The air was heavy with the smell of earth and blood. The makeshift arena among the ruins of an ancient city, now transformed into the battlefield of the Final Conclave, seemed too small for the enormity of what was at stake: the survival of their clan. A champion from each of the thirteen clans would fight until only one remained. You knew what you had to do, and your bow and arrow were your best weapons.

Moving silently among the wreckage, you tried to find a strategic hiding place. But before you could get into position, a strong hand grabbed your arm and pulled you into the shadow of a fallen pillar.

It was Ilian, the farmer and warrior of Trishanakru. His face was dirty, but his eyes shone with fierce determination. He didn't say anything, he simply threw you over his shoulder with ease, moving you away from your planned route.

When he finally put you down, you pushed him lightly, irritated.

Ilian looked at you with a mixture of urgency and frustration and growled. "Don't you understand? That place was very exposed. They would have found you in minutes."

He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on yours, and his voice became softer but firm. "If you die, it won't be just you who falls. Your clan needs you alive. Now, you will continue to fight alone or will you join me? Because the only chance for us to survive here is to work together."