Chapter Cornelia: Crescent Sun

Stalwart Garland - The Silent Blizzard Buried Amongst Mountains

Placing a step concurrently at the lifeless field trampled with countless blood and life, the four children mustered their courage as the heavy atmosphere that had wrung them grew viler and thicker.

The endless cheering of the crowds around chanted and chanted as the show for the night rises its curtain for its dear audiences. Surrounded in an arena ranging hundreds of yards long by thousands of people nearly voided of humanity and morals, the four children couldn't help themselves but gulp in uncontainable perturbation. Cuddled together like a flock of sheep rounded by a shepherd, the discomfort poisoning them grew worse and worse.

"A-As long as we stick together, we will be fine...!" says the gifted princess, barely constraining her uneasiness. Armed with nothing more than a small flagon of contaminated water, the solicitude she had garnered is beginning to make her question their survivability in their approaching fight.

The cunning tactician of the group Eiros gave a pretending answer to the royal niece, "I mean, we already won against some guy with a blazing sword and a large beast going berserk. W-We could win this..." he babbled, trying to uplift the confidence of the party despite his own words lacking in said confidence.

The eldest member, a fatherly lycanskin, stepped forward as he draws out his trenchant fangs and honed claws. "Fear not. I... I will protect everyone. It's time I repay your kindness. We will all get out of here and find Effinr. I won't sit still until I've accomplished both!"

From the anguish emerging from the throat-choking aura of the arena came the lycanskin's indomitable wrath, only to be quenched by the embrace of his treasured son.

Glimpsing upon the threatening mask her father had adorned, Riouvela trembled as if she were holding the rough hand of a different person.

With all forty-two competitors corralled like harmless korodryses amassed amidst the den of a wolfbear, the stage is now set for its grand premiere.

From the top northern corner of the coliseum lies a man wearing a golden crown embroiled with many forms of pieces of jewellery, an elegant, cyan robe reaching past its wearer's foot as it lays down on the dull, marble floor, a black tunic underneath, beige trousers, and leather boots with a cinnabar thread wrapped around it.

"Is that...the duke of Fódmire?" the princess squinted her eyes as she envisions shaping the faraway figure.

"Nay," denies Eiros, "He may have a robe and a crown, but don't let that make a fool out of you. That is not Duke Claudius, but why does he have his crown and robe?"

With their questions approached with yet another layer of questions, they remained in temporary silence as the man in robe prepares his throat for the speech before the unforgiving bloodlust that shall echo across the scarlet night.