Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 109: The Vampire Tournament (1)

Chapter 109: The Vampire Tournament (1)

Dawn eventually slipped over the camp, discreet and pale, as if it didn’t dare disturb those who were still keeping watch.

When I opened my eyes, Lysara was already awake.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, upright, perfectly calm, she seemed to be meditating—or perhaps simply in that silent concentration she adopted every morning, like a ritual she never explained. Her gaze was steady, yet distant, anchored somewhere between what we had been through and what still awaited us.

She wore, as usual, her mimic armor.

And this time again, it had taken on the exact form of the dark kimono she preferred—the one whose lines evoked both her pride and our bond. A simple garment, without embellishment, but tailored for her like a second skin. It hid nothing of her determination, nor her femininity. It said, in silence, everything that words would have burdened.

She didn’t speak.

Not right away.

And in the light calm of dawn, I understood that this day would be different.

"So, Lysara... you’re not too nervous?" I asked in a calm tone, softened by a slight smile, as if to gently break the weight of dawn.

She turned her head toward me, her eyes shining with a light hard to describe, somewhere between impatience and restrained joy. Her smile widened into an almost childlike gleam, without a hint of fear.

"No. Not at all. I’m excited. Really excited. I want to know what my true level is, in single combat, with no one watching me. Just me, facing them."

I watched her for a moment, without replying, sensing in her features that calm confidence she had developed without ever forcing it. But I knew that confidence could be a weapon... or a weakness.

"Stay calm, Lysara. Don’t let adrenaline steal your clarity. Do as I taught you: use your head, anticipate, keep moving. And above all... never lower your guard. There may be, in that arena, contenders more powerful than me."

She tilted her head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness, a soft ironic look on her lips.

"I don’t think so, father. After all... as that woman said, you radiate the aura of a noble. They don’t call you ’the Vampire of Lust’ for nothing, right?" she teased with a wink, before laughing with a light, crystalline burst—bright, weightless, unrestrained.

Then, without transition, she brought out a dark wooden tray, which she placed between us with an almost ceremonial care. Upon it, several carefully arranged dishes caught the first light of day: exotic fruits in blazing colors, a golden draegue with sweet, tender flesh, ember figs with a spicy, sugary bite, and translucent-white nérolys petals that melted on the tongue like fizzy sugar.

Beside them, two cups of polished metal, fine and delicate, smoked softly, filled with a dark, thick tea infused with black vérocline leaves, whose powerful aroma instantly awakened the senses.

We took our time with that simple meal, unhurried, in deliberate slowness. At first in silence, each tasting, breathing, letting calm settle between movements. Then words returned. Gently. A more intimate, quieter conversation, woven from half-whispered confidences, encouragements laced into the unsaid, glances that spoke more than phrases.

It was one of those suspended moments, fragile, rare—the calm before the storm, and the warmth of a bond that no war, no power, could alter.

"Do you think... we’ll have to kill each other one day?" she asked in a low voice, without drama, without hesitation, her eyes lowered toward her still-warm cup, as if the answer hid there.

It took me a few seconds to respond.

Not because I doubted the answer.

But because she had asked the right question.

"Not today," I finally replied, slowly, my gaze lost somewhere between her and the back of the tent. "But one day... maybe. The rules of this world are cruel. They make no promises. They do not forgive."

She didn’t respond right away.

Her face remained calm, but I saw the light pass through her eyes—not fear, not denial, but a decision.

"Then I’ll become strong enough that even this world won’t be able to break me," she whispered, and her voice was neither harsh nor proud. It was steady. Whole. As if that sentence had just etched itself into her—not as a dream, but as a vow.

I looked at her.

For a long moment.

And in that look, everything mingled.

Pride—raw, fierce, impossible to contain. And worry—deep, silent, taking root where love clings.

She was growing.

Fast.

Too fast.

And I didn’t know if I was raising her... or preparing her for a world where she would eventually need to surpass me to survive.

