[H2][centre]Thalorian Kessler[/centre][/h2]
Thalorian blinked again. Then slower, once more, as the girl before him scrunched her face into a pout and turned away with a huff. She muttered something sharp and small, something clearly wounded, as though his words had hit harder than intended, and suddenly he found himself in one of the most mystifying positions of his life: being scolded by a little girl in rags who had just emerged from an arcane ritual bathed in forest light. He sat there, kneeling, stunned, mouth half-parted in an expression older than apology but no less helpless.

[color=2E8B57]“Wait-I…”[/color] he started, then stopped, his hands lifting instinctively in front of him like he might shield himself from the weight of her indignation. [color=2E8B57]“I didn’t mean it like that.”[/color] His ears were definitely red. Possibly his whole face. Spirits, he’d offended her already.

The longer he looked at her, the more confused, and fascinated, he became. She was pouting, yes, but not in a way that was meaningless. She puffed herself up, chest out, spine straight, and glared at him like she was trying to reclaim the stage he'd accidentally trampled. The ruined cuffs at her wrists didn’t clink so much as creak as she shifted, held in place by rot and rust and… symbolism, maybe? His eyes darted to them briefly, brows tugging together in concern. 

And then came the introduction, theatrical, proud. The exact opposite of what one might expect from someone who looked so… displaced. Not because she was small. Or young. Or strange. But because she wasn’t afraid to be all those things. She stood there, cuffed, frayed, furious, and declared herself Rider like the whole forest should kneel. And somehow, part of him wanted to.

[quote][color=FFB65D]“Are you my master, mister…?”[/color][/quote]
The question hung in the air like dew before dawn. Thalorian’s expression softened, his body relaxing just enough for a breath to slip out. He glanced around the grove, checking for any shift in wind, in roots, in birdsong. Nothing had fled. The earth hadn’t buckled. The moss still reached toward the morning sun. She was not a disruption. The land had accepted her, even if his mind hadn't caught up.

He smiled, awkward but warm, and rubbed the back of his neck. [color=2E8B57]“I suppose I am, yeah.”[/color] He paused, then added with a bit more certainty, [color=2E8B57]“Though ‘Master’ feels a bit grand, doesn’t it?”[/color] He rested his hand lightly over his heart. [color=2E8B57]“I’m Thalorian. And if it’s alright with you, I’d rather be your partner.”[/color] There was no flourish in it, no command. Just an offering.

As he looked at her again, the words she’d used echoed back: Heroic Spirit. He could feel it now, the pressure of her existence, the weight that seemed so out of place for her form. His circuits whispered in response, not in fear but in recognition. There was power there. Not uncontained, but caged. Softly pulsing beneath skin that shouldn’t hold it. A mismatch in every possible way, and yet…

The cuffs, his gaze drifted back to them. [color=2E8B57]“Do those hurt?”[/color] he asked, quiet again. [color=2E8B57]“You don’t have to wear them here. Not if you don’t want to.”[/color] He reached into the fold of his cloak and gently tugged loose his woolen scarf. Soft, hand-dyed green with trailing embroidery faded at the edges. It smelled faintly of rosemary and forest smoke. His mother’s. 

He shouldn’t offer it but she looked cold. Not because of the air. But because something about her felt like it hadn’t been warm in a very long time. Thalorian held the scarf out toward her, both hands open, fingers curled beneath it like offering bread to a cautious animal. [color=2E8B57]“You can borrow this,”[/color] he murmured. [color=2E8B57]“It’s not much, but it’s warm. And it’s yours for as long as you need it.”[/color]

She wasn’t what he expected. But that didn’t matter anymore. Because the forest had already made its decision, and so had he.[hr]
[H2][centre]Aureus Deus Bellator[/centre][/h2]
The climb was steady. Stone crunched beneath armoured boots, dust curling in the morning air. The path wound upward in switchbacks and crags, but Aureus Deus Bellator did not stumble. Each step was deliberate. To the world, it might look like a slope. To him, it was absence. Silence. A path without cheers, a hill without purpose. But he did not walk in the world as it was, he walked in the Arena. Because if the Arena no longer existed, then he would carve it back into the world with every step.

Behind him, his Master followed with robes, relics, and riddles, his presence strange and faintly sacred, like incense trailing from a forgotten altar. Aureus did not look back. The man was not his master, but a spectator. The only master here was glory.

High above, from the ramparts, a figure loomed beside a massive ram-like beast—cloaked in beauty and flanked by light. She did not descend but stood apart, above, not out of honour, but avoidance. She had no dust on her feet, no danger at her throat.
She raised her hand, not in challenge, but in comfort, and conjured her strike from behind stone and sky. Aureus watched her conjure the storm. A barrage, not a duel. Arrows of radiant energy, spilling from her and soaring downward. His lip curled.

[color=D4AF37]"Feather-light arrows, and a heart no heavier. [abbr=Such as battle, such as virtue.]Talis pugna, talis virtus.”[/abbr][/color] He did not flinch. Instead, he stepped backward, grasped Minoru by the robe, and yanked him in beside him. [color=D4AF37]"Come here, unworthy one. Lest your death in the first act drown out the ovation I am owed."[/color]

With one sweeping motion, he traced an arc in the air—light bleeding from the motion like paint on canvas. It coalesced into a curved wall of radiant bronze: Scutum Victoriae. The shield, engraved with latin laurels, thudded into the earth, Wide and towering, and then the storm struck. Magic collided with bronze in bursts of shrieking light. Arrows cracked, shimmered, and burst, some sliding off the shield’s curve, others breaking in blooms of hot wind. But none passed and the shield held.

And as the final arrow died against bronze, the first sound came, a rising roar, the crowd had stirred. Cheers, calls, and the stamping of phantom feet. The air pulsed with the rhythm of breath held no longer. Not for victory, but for survival, for spectacle, for the promise of more. The Arena was awake now and Aureus felt the pull behind his ribs, the rising rhythm.

The arrows had not sought contest. They had sought distance. As the final arrow clattered and died against the bronze, Aureus released his grip. The shield began to dim, not discarded but fading, its duty fulfilled. He did not watch it vanish. The Arena had seen the act. The curtain could rise again.

[color=D4AF37]“They attack from safety. This is not glory.”[/color] He moved forward. Footfalls struck in rhythm, echoed back by the unseen crowd. He did not look back at Minoru again, he had given the man the shadow of his shield and now he would give them the show.