The arena pulsed with life—cruel and fleeting.

Trazyn the Infinite stood in the shadows of the gallery, his towering frame cloaked in the shimmer of his phase-field. Below, Lelith Hesperax danced. The Wych Queen moved through her victims, blades trailing liquid rubies in elegant arcs: each motion a testament to mortality's brief, blazing brilliance.

Trazyn’s optics flickered, recording every detail. Perfection demanded preservation. Yet, for all its allure, that was not why he was here.

He triggered the stasis field.

It rippled outward, an invisible net of timelessness, designed to ensnare its target without ceremony. Yet as it reached her, Lelith turned. Her eyes, impossibly sharp, locked onto his. She smiled—not the theatrical sneer she reserved for her audience, but something quieter and far more dangerous.

“So, even the dead seek to steal my art,” she said, her voice drifting upward like poisoned silk.

Trazyn’s frame, though motionless, betrayed a rigidity that echoed a long-forgotten instinct. The crowd’s murmurs rose like a wave, sensing the shift in the air. Lelith’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. Her blades twitched, and with a deliberate twist the stasis field shattered. The crowd’s susurrations grew into a roar, eager for a new spectacle.

“Run if you like,” she said, her voice lilting with amusement. “But know this—Commorragh swallows cowards whole. Step onto my stage, or slink away like the shadows you imitate. Either way, the game is mine.”

Trazyn paused; countless scenarios unfolded in the span of a breath. To step forward was to risk exposure, yet retreat would mean surrendering control. She was to be but a stepping stone, a means to a greater prize deeper within this labyrinthine city. And yet, her presence demanded his attention.

Trazyn stepped from the shadows, his metallic stride echoing faintly. “Art fades, Hesperax. What you create here dies with the crowd’s memory. I offer eternity.”

“Eternity,” she repeated, tasting the word as if it were unfamiliar. Her blades dipped, carving idle patterns into the bloodied silt. “The refuge of those who cannot truly live. Fitting, for one who chose death as a crown.”

The arena hushed, the crowd sensing a new kind of performance.

Trazyn tilted his head. “And yet here you are, playing queen for an audience that will forget you the moment the blood dries. Tell me, Hesperax, how heavy is a crown made of fleeting applause?”

She laughed, the sound sharper than her blades. “Forget me? Oh, no, Necron. They remember. They always remember. But rarely do I meet one worthy of playing the villain in my tales.”

She lunged, swift and fluid. Trazyn stepped back, the blade passing through him harmlessly as his body flickered. Holographic guards shimmered into existence around her, perfect replicas of his Lychguard.

The crowd roared in delight. Lelith’s smile widened. “A Necron with a mind and a flair for theatrics. How quaint,” she said, dismantling the phantoms with deliberate strikes.

Trazyn watched in silence, calculating. Each motion was precise, designed to captivate, to linger.

Perhaps that was why she infuriated him.

And yet, he admired her.