The conversation between Soren and the Emperor ceased.
No parting words. No polite pause.
Only… silence, like a thread severed without sound.
Emperor Gaius turned his head, but said nothing.
He had ruled for too long not to recognize the scent of danger.
Once again, Soren was seeing something no one else could.
The Archon's gaze was not cast to the skies, nor to the tribune of high nobles, nor even to the arena where future elites had clashed.
His eyes pierced through the crowd.
And stopped.
Amidst the noise of commoners and lesser nobles, there sat someone different.
Unremarkable. Wearing no crest, no sigil.
His body wrapped in a grey cloak. His face obscured by a hood.
And yet, not a single sound around him seemed to touch him.
He sat like a stone in the middle of waves.
And he… stared back.
"Still the same," the figure thought silently.
"Even after all these decades. Those eyes have not dulled."
Beneath the hood, a pair of eyes observed the arena with unnatural calm.
Not with curiosity… but assessment.
As though he was not watching a duel but measuring the pulse of a great edifice called Empire.
"Children play at war beneath the cheers.
They think victory in the arena means strength.
But they are merely ornamental pawns, making the crown shine a little brighter."
His gaze rose slowly toward the seat of honor.
"But not him."
Soren.
One second later, the Archon returned the stare. Direct.
As if the world collapsed, and only two pairs of eyes held time in place.
"Ah," the cloaked figure exhaled quietly,
"You can still sense danger before its shadow forms.
Still hunt before the blade is drawn.
Still an Archon... even when the world has forgotten the taste of fear."
A faint smile emerged beneath the shade of the hood.
Not mockery.
But… recognition.
Then, slowly, the figure stood.
While the guards, nobles, and high mages had yet to fully sense it,
the tension had already begun to gnaw at the air.
And the sky above the arena was about to be opened by something not found in the books of history.
Soren moved.
In a single motion, as if instinct born from war itself had awakened, he turned sharply.
His hand reached to his side, drawing the noble blade that had silenced rebellions and shattered armies.
A crushing pressure filled the arena.
The air warped.
Even mages flinched, feeling their veins contract as magic itself bowed to the will of the Archon.
Without a word, Soren stepped forward and swung his blade a horizontal arc, clean and absolute.
The cloaked figure moved, almost lazily.
Almost too late.
The edge grazed him his sleeve torn, his right hand severed at the wrist.
The limb fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Blood did not spill.
Instead, before astonished eyes, the hand began to regrow muscle, tendon, skin until it was whole once more.
The figure looked down at it, flexed his new fingers, then looked up at Soren.
Smiling.
"Interesting," he said softly.
"Until next time, Archon."
And like smoke folding into itself, he vanished leaving behind silence, tension… and a warning no one could misinterpret.