(Editor’s Note – Yes, I know the formatting keeps changing. I’m still trying to find a good fit, so please bear with me. Muchos appreciated.)

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Previously…

The Ruinlords, a team of hardened warriors competing in the Champion’s Games, had just rescued their manager Ekalim from the Fixers when they found themselves face-to-face with Saint Alduin.

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Audience with Saint Alduin

The fires of Tent City flickered and spat, throwing long, jagged shadows across the crowded streets. Laughter and drunken boasts drifted through the air, mixing with the scent of roasted meat and unwashed bodies. Then, like a candle snuffed in a storm, everything stopped.

A hush fell over the crowd, thick and unnatural. The kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Then came the light—blinding and gold, cutting through the night like a knife through soft flesh. Saint Alduin had arrived.

His armor gleamed as if it had been forged from the sun itself, every polished plate reflecting the flickering flames around him. The air seemed heavier, pressed down by something unseen but undeniable. His purple eyes swept across the gathered crowd, unreadable and knowing. And then, they found the Ruinlords.

“So,” he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. “These are the Ruinlords.” A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. Not a sneer, not quite. Just amusement. He nodded, acknowledging their role in dragging the Helm of Titan’s Wrath back into the world. No gratitude. No condemnation. Just fact.

The Silver Flight—his knights, his disciples—had entered the Games not for the thrill but for something deeper. A test. The arena was a forge, and steel that failed the heat deserved to shatter. Weakness was not tolerated. Not by the arena. Not by him.

When he turned to leave, his parting words landed like a graveyard chill. “Tread lightly, Ruinlords. Fate’s a tricky beast, and I hate to see potential go to waste.”

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The Feast of Aroden

Days later, at sunset, the arena gates yawned open, revealing the Feast of Aroden—a spectacle of gluttony and excess draped in gold and crimson. Banquet tables groaned under the weight of food, their surfaces slick with grease and spilled wine. Bonfires raged, flickering light catching the edges of polished armor, dancing across the jewels on noble fingers. The smell of roasting meat was thick, intoxicating, drowning out the distant coppery scent of old blood soaked into the arena sands.

Gladiators, merchants, and highborns alike took their places. And then came Loris Raknian.

He walked like he owned the world, his steps slow, measured, every inch of him reveling in the unspoken understanding that, in this place, he did. At his side sat Vixus, the reigning Champion, soaking in the crowd’s adoration like a man convinced he was untouchable.

Talabir Welik, referee of the Games, stepped forward, his voice steady as he recited the Rules of Battle. No betrayals. No flight. Surrender was respected. Death was expected.

Raknian raised his goblet. “Champions of Tymon,” he declared, and the arena roared in response. The feast had begun. But beneath the laughter, beneath the clinking of silverware and the slurred toasts, something cold slithered beneath the revelry. A tension. A watching.

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Intrigues of the Evening

Raknian’s Interest: His eyes kept drifting to the Ruinlords, sharp and weighing. Not curiosity. No, this was the gaze of a man measuring meat before the butcher’s knife came down.

Ekalim’s Obsession: The Ruinlords’ coach, Ekalim Smallcask, barely touched his food. His eyes tracked Raknian like a hound that had caught the scent of something rotten.

Tirra’s Proposal: The rogue from Magnimar’s Gilded Claw came bearing an offer. A bet on the Ruinlords, with a generous cut of the winnings—if they could bring down Vixus’s Warband. The price? 2,500 gold up front. And one favor: If you fight them, don’t kill them.

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Into the Coenoby

The feast ended, but the night did not. The Ruinlords descended into the Coenoby, the underground lair of gladiators awaiting their turn to bleed.

The air was thick. The walls sweat with the breath of too many men crowded in one place, each carrying the stink of fear and anticipation.

Guards stood at attention, ensuring no battles started before the Games officially began. But everyone knew: come dawn, steel and spell would rend flesh, and only a fraction of them would leave the sands walking.

A horn sounded in the distance, deep and hollow as a graveyard wind. Tomorrow, the blood would flow.

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DAY ONE: The First Battle

Morning came slow, dragging itself over the city like a weary giant.

The matchups were posted. Gladiators huddled around, whispering, pointing. The heroes dance card was set:

• The Ruinlords
• The Crowned Conquerors – Arrogant nobles wrapped in wealth and magic, their true strength bought rather than earned. Their hired champion, the pugilist Pake Jaul, was the real threat.
• Sapphire Squad – Fighters from Absalom, slick as oil and twice as slippery. Their leader? A bard with a pirate’s heart and a cutthroat smile.
• The Mountain’s Fury – Three stone giants, their eyes burning with revenge for the death of their lord, Mokmurian.

One by one, the teams rose into the arena, lifted from the depths like condemned men brought to the gallows.

Talabir Welik’s voice rang out over the crowd, naming the warriors, sealing their fates. The stands erupted into cheers. Somewhere in that sea of voices, bets were placed, fortunes made and lost in the span of seconds.

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The Battle Begins

The Ruinlords didn’t hesitate. Pake Jaul opened his mouth, and that was enough reason to strike first.

Tike Myson, grown to monstrous proportions, met Pake in the arena’s heart. Their fists collided, thunder on thunder, the crack of impact shaking the air. Around them, mages hurled fireballs, rays of searing light turning sand to glass.

But the Ruinlords weren’t just there to trade blows. Vaz’non answered fire with fire—a draconic inferno that swallowed the nobles whole. One moment, they stood, armored in arrogance. The next, they were charred husks, burnt offerings to the crowd’s hunger. The last survivor fell to his knees, surrendering with eyes wide and white with terror. Cal’s magic missiles ended any second thoughts.

Pake fought on, his fists landing like warhammers, but Tike was relentless. Bigger. Stronger. A wall of muscle and fury. The pugilist staggered, his final breath a gurgle of pain before his body hit the sand.

Across the battlefield, Dunner charged, closing the distance between him and the giants.

Vaz’non lit the way, a fireball blooming like a second sun above the Mountain’s Fury.

The giants, once content to pelt the Sapphire Squad with boulders, turned their attention toward the Ruinlords.

The ground trembled beneath their advance.

And the battle had only just begun.