The Monarch platform was by far the smallest. It was only a single covered throne, floating on a cloud of sand over the tower. A boy sat in the chair, wearing nothing but a worn wrap.

Lindon focused on him, catching a glimpse of sandy hair, golden eyes, and pale skin, but very quickly removed his eyes. His spirit screamed danger even from just glancing at the King of Dragons, as though staring for more than a second would draw his wrath.

He only looked like a twelve-year-old boy, Lindon knew. He was a Monarch, and perhaps the oldest of them.

Far beneath him, his descendant led the march out of the waiting room.

As the Ninecloud Soul announced Sopharanatoth, leader of the gold dragon team, her golden eyes focused on Lindon. Her human form was mostly complete, but patches of gold scales dotted the pale skin of her cheeks and the backs of her hands. Her nails resembled claws, and her thin golden tail whipped the air behind her.

Her face was sculpted into a fine image of human beauty, and her clothes were ornate layers of red and purple, but she stared into Lindon with such fury that he could feel it in his spirit. She spared some for Pride, and settled on Mercy as she sank to her knees only a few feet across from the Akura team.

Lindon couldn't see how Mercy responded, but he kept his eyes on Sophara. She radiated hate, glaring at their whole team.

[I don't know about you, but I'm relieved. Someone truly dangerous would keep their emotions in check.]

Lindon hoped that was true. The earlier he could get a lead on the gold dragons, the more he could relax.

He'd thought of the dragon team as the last, but in fact there was one more. A tower that he hadn't paid much attention to until now...but when he did, it sent a spike of alarm through him.

The Monarch platform at the top was a palace that floated unsupported by clouds. It had open sides with no walls, only pillars supporting the roof containing a garden that looked like a paradise. Carefully cultivated trees and bushes spilled from the sides along with a shining waterfall that trickled down to the ground, and Lindon was certain he heard distant music within. That was the most ordinary part.

Beneath it, the tower was divided into four floors...with each floor representing a Dreadgod.

Lindon had done some research into the Dreadgods after the Bleeding Phoenix's attack on the Blackflame Empire, and a little more during his time in the Akura family. Much of the common knowledge about them came from rumor, hearsay, or legend. But he had put together a basic picture.

The top floor of the viewing tower contained blue seats, and was carved with the image of a dragon surrounded by crackling lightning. The Weeping Dragon. Its cult, the Stormcallers, filled the seats. Their Goldsigns—sparking rings of lightning around each arm—lit the inside of the floor.

The next floor down was all white, topped by the image of a crowned tiger and filled with sacred artists with cloths tied around their mouths. The Silent Servants, cult of the Silent King.

Lindon was already too familiar with the inhabitants of the red floor, who called themselves Redmoon Hall. Other than wearing red and black, they had very little in common—some were followed openly by their Blood Shadows, but others did not keep theirs visible. Their floor was covered by a carving of the Bleeding Phoenix, a crimson bird with wings spread.

The leader of their team caught his eye: Yan Shoumei, the girl he’d met in Ghostwater. Her hair hung over her eyes like a hood, and her Blood Shadow slithered formlessly around her.

He hoped she didn’t remember him.

Finally, on the ground floor, the members of Abyssal Palace wore hoods and stone masks. Their seats were black, and they gathered beneath the image of the Wandering Titan, a turtle-shelled armored warrior.

No Monarch controlled the Dreadgods. No Monarch could, as far as Lindon understood the world. But someone had gathered the four separate cults together under one banner, and by process of elimination, Lindon could guess who it was even before the Ninecloud Soul named him: Reigan Shen, Emperor of Lions and Monarch of the Rosegold continent.

Lindon watched the Dreadgod teams emerge from the waiting room with disgust, and he wasn't the only one. No one cheered for them, not even their own tower. The Stormcallers and Redmoon Hall emerged to uneasy silence.

Even Sophara the gold dragon stopped glaring at the Akura team to spare some hostility for the Dreadgods. The Ninecloud Soul's voice had the slightest hint of a condescending tone to it as she announced each cult, though of course she did not openly disparage anyone. The Ninecloud Court would not offend Reigan Shen.

When Abyssal Palace took their seats, the focus shifted back to the eight wedges of twelve sacred artists seated in the center of the arena.

Music swelled, celebrating the completion of the announcement. Nine-colored fireworks burst overhead, and the Ninecloud Soul began a speech about the power of the sacred arts and the glory of the upcoming competition.

Finally, as the fireworks and the music reached a crescendo, the illusion in the center of the arena turned to a column of rainbow light.

“Sacred artists,” the Ninecloud Soul announced, “glorious Monarchs, the time has come! Let the first round of the eighteenth Uncrowned King tournament finally...begin!”

Between each tower, a list appeared written in the air, each bearing ninety-six names: all the fighters, ready to be ranked. Applause and cheers shook the ground, and Lindon tensed his body and spirit.

“The contents of this first round are a mystery to the participants,” the voice continued. “We will give each young person a chance to demonstrate the full range of their skills and specialties, and their performance will be judged by a panel of independent judges gathered from all throughout the world.”

Rainbow light indicated another hovering platform, much more humble than the rest, enclosed so that Lindon could not see anyone inside.

“The Monarchs have agreed to abide by the judgment of these experts, so the results of this tournament should never—”

“Hold.”

A deep voice echoed throughout the arena, and everyone stopped. A wisp of Mercy’s hair, which had been blowing in the wind, froze in place. The wind itself stopped blowing, and some of the fireworks froze mid-explosion. Lindon’s breath locked in his chest. Even his thoughts seemed to slow.

A ragged, blue-edged hole opened in midair, and Northstrider stepped out.

Chapter 10

Suriel had shown Lindon a vision of Northstrider, and he had seen an image of the Monarch projected by a construct in Ghostwater. Seeing him in person was a guttural shock, like catching a glimpse of a mythical beast.

Northstrider was tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders and defined muscles. His long, wild hair and unshaven face suggested he’d been wandering in the wild, and his skin was browned by long exposure to the sun. His eyes were golden and vertically slitted, like those of the gold dragons, and black scales covered his hands up to his elbows.

He wore rough, shapeless, dirty clothes that looked as if he'd scavenged them from different places and replaced each piece as it wore out. His shoes didn't match, an armored leather sleeve had replaced one leg of his pants, his belt was a thick rope, and his “shirt” was a series of cloths wrapped over and around his chest. He looked like he’d dressed himself by robbing beggars.

But his will held the entire arena in thrall, and even with his spirit veiled, the sense of his power was overwhelming. His gaze carried behind it the weight of an emperor.