Blue gave out a burbling sigh.

[What! I'll have you know that I have as much courage as any dozen memory constructs! Which is...hm, that would be none. Twelve times zero is zero. Well, I have more than that!]

Lindon leaned closer, looking into the Sylvan's ocean-blue eyes. “If you're scared, we can call this off. There are things I can try on my own.”

She gave him an unusually serious look and a single, resolved nod.

Without further hesitation, Lindon drew Little Blue into his soulspace. He could feel her revolving there, between his cores, curled up as though asleep.

[I am being serious now, though: don’t let her get hurt, okay? Or me, if that were to come up for some reason.]

Lindon snatched up his shield and slipped it over his left hand. He’d created it himself, with Dross’ help, from scrap materials and dead matter that the Ninecloud Soulsmiths had allowed him to use. It was made primarily from force madra, with an Underlord-level defensive binding and a few protective scripts here and there. It wasn’t compatible with his Blackflame madra or his hunger madra, so he couldn’t use it on his right hand, but he still found himself attached to it.

He had taken the bulk of the shield from a turtle-Remnant. It was a broad, stone-gray shell.

Orthos would have been proud.

The madra felt a little unstable, but it shouldn't cause any problems for him. If the shield was destroyed in this fight, but he managed to save Naian, it would be worthwhile.

At the touch of his madra, a sword hovered above him and behind his shoulder. It was a real sacred instrument, a masterfully crafted weapon covered in elegant script.

The double-edged blade was wide and tinged with just a hint of blue, its runes stylized to look like crashing waves. The hilt and guard were a pale green that reminded him of wind aura and carved with the image of powerful gusts.

Wavedancer was the weapon’s name, and it was a masterpiece. Its Archlord spirit was as graceful as its physical form, and it had no binding, so he could use it even as an Underlord. According to the description from its creator, it was meant to “Bend the swiftness and power of an ocean storm to the protection of its owner.”

It was a comforting presence behind him, using his madra as fuel to hover, but he didn’t feel the same connection to it that he did to the shield. Maybe it was because of its aspects of water and wind, or maybe it was that he’d made the shield himself. Regardless, he needed an Archlord weapon, and this had been the most suitable for him.

Dross took over controlling it immediately, so he didn't have to waste his concentration.

“Apologies,” Lindon said aloud, “but I can’t control what happens to Little Blue. I think it’s worth the risk. So does she.”

Dross grumbled. [Is this Blackflame your long-lost brother and you just never told me? Wait, now that I’ve thought of it, I actually do want to know the answer. He’s not. I know he’s not. Is he?]

In the ravaged twenty-five-year-old Blackflame, Lindon saw Orthos. Between what Orthos had been before meeting Little Blue and what he had become after Ghostwater, there was a world of difference.

Orthos had gotten his life back. Maybe Naian Blackflame could too.

Mercy pulled her hair back, tying it into a tail with a string of sticky black madra. Suu rested against her shoulder, her new lens hanging on her forehead over her left eye. The lens was her Archlord prize from the last round: a circle of scripted purple glass that enhanced her vision in half a dozen different ways. She wore a newly tailored version of the Akura team uniform, the high collar framing her face in bright violet and the cape sweeping out behind her.

He wore the same, his outfit broader and bulkier than hers. His halfsilver badge hung over his chest, though he'd been forced to leave his void key behind again. With the turtle shield on his left hand, Wavedancer hovering over his right shoulder, and Dross and Little Blue in his spirit...he was ready.

Lindon stepped forward into a script. Colors swirled in the runes for a while, scanning his weapons and soulspace for anything beyond his station, until it finally flashed white. He was approved.

He stepped aside while Mercy walked into the scanning circle, her purple eyes concerned.

“I can still fight him, if you'd prefer,” she offered.

He took a deep breath, working the fingers on his Remnant hand. “Gratitude, but I need to try. Besides, it's better if we have you in reserve in case I mess up.”

She laughed, but he hadn't been joking.

Once the script lit up for her, she moved past to join him. Distantly, he could hear the noise of the crowd and the voice of the Ninecloud Soul as she introduced the two factions.

He could do nothing else to prepare. He was as ready as he would ever be.

After a minute of silence, the heavy stone wall began to grind upward.

Instantly, a gust of wind and a rush of noise blew in. The dry air smelled of ash, and Lindon wondered why. The arena hadn't smelled like that the last time he'd been there.

When the wall finished opening, he saw what had changed: the arena was covered in dead trees.

The sandy stone that had been the arena floor before was now covered in a thick layer of white-and-gray ash. Dozens of brown, leafless trees rose from the ashes, dry and ready to burn.

The Ninecloud Court had prepared a battlefield suitable for two Blackflames.

“...led by the daughter of Monarch Malice herself, the Akura family!” the Soul announced, and the crowd roared in response. The colorful Monarch towers around the arena were once again packed with people, though the Akura crowd closest to him was muted. The shadowy veil around their tower deadened even sound.

Lindon and Mercy strode out in their plum-and-violet uniforms, with Lindon one respectful step behind the Akura heiress.

The rainbow light of the Ninecloud Soul spoke from above the arena, flashing with every word. Northstrider still stood in the middle, black-scaled muscular arms folded across his chest. His eyes were closed as he waited.

Only a few seconds after Lindon stepped out on the ash, another section of wall on the opposite side of the arena began to rise.

“Naian Blackflame, fighting for the black dragons!”

The skeletal young Underlord rushed out, flecks of spittle flying from his unrestrained snarl. His eyes blazed with hunger, and he rushed through the layer of ashes on bare feet. Lindon was somehow disconcerted to see that Naian didn’t share the Blackflame eyes that he and Orthos did. The Goldsign of the main Path of Black Flame was their tail.

Compared to the visions Lindon had seen in the dream tablets, Naian looked even worse. His tail whipped behind him in a frenzy, dirt and grime smeared his matted, unshaven face, and wild, stringy hair hung from his head.

Worse, he was still shackled; a scripted collar around his neck shone red, and Lindon could tell that he was attempting to force madra through it. His hands were tied behind his back with a series of scripted chains.

There was no reason in him. He rushed at Northstrider like a mad dog unleashed.

And slammed into an invisible wall only inches from the Monarch. He fell backward, howling with pain, twisting and writhing to get back to his feet with his hands tied behind him.

A few scattered laughs sounded from the audience, but Lindon saw nothing funny.

Northstrider finally opened his golden eyes, looking first to the Akura team, ignoring the Blackflame artist who was trying to break an invisible wall with his teeth.