We left the tent together, without a word. Not because there was nothing to say, but because everything that needed to be felt already was. The silence between us was not a void, but a tight thread—a presence. The pale morning light caught on the still-damp tent fabrics, the cold ashes of the night’s fires, and cast long shadows, as if tired from keeping watch too long.

When we reached the central square, the camp was no longer asleep.

A crowd had already gathered, dense but perfectly disciplined, as if each person had been woven into their rightful place. Some vampires stood perched on natural heights, others leaning on stone railings, eyes narrowed, expressionless. The silence was relative, but charged. Nothing was happening yet, and yet, everything already vibrated.

In the center, an arena had been shaped during the night. Octagonal, carved in black stone that seemed to drink in the light, it was encircled by enchanted flames whose slow, almost languid dance outlined the invisible limits of the coming fight. It wasn’t immense, but it commanded. It commanded through what it held, not what it showed. A strange density. A weight.

The circular stands, built in an ascending spiral, framed the space with austere elegance. And at the very top, barely lit, almost outside the world, stood a box carved from raw obsidian—black, hard, magnificent in its silence. The place of the Lords. Untouchable. Intangible.

We walked to the center.

The other candidates were already there. All standing. All calm. Each in their own world, yet connected by the same mute tension.

When the last ones arrived, the silence tightened.

No command. No word.

And yet, all turned. As one. Toward the box. And each, without even realizing it, inclined their head slightly. Not out of submission. Not exactly. It was something else. A respect woven into the bone. An ancient fear. Something too deep to name.

I raised my eyes toward the shadow above. And I knew. The tournament was about to begin.

It was Ornée who stood up.

No sudden movement. No display of authority. And yet, instantly, the space around her seemed to tighten. As if the mere fact of her speaking was enough to suspend thought, to pull all eyes from anything that wasn’t her.

Her voice rose. Clear. Calm. And yet, nothing in its tone invited interruption. She spoke as one strikes a seal—a voice forged in precision, not in strength.

"The order of the fights will be as follows:"

She paused very briefly. Just enough for each name to echo in the mind, to fully exist in the air, before the next followed.

"Lysara will face Gayar."

A barely audible murmur ran through the assembly. A few heads turned. Gayar, a compactly built vampire with a dark stare and clenched jaw, did not flinch. Nor did Lysara. She stood straight, silent, but I felt her straighten inside.

"Oltrad will face Rizork."

Two silhouettes tensed slightly in the crowd. One tall, narrow like an over-strained blade. The other more compact, his neck already strained under the invisible pressure of what was coming.

"Nortris will face Lukaris."

I looked up.

Him too. Nortris. A face I didn’t know. But his aura... heavy, rough, almost grating. Something broken in the way he stood—but broken like an overused tool—not damaged, just sharpened to the extreme.

"And finally... Orphéa will face Yuris."

One last name. One last shiver.

Then silence fell again. Heavier than before. More concrete.

The games had begun.

A shiver passed through the assembly, barely visible, but real, like an underground wave no one dared name. The names had barely been spoken and they already echoed in minds, heavy with unspoken promises. Promises of blood, of fury... and of fate.

Not a word was spoken, but everyone knew.

Something had just begun.

We bowed again, all together, in that measured, controlled gesture, laden with almost ancestral gravity—a reverence addressed to the Lords, to the lineages, to the weight of centuries that had preceded us. It wasn’t a salute. It was recognition. A debt.

Then, reluctantly, I left the central circle, like the other participants, leaving behind the still-burning tension of the ritual space, and joined the seats reserved for the fighters. A perfectly aligned row, placed at the very front row, at the edge of the arena, just steps from the black stone and the flames.

A barrier of energy separated us from the rest of the audience—a shimmering wall of bluish flames, soft but impassable, a discreet reminder that what was about to unfold here was no longer spectacle, but rite.

Then the silence fell. True. Heavy. Almost sacred.

Only they remained.

Lysara and Gayar.

And around them, the entire universe seemed to hold its breath.