare the next contest beneath watchful royal guards.

A measured cheer rises from the stands, threaded with wary murmurs. Some spectators salute the purified blade, while others watch Damakos with newly cautious respect.

The herald raises his staff, and the royal bells fall silent. Across the arena, the next contender steps into the circle as the crowd turns toward the renewed trial.

Win the renewed tournament bout