Chapter 43 – A Circle of Fire
The air in the main hall of the Megh Clan pulsed with unspoken tension. The warm scent of the tea had long faded into the background, replaced by the heavy, stifling quiet that came only when words had cut too deep and silence became the only shield left.
What began as a diplomatic exchange had unravelled thread by thread, each voice either laced with veiled threat or cloaked in brittle civility. Now, the elders and leaders sat rigid in their seats, posture like drawn bows—still, but straining.
Only the faint creak of wood and the distant murmur of servants beyond the carved hall doors broke the stillness.
Jitesh's voice, moments ago calm, still lingered like smoke. "A competition."
The word itself hadn't been loud. But it echoed. Echoed like a pebble tossed into a still lake—rippling across every mind seated in that room.
Fairy Shuvi's posture shifted again, her veil hiding the tension in her jaw, and her eyes had flicked—just once—toward Varesh when the proposal left Jitesh's lips. Now, she was leaning back, and a single finger still traced the rim of her porcelain teacup. A gesture so subtle, yet unmistakably thoughtful. Calculating.
On the opposite side, Varesh's mouth curled—not into a smile, but something sharper. He sat down again in his chair and folded his hands over his knee while tapping one finger slowly, deliberately. The Dravhal clan's stance had been aggressive from the beginning, but he hadn't expected the Green Fairy's rebuttal to be so pointed—so cold and absolute. Still, he had planned for worse.
Megh Pramod hadn't moved, but his gaze now rested squarely on Jitesh. Measured. Flat. Just like a smith gauging the balance of a blade that might either break or kill its wielder.
From the far side, an elder of the Megh clan adjusted his robes—slow, careful—like a man unsure whether to rise or brace.
The silence in the hall was dense again, but this time it didn't smother—it simmered.
The Green Fairy had asked the question with all the calm of a still pond, but the ripples it set in motion were far from quiet. Eyes turned to Jitesh, and in the brief pause that followed, even the gentle flicker of the lantern flames against jade-tiled pillars seemed to hesitate.
Jitesh's jaw tightened. His shoulders lifted just slightly, then fell again as he exhaled. "A public competition," he said, voice level. "One event, witnessed by the city. Open. Clear. The victor gains control over the Ember Spire… for the next hundred years."
There was a brief rustle as the elders shifted in their seats. A hundred years. In Steel City, that wasn't just a timeframe—it was a generation, a legacy. Entire clans could rise or fall in less.
Pramod's expression was unreadable. The candlelight caught faint glimmers in his eyes as he tilted his head, ever so slightly. "And why," he asked slowly, "should we accept terms so generous to those who've already drawn blades with their words?"
Jitesh didn't flinch. "Because you understand the stakes, Clan Leader Pramod," he replied quietly. "You already see where this is going. If we let pride guide us, we'll be sharpening weapons instead of minds. And war—" he paused, letting the word linger like a bitter herb, "—war will tear through Steel City faster than any outside force ever could."
His gaze swept across the room, resting a moment on each leader. "And when we're too broken to defend it, when the walls of this city crack, do you really believe the sects watching from the shadows will stay patient?"
He didn't name names. He didn't have to. Everyone in the room had felt those unseen eyes.
He let the silence stretch before stepping back, offering no further words. This was his final card. Whether they would bite, whether they would turn on him for the audacity—it was no longer in his hands.
Pramod's gaze moved again, slowly—first to the Green Fairy, who gave a single, nearly imperceptible nod. Then, to Fairy Shuvi.
She hadn't spoken since the proposal.
Her hands were still folded neatly on her lap, but a faint pulse of tension coiled in her shoulders. Her thoughts were her own, veiled just like the lower half of her face. But her silence… it was not a refusal.
Pramod returned his attention to Jitesh. "Go on," he said, his voice a quiet echo in the grand hall.
The tension did not ease. If anything, it grew more pointed.
Because now, everyone understood—
This wasn't a compromise.
It was the narrowing of a blade's edge. And soon, someone would bleed.
Jitesh stood with his back straight and hands calmly folded before him, nodding slightly. "Thank you, Clan Leader Pramod, for your foresight. The Ember Spire is more than just stone and flame—it is a future. A forge for legacies. Our younger generation, they are the ones who will shape Steel City in the decades to come. This tower… it must be earned. Not inherited."
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
He took a breath, slow and measured, before continuing, "That is why I propose this—let the youth decide. Let them compete. In one month's time, before the entire city, let those of younger generations duel in the open plaza beneath the Ember Spire. Let their strength, skill, and spirit prove who is worthy."
A faint rustle moved through the elders of each clan, like dry leaves shifting beneath unseen wind. No one spoke immediately. Even the ever-impassive Pramod only leaned back slightly in his seat, fingers drumming softly on the polished wood of his armrest. Watching. Measuring.
It was Fairy Shuvi who finally broke the silence.
Her voice was soft, pleasant even, but held a lacing of steel beneath its melody. "Let us assume we agree to this competition. The question then becomes… how are the rules and participants determined? They must be fair. For all parties."
Before anyone else could speak, Varesh leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "Simple," he said. "Participants must be under twenty. As for which side they fight on, let that be their own choice."
At first, there was silence.
Then—laughter. Light, crystalline, and unmistakably mocking.
It came from the Green Fairy.
She didn't raise her voice, but it cut through the tension like a thread through silk.
