Part 12: Fires of Vengeance: A Clash of Fates

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Somewhere on Subterra

(Master Orin rode atop the Nyrax Beast, its powerful limbs pushing through the rocky terrain as he made his way up the hill. The air grew cooler as he ascended, and the landscape transformed from rugged rocks to a lush, green expanse at the top. At the peak, a cave loomed, shrouded in shadows and mystery, where two ancient figures resided. These were the Keepers of the Flame, guardians of a sacred knowledge long forgotten by many.)

(Inside the cave, flickering flames danced on the walls, casting eerie shadows. The Keepers, with their long beards and wise eyes, spent their days meditating and praying to Auron, the god associated with light and warmth. Their skin was weathered, revealing the passage of time, and their expressions shifted from serene contemplation to alertness as they sensed Orin’s approach.)

“It's been three decades, and you’ve returned with that worst look,” one Keeper remarked, eyes narrowing as he studied Orin’s weary face.

Orin dismounted and stepped forward, urgency in his voice. “You know what happened to me and why I came here.”

“Yes, my boy. I sense a great war is coming. You must prepare to face it. If we fail, neither Subterra nor the outer world will survive. We have almost no time,” the other Keeper replied, his voice grave.

“First, I want to know if anyone has come here seeking Luminara,” Orin asked, his brows furrowing.

“No one. Only you know about this place. I haven’t ventured outside in centuries,” the Keeper said, shaking his head slowly.

“Wasn’t there a third Keeper?” Orin inquired, noticing the absence of the third figure.

The first Keeper sighed heavily. “He left on a journey to the outer world long ago. It has been decades.”

“Maybe Vorath met him outside in Vandros and dealt with the Renegades,” Orin speculated.

“Vorath? Who is he?” the Keeper asked, curiosity piqued.

“The one who stole Luminara and tried to claim the last one. I believe he is the one who will start the war,” Orin explained, his tone darkening.

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no,” the Keeper replied, uncertainty in his voice.

In the Royal Chamber of the Stadium

(The chamber was filled with opulence, rich tapestries hanging from the walls, and the scent of incense lingering in the air. Prince Theron leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, deep in thought.)

“What's that guy’s name, the previous year’s winner? Kael?” Theron asked, glancing at his son.

Prince Kael was lost in contemplation, his gaze distant. “Yes, father. Sorry, I...” he began, snapping back to the present.

“I’m asking what’s the name of the last year’s winner?” Theron pressed, tapping his fingers on the table.

“His name is Ravenmoor,” Kael replied, his voice steady.

“Which village is he ruling? I forget,” Theron continued, searching his memory.

“Grinwood,” Kael answered, a hint of disdain in his tone.

“Ahhh, that Grimwood village. It’s beautiful. I visited once when you were a child. The people there were lovely, but now he’s made it a hell,” Theron reflected, shaking his head.

“This year he won’t win. He can’t face the hundreds of revengers,” Kael stated confidently.

“I sense someone stronger than him in the arena,” Theron warned, his eyes narrowing.

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