“Karnal?!” Nalumi’s voice cracked, her gaze glued to the ash-slave, then darting to the mangled beast, then back to Karnal’s blood-smeared hands. Tavira rolled her eyes. Of course, the original heroine would arrive just in time to witness the monster’s first blood-soaked transformation. It was practically a trope. “Royal Investigator, your timing is impeccable,” Tavira drawled, pushing a stray strand of black hair from her face. “Just in time to see our newest recruit demonstrate proper beast-handling etiquette.” She gestured vaguely at the mangled carcass with a smirk. “He’s a natural.” Nalumi ignored her, stepping closer, her hand still on her sword hilt, but her eyes were fixed on Karnal with a strange mix of horror and sympathy. “Karnal… what have they done to you?” Her voice fell soft, trembling with concern that grated on Tavira's nerves. Karnal, still breathing hard, just stared at Nalumi, his head cocked slightly, like a wild dog trying to decipher a new scent. He didn’t respond, his mind still reeling from the raw, feral satisfaction of the kill. “They’ve trained him,” Tavira cut in, stepping between them with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Like any good beast. Now, if you’re quite done with your dramatic reunion, Investigator, we have actual training to conduct. The Blood-Iron Pits are hardly a venue for sentimental soliloquies.” She glanced at the Sunstone Guard soldiers, who looked uncomfortable being in the gladiatorial arena. “Unless you’d like to try your hand at the Pit’s renowned ‘Spine-Cracker’ course? I hear the last Royal Investigator only lost three limbs.” Nalumi’s jaw tightened. “This is not a game, Varnak. The Crown is aware of the unrest in Dazhan. We’ve received reports of strange blood-magic residue near the old gravity-tombs. And then there’s the matter of the Varnak clan’s recent… activities.” She narrowed her eyes at Tavira’s wrist, where the five-year curse-mark glowed faintly beneath her sleeve. Tavira instinctively covered it. “Oh, the Crown is aware? How quaint,” Tavira scoffed. “Perhaps they should be more ‘aware’ of the fact that the Dazhan Pits operate outside the Crown’s jurisdiction, Investigator. You have no authority here. Unless you intend to challenge the Pit Master himself?” She tilted her head, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “I assure you, he’s less interested in royal decrees and more interested in blood-sport.” Nalumi hesitated, glancing around at the hardened faces of the Pit disciples who had gathered, their amusement at her predicament clear. She knew the reputation of Dazhan. “This isn’t over, Varnak,” she stated, her tone flat with anger. “I will return. And I will find out what you are doing to him.” She gave Karnal one last, pitying look, then turned and marched her contingent out of the Pits, their sun-forged armor glinting as they ascended the ravine stairs. “Good riddance,” Tavira muttered, watching them go. “Now, back to work, you walking weapon. We have a race to prepare for.” She clapped Karnal on the shoulder, the stench of blood and fear still clinging to him. “Tomorrow, we ride the Chasm-Striders. You’ll learn how to kill at speed.” The Chasm-Striders, colossal six-legged reptiles with armored hides, were less ridden and more *endured*. Their trial was a brutal, high-stakes sprint through the treacherous gorges surrounding the Pits, a gauntlet of shifting sands, unstable rock formations, and rival disciples eager to sabotage any challenger. Tavira had chosen it specifically for Karnal. It was a perfect crucible for high-speed, lethal decision-making. The next morning, the air vibrated with the thrumming growls of a dozen armored mounts. Tavira, astride her own snarling mount, adjusted the blood-leathers cinched tight across her chest. Beside her, Karnal, his frame now leaner, harder, gripped the reins of his beast with surprising ease. He’d spent the night practicing, fueled by some primal vigor that Tavira was beginning to find both useful and unsettling. “Remember,” Tavira barked over the din, “stay close. Watch for the sand-flares. And if anyone tries to cut you off, break their neck. Figuratively, for now.” “Figuratively,” Karnal echoed, his voice a low growl, a flicker of something dark and eager in his eyes. He understood the literal intent. Among the racers was Grak, a massive pit-fighter with a scarred face and a reputation for brutal efficiency. He’d helped Tavira secure the best mounts, and she’d considered him a temporary, useful asset. He gave her a wide, toothy grin as the starting horn blared, a shriek that echoed across the stone walls. The race erupted. The beasts lunged forward, their powerful legs churning, kicking up clouds of dust and sand. Tavira urged her mount into the lead, navigating the treacherous terrain with the villainess’s ingrained combat instincts. Karnal, a shadow at her flank, matched her pace, his focus absolute. The wind whipped past her, carrying the scent of ozone and effort. She dodged a rockslide, felt the searing heat of a sand-flare burst behind her. This was living. Then, Grak veered sharply. Not to overtake, but to collide. His mount slammed into Tavira’s, sending a jarring impact through her frame. She grunted, wrestling her mount for control. “Grak! What in the blazes?!” He laughed, a guttural sound that grated against the canyon walls. “Apologies, little Varnak. But some debts need collecting.” His eyes, usually a dull brown, now glowed with an unnatural, crimson light. His hand, already covered in a pulsating scarlet sheen, shot out, aiming for her throat. Tavira twisted, narrowly avoiding the grasp. Blood-magic. Fast and vicious. This wasn’t just a pit-fighter’s ambush. This was something else entirely. “You work for the Varnak clan, don’t you?” she spat, a cold realization settling in her gut. “A clean-up crew for loose ends.” “Astute, for a doomed scapegoat,” Grak snarled, his voice suddenly deepening, vibrating with an unnatural resonance. His own blood began to boil beneath his skin, visible as dark veins snaking across his face, his eyes glowing brighter. “The elder sends his regards, Tavira. He says your escape was… an inconvenience. Your execution, however, will be a most glorious spectacle.” The voice was no longer Grak’s. It was ancient, cold, dripping with contempt, echoing from deep within his chest as if the canyon itself had spoken. The Patriarch. He was here, speaking through this man’s very blood. Bile rose in Tavira's throat. This was direct. This was personal. “You think you can escape your blood, girl?” the elder’s voice hissed, amplified by Grak’s straining form. “You bear the name. You bear the curse. I will peel it from your flesh, strand by agonizing strand.” Grak’s hand, now wreathed in dark, crimson sorcery, lunged again, faster this time, aimed directly for her heart. The air shimmered with lethal power. Before it could connect, Karnal moved. A blur of motion, a guttural roar ripping from his throat. He intercepted Grak’s attack, not by blocking, but by *catching* the blood-magic-infused arm. Tavira watched, horrified, as Karnal’s mouth opened wider than seemed possible, his teeth elongating into predatory fangs. He didn’t just absorb the blow; he *devoured* the crimson mist, physically tearing into Grak’s arm, a sickening crunch of bone and sinew. The dark magic, the very essence of the clan's curse, pulsed into Karnal’s body like a venomous tide. Grak screamed, a choked, gurgling sound as his arm was ripped away, the flesh blackening, dissolving. The elder's voice died in a strangled gasp. Karnal, his face contorted in a terrifying rictus, slurped the last tendril of black-red energy from the air, his eyes now glowing with an internal, furious light. His muscles rippled, growing, twisting under his skin. Dark veins, mirroring Grak’s, flared across his own throat and jaw. He had absorbed it. He had *eaten* the curse. He turned to Tavira, his lips still smeared with dark ichor, a grotesque, possessive smile stretching his face. His eyes, fixed on her, gleamed with a hunger that wasn’t for food. “Did I do a good job, Mistress?”

The Patriarch's Voice