[@Estylwen][@ERode][@Sifr][@Psyker Landshark][@AThousandCurses]

[b][h3]AUDITORIUM[/h3][/b]

Rio glared daggers at Chunji, but nevertheless let him work on Chloe's wounds. "I'm not exactly medically trained, here. My efforts're already being stretched pretty thin as it is, and quite frankly I'm just..." Upon trailing off, the boy turned his head to the side with the click of his tongue and his fist against the wall. Averting his gaze from Chunji, he stared into the brick patterns his hand bruised against, frustration as clear as day across his features. "Thanks."

The would-be defender then turned his attention back to the stage as the tension was brought to a boil, looking upon Valen with feral fury. "You just make sure Chloe stays safe from the weirdos around here. Guess I'll use what's left. Here I was thinkin' I was through the worst of it." The sound of something snapping inside of Rio's body rang out - his shielded phantom appearing at his side instantaneously. "This is gonna hurt, but... hell with it. Third Shield: Repel!"

As those words were uttered, Rio kicked one of the shields on his own Ethos-summmoned phantom. For a moment, he seemed trapped in stasis, held in place mid-motion. Then in the next, he was rocketed backwards like an arrow loosed from a master archer, clearing the distance of the auditorium in seconds as he tumbled, rolled and landed on his feet in front of the crowd - in front of Valen, looking up at him from below. The arrowlike boy raised both his hands in front of him, breathing heavily and bleeding profusely while locking eyes with the throned noble. This would happen moments after Ciara and Iraleth had also arrived with their own interceptions. "I'm ready for the rematch right now, shithead. Believe it or not, I'm at the top of my game right now - you've never seen me this powerful. Same goes for these other do-gooders, I'd wager," Rio would speak breathlessly, more cuts seeming to open across his exposed skin as seconds passed, as if simply standing here now was injuring him. Those knowledgeable in the basics of essence would recognize this as a telltale sign of what professionals call 'rebound', in which an essence user's body begins to shut down from the inside and out simultaneously after prolonged overexertion of essence manipulation.

Nevertheless, Valen took all of this in, and slowly looked upon his assassins with neutrality - or the most he could look upon them, with the current and very sharp restrictions upon himself in place. A glass of wine dangled in his other hand, though it was unknown when it had arrived. His incantations had ceased the moment that the trio was upon him, though he looked none the worse for wear emotionally. His eyes first met Iraleth, unrelenting steel in those orbs. "Ah, 'vaunted' Nero, is it? And all of his integrity, cast to the pits of Kazaar-knows-where, brought to ash by found family. Or, I suppose, Astra-knows-where is more fitting in this day and age, yes? After all..."

The glowing patterns in the air in front of him faded, the spell canceled. 

"After all, it is us Leuvalts who have dictated history's course not once, but twice. Though Nero and Klara were each foolish enough to abandon their family in pursuit of such things. Both dying young, both giving themselves up to what they believed was a higher calling. Both... having tragically never found the peak of their potentials. Gods, they could have been; not weak whispers on the wind like dear young Astra born out of Klara's desperation, but true and feared powers."

And then, his focus met Ciara. 

"Shadow magic, is it? I suppose Vaal Shakta is more lenient with practiced Umbralists, but I was not aware that the good Verne lacked the sense to ship your ilk off to Mirris. Hero King Theodore would light ablaze at the notion of Umbralists in plain sight, all too willing to slash you through with the famed Mortalion. I suppose the world is changing with each passing day, and we now find ourselves united: those that worship the Leuvalts and those that worship dark art madmen like First Shepherd Meer in the same halls, blades trained at the same enemies."

He would sip upon his wine, were he allowed at this point. Savoring the flavor, looking into his own reflection in the burgundy liquid. For the first time, a 'true' smile had graced his features. It wasn't one of joy, but gave off the aura of a man who had found twisted pleasure in the words he had just spoken, reflecting on them and finding comedy in this moment in which many threatened his life.

"Am I so wrong, perhaps, for wishing to see who would break or even perish at something so simple as a puff of smoke not fit to light House Leuvalt's estate torches?" His every word and expression was mechanical and pointed, giving no care for what others thought of his musings.

"Yet rejoice, brave heroes. The combined might of three whelps, dead on their feet with not even a pulse to sustain them momentarily, has stayed my hand this day. I merely wished to see what the response would be. A jape, in the tongue of you commonfolk."