The God of Nothing.-Chapter 33: The Edge of Restraint

Caelith sat in a narrow stone corridor carved into the side of the coliseum, a corridor not meant for rest, but for staging — for lining up the next blood offering.

From here, he could see the ring through a pane of mirrorstone, polished so thin it shimmered like water under sunlight. The crowd's roar came muffled, a thunder trapped behind glass.

Above, banners still rippled in the wind, house crests gleaming with sorcery: Stormont's fire-drake, Varendel's ember sigil, Damaris' twin-circle brand. But it was not the banners Caelith studied — it was the fighters.

Serika Varendel had exited minutes ago, her robes unruffled, her steps calm. She hadn't even looked back at the opponent she'd dismantled. Caelith had watched the whole match without blinking. It wasn't just strength that made her dangerous. It was the fact that she didn't need to prove it.

Now, another match had begun.

Across the arena, a tall figure in ink-black plate stepped forward. Lysara Selyth stood at the edge of her ring, her ash-pale hair braided tightly behind her, her blade already drawn. The opponent — a bulkier boy in oxblood armor — launched forward without hesitation.

It didn't matter.

Lysara didn't parry. She didn't evade. She simply moved sideways, slow and deliberate, her sword dragging a whisper of ashen sparks across the stone. The moment the boy turned to correct, he faltered — staggered, confused. His feet slipped. His magic didn't flicker — because none was allowed — but even without it, something about her was wrong. The crowd leaned forward as the boy stumbled again, his breath hitching.

He didn't scream. He just sank to his knees, weapon forgotten.

Lysara raised her sword like it was a ceremonial gesture — then stopped, blade hovering inches from his neck.

He tapped the ground once with his palm. Surrender.

Another silent win. Another whispered name added to the odds.

Caelith's eyes narrowed. "Hollow Flame," he murmured under his breath. Not a threat in force — a threat in presence.

His thoughts were interrupted by movement across the corridor.

A voice. Loud. Too loud for this place.

"Didn't think they let pretty things this close to the pits," a boy sneered.

Caelith turned slightly — not enough to draw attention. Just enough to watch.

A lean figure in gold-laced navy stood near the corridor's entrance, speaking to a girl no older than fifteen — one of the medics, judging by the sigil stitched into her sash. She flinched as he leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of his hand.

"Tell you what," the boy said, voice too smooth, "when I win this round, I'll need someone to celebrate with. You look like you'd appreciate a noble's company."

The girl stepped back. Visibly uncomfortable.

Caelith didn't intervene.

He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to.

But, attention was a risk.

He memorized the boy's face instead — arrogant jawline, ring-studded fingers, a blue house crest half-concealed on his belt. A mid-tier noble family known more for trade disputes than military prestige. No one of great power.

But powerful enough to flaunt impunity.

A steward's voice echoed down the corridor: "Arena Ring Nine. Fifth Match. Orien Blackhall. Yarik Senraith. Prepare."

Caelith stood without a word.

As he stepped into the preparation archway, a few of the waiting candidates turned to glance at him — not because of his face, but because of what he carried.

Ashthorn.

His blade rested against his shoulder, sheathed in dark-stained scabbard, the hilt wrapped in coiled hide, the guard forged from Ravager horn burnished with rejection-forged steel. No crest marked its blade. No runes glowed along its edge.

But something about it was wrong — not in craftsmanship, but in presence. It gave off no heat. No cold. Just absence. As if the space around it bent slightly inward.

"Look at that thing," one whispered behind his hand. "Is that bone?"

"Never seen a blade like it."

"Is he a noble?"

"Who forged such a thing?"

Caelith ignored them.

The murmurs followed him all the way to the gate.

Across the ring, Yarik Senraith stepped forward — no longer smirking. His grin had twisted into a warrior's sneer. His armor was polished, his sword a falchion marked with burning gold. Flashy. Showy.

As soon as Yarik entered the pit, voices rose in the audience. Not cheers. Not yet.

But recognition.

"That's the one — the idiot from the medical wing."

"Yeah. Tried to sweet-talk the healer. She looked terrified."

"Figures he'd be from Senraith, a mid-tier noble house. All coin, no class."

Caelith didn't smile. But the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He didn't have to win them over.

They'd already chosen a side.

He unsheathed Ashthorn with one hand, the blade emerging with a whisper like steel drawn through silk.

Yarik noticed.

He said nothing — but his eyes narrowed.

And then, above them both, the announcer's voice rang out once more:

"Arena Ring Nine. Fifth Match — Begin."

Arena Ring Eleven was smaller than the others — sunken into the earth with jagged stones marking its outer edge, runes flickering faintly across its sand-lined floor. It smelled of heat and steel. Blood lingered faintly beneath the dust.

Caelith stood in one corner, head bowed, sword sheathed.

Ashthorn.

The name alone carried no legacy. But the weapon in his hand — forged from Ravager bone and Rejection-forged steel — drew glances. Its shape was unusual. Too light, too thin. Its surface shimmered oddly, as if rejecting the very air around it. Some in the stands leaned forward. Others whispered. A few instructors took notes.

His opponent stood across from him, already posturing.

Yarik Senraith.

Heir to House Senraith — a middling noble family whose crest was etched on the chest of his lamellar. Not particularly strong, but loud. Flashy. That much had been clear even before they entered the arena.

Earlier, in the corridor near the allocation boards, Caelith had watched the boy corner a girl no older than fifteen. He'd been all grin and swagger, leaning in too close, tugging at her sleeve like he owned her time. When she tried to leave, he blocked her path with a hand on the wall.

Caelith had done nothing.

Just watched.

Because drawing attention now would risk everything.

But now, as Yarik raised his sword and grinned across the ring, the crowd remembered. There were murmurs. Faces tightening. One voice even shouted — not for Yarik, but against him.

"Let's see what the mystery rat can do," Yarik called across the pit, voice smug. "Hope that toothpick's sharp."

Yarik moved fast. Faster than Caelith expected. His footwork was clean, practiced. He lunged forward in a high sweep, aiming for Caelith's shoulder — a cut meant to bruise, not kill.

Caelith sidestepped.

Barely.

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He let his balance shift too far. Made it look real. A stumble, just enough for the crowd to lean in and think, He's struggling already.

Yarik pressed.

Blade clanged against Caelith's guard — once, twice — a flurry of strikes, none of them clean, but aggressive enough to force movement. Caelith gave ground, step by step, back toward the arena's edge.

"You're fast," Yarik sneered. "For someone who looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks."

Caelith exhaled — shallow and sharp.

The third strike clipped his shoulder. Not deep. But red bloomed across the linen. The crowd hissed.

Yarik stepped back, twirling his blade once.

"You'll be easy to break," he said, louder this time, for the stands. Then he grinned wider, lowering his voice but making sure it carried".

"Maybe I'll finish this quick. That way you can limp back to whatever shithole you crawled from. Back to that poor bitch of a mother