"Clan Leader Varesh truly does think of us as infants." She turned her gaze toward him, serene and unblinking. "Do you expect us to believe that, with all the recent 'outreach' efforts your clan has made—often while mentioning your small ties to the Crimson Hell Sect—you would allow for anything approaching fairness?"
Varesh's jaw tightened, but his face remained composed. Only a flicker in his eyes betrayed the fury he swallowed.
"I would ask," she continued, "how many of those young fighters choosing your side have been coerced, promised things... or worse? Or do you think we are blind to how certain elders of smaller clans have suddenly withdrawn their support in recent weeks?"
The unspoken accusation hung in the air like smoke.
Varesh finally straightened, his voice cooler now. "Then perhaps Green Fairy would care to offer a more acceptable suggestion?"
Her smile returned. It wasn't warm.
"Gladly," she said. "Each side may nominate up to five participants—whether from major clans or smaller ones allied to their cause. However, all supporting clans must make their allegiance public, and all participants must be native to Steel City."
A beat passed.
"Let those who are brave enough to take a side, do so openly. And let the city judge their courage."
No one spoke, but eyes met across the room. Calculating. Considering.
The ground was no longer neutral.
It was being drawn, inch by inch—into a circle of fire.
Jitesh looked toward Varesh, whose silence held the tension of a bowstring drawn taut. His lips parted, then pressed closed again. A storm of calculations passed through his eyes—until finally, Jitesh drew a slow breath and leaned forward.
"Green Fairy," he began, voice steady but firm, "your suggestion for five participants is perfectly suitable. And yes, I agree—the request for all supporting clans to publicly state their allegiance is only just. But…" He paused, letting the word settle before continuing. "That native-only rule… I must say, it wouldn't be entirely fair to the Steel City itself."
An almost amused lilt curled at the corner of the Green Fairy's lips. "Oh?"
Her smile was unreadable—playful? Mocking? Hard to say. She didn't even look at Jitesh. Her hands stayed folded, gaze drifting to the light beyond the windows.
Varesh glanced at Jitesh from the corner of his eye. He could sense something. A door, slightly ajar.
Jitesh continued, his voice calm and composed. "Steel City isn't merely a fortress of forging. It is a hub—a place that has drawn cultivators, craftsmen, and merchants for generations. Over the decades, many powerful individuals have made this city their home. They've built shops, homes, even formed blood ties to our people. And now you wish to exclude them?"
He gestured toward the far end of the room, where a broad-shouldered man in deep grey robes sat quietly. "Brother Yuvi, for example, has run the Steel Fist Dojo in the southern district for twenty years. His disciples are part of this city's future, yet most were not born here."
Yuvi rose, clasped his hands, and bowed deeply. "Steel City is my home," he said, voice gravelly but sincere. "I would defend it like my own blood."
A few murmurs echoed along the walls. Even some among the neutral elders stirred slightly.
But Green Fairy… didn't move.
Then she spoke.
"Ah, I see now."
Her voice remained calm, but there was steel behind it. "So the proposal is to allow anyone—even those whose loyalty lies elsewhere—to help determine the fate of Steel City's most sacred forge."
Her eyes flicked to Varesh, sharp and knowing. "Why stop at dojos and traders then? Perhaps Dravhals can just borrow five elite cultivators from the Crimson Hell Sect and be done with it. No need for battles. Just call it a handover."
The room went still.
Even Varesh blinked. He hadn't expected her to call him out so openly. Her words weren't loud—but they struck harder than any shout.
Jitesh opened his mouth, but no defence came.
Green Fairy continued, voice still smooth. "If this is about fairness, then let us not disguise recruitment as legacy. If this is about pride, then let the sons and daughters of this soil rise to defend it."
Her words hung in the air like a blade suspended.
Pramod tapped his fingers once, slowly, on the armrest of his seat. Then silence returned.
Jitesh's throat bobbed, but he said nothing. Pride burned—but calculation prevailed.
He had already cast his lot with the Dravhals. There was no turning back now.
Slowly, he exhaled, smoothing the front of his robe. "Green Fairy's concerns are... valid. And I know they come from a place of devotion—to the city, to its future." His voice steadied as he continued, "But what if we all take a step back? What if we allow for one helper—just one—for each side."
A few murmurs echoed among the seated elders.
Jitesh gestured calmly, meeting the eyes of those across from him. "One person cannot decide the outcome alone. But they might enrich the competition—give voice to those who have long called this city home, if not by birth, then by blood and effort."
Varesh's eyes narrowed briefly, gauging Jitesh. He saw the flicker of desperation behind the composed front. A man gambling for leverage.
But Varesh gave a slow, deliberate nod. "We accept."
Pramod turned his gaze to Fairy Shuvi, who had remained thoughtful and distant throughout. Her fingers traced the edge of her teacup in slow circles, lost in some calculation.
She finally spoke, measured and quiet. "This seems fair enough. I'll return to the Kaleen elders and speak with them. We will decide how to proceed."
Pramod nodded. "Then so be it."
The room breathed again.
Varesh stood, his robes whispering with the motion. "It's decided. One month from now—we'll meet outside the Ember Spire. And there, Steel City's future will be decided."
He turned, cloak trailing, and strode from the hall with Jitesh in tow.
Fairy Shuvi lingered only a moment longer before rising like mist pulled by moonlight. "Until then," she said softly, and departed.
The hall slowly emptied, but the pressure they left behind still lingered—like the scent of a storm that had passed, but not yet broken.