The crowd still roared. Not mindless now—focused. They'd seen something worth remembering. And they knew it.
Rōko didn't bow.
She just stepped back, sickles glinting faintly as she wound the chain into a tighter coil, her mana still humming like a warning.
Aster knelt in silence, one hand gripping the uneven stone where the floor had dropped out. Daniel's hammer lay abandoned behind him.
Neither spoke.
Neither had to.
Their loss wasn't humiliating. But it was clear.
Beren's voice cut through the din like a knife through wet cloth.
"Team One… advances."
The banners rippled above us. Mana flared. And just like that, the moment passed—recorded in glyph and memory.
Rōko turned.
Jerel limped to catch up. They vanished beneath the terrace steps without fanfare. No cheers. No celebration. Just results.
Tovin exhaled beside me. "Okay. I'm officially nervous."
"Good," I said. "That means you're not dumb."
"I thought we'd have time. You know. More matches. More teams."
"We do."
"But—"
"We just saw the bar. That's all."
He paused. "And how do we measure up?"
I didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Kate let out a low breath. "That's one match down."
"And it set the bar very high." I murmured
Tovin didn't answer. I felt his mana shifting just slightly—tight, restless, like a kettle on the edge of boiling. He wasn't scared. He was thinking.
Good.
The banners rippled again above the coliseum as King Beren's voice rang out, amplified by mana:
"Team Three: Vira of Coldspire, Rank 2. Elden of Coldspire, Rank Three."
Two figures entered the arena, both cloaked in pale silver runes, cold wind circling their boots like they dragged winter behind them. Their magic prickled—icy, thin, surgical.
"Team Four: Kael Tesserant, Rank Three. Mira Volth, Rank Two, bonded to the lightning-falcon Eydrix."
A screech tore through the sky as a white-feathered blur arced down from the cliffs, trailing sparks. The falcon dove hard, then snapped upward, lightning bleeding from its wings.
The girl below it walked with exact precision. Mira. I could feel the discipline in every step. Kael followed, earth-heavy. Solid.
The arena began to shift again. Stone rearranged itself—rising platforms, glassy cliffs, narrow ledges designed for vertical combat.
Then—
"Begin."
A burst of movement. Sound. The falcon launched lightning in wide, cracking arcs. Ice shattered mid-air. Kael shaped the terrain like water poured into molds—clean, controlled, relentless. And above it all, Mira moved like lightning in human form.
Tovin whispered, "They're good."
"They are," I said. "But not Rōko good."
Another set of footsteps approached.
Not Salem. Not Kate. Someone else.
Kate's voice came a moment later. "Annabel, this is Quillon. My partner."
The man stepped close—just within range. His mana felt compact. Edged. A short sword waiting to be drawn.
"Nice to meet you," he said.
I tilted my head slightly. "You're a high rank right?"
"Rank 2," he said. "Higher than Kate."
"Figures," I said. "She wouldn't pair with someone slower than her."
Kate gave a quiet laugh. "She's ten, Quill. Don't try to win."
"I wasn't going to," he muttered.
"Good instinct," I said.
The fight below roared on. The falcon screamed again, launching a spiraling bolt across the arena. Ice and lightning clashed in air sharp enough to draw blood.
I turned my head slightly, blindfold still in place. "Tovin."
"Yeah?"
"When its our turn don't get in the way, i'm not gonna save you if you're in trouble."
He went quiet.
Then: "I won't."
Another minute passed. The fight ended—close, but decisive. Mira faltered too early. Vira landed the final blow with a blade of ice buried deep in the platform floor beneath her enemy's feet.
Beren's voice echoed again:
"Team Three… advances."
A brief silence followed.
Then the next match rolled forward.
"Team Five: Jareth Hollow, Rank Two. Selene Hollow, Rank four."
Twin siblings by the feel of it. Their mana moved in tandem—mirror-still, almost eerie.
"Team Six: Vael of the Shrouded Vale, Rank Three. Linna Ashroot, Rank Four."
That pulled murmurs from the crowd. Rank Four wasn't common. Linna walked with a healer's presence—soft, centered—but her mana felt like soil packed with centuries.
The terrain shifted again.
I listened.
To the crowd. To the tension. To the way magic brushed the bones of the world when it was shaped right.
And to something else.
A feeling in the back of my chest—tight, insistent.
We were getting closer.
Closer to our match.
Closer to being seen.
The Hollow siblings bowed. Not out of politeness—habit.
Vael didn't. Linna did. The match was short.
A gust of wind. A rupture of vines. And then Jareth Hollow stood alone in the center ring, bleeding from the mouth, smile still etched into his outline like it had been carved there long ago.
"Team Six… advances."
There was less cheering this time. Not boredom—dread.
No one liked watching a healer win that cleanly.
I didn't say anything. Neither did Tovin.
But Salem stepped closer.
Her voice was low. Precise.
"If we reach the final, I can beat Rōko."
I turned slightly. Just enough for her to know I heard her.
Then I smiled, thin and sharp.
"She's mine."
Salem didn't argue.
Didn't agree, either.
She just nodded once and leaned back against the stone.
A couple more matches flew by, no one worthy of paying attention to, not like Rōko. Not like me.
The banners flared again, silver script flickering like it was burning from within.
"Team Eleven: Katelin Skybreath, Rank Three. Quillon Redguard, Rank Two."
A stir ran through the crowd. Rank Two wasn't common this early. Not unless the bracket was meant to test someone.
Kate walked out first. Sword at her side. Calm. Dangerous in the way still water sometimes meant undertow.
Quillon followed. Shorter, broader-shouldered, one hand already twitching near his belt—not for a blade, but a flint ring set with copper veins.
"Team Twelve: Bren of Wyrnhollow, Rank Two. Igan Dawnbreak, Rank Three."
Louder now. Recognition. Igan's name carried weight. He was a known contender. Built like a siege engine. Bren was leaner, faster, carried twin crescent axes and an attitude that broadcast blood.
The arena shifted again. Stone sunk and cracked. Pillars rose, some already crumbling—terrain meant to test movement and improvisation.
Beren's voice boomed:
"Begin."
Bren and Igan surged forward in unison—no strategy, just speed.
Quillon didn't move.
Kate did.
She met Bren halfway, blade still undrawn, then pivoted sharply to the left. Her footwork was surgical. A parry, a twist—and suddenly, her sword was at his spine, not his throat.
A hum.
A whisper.
Steel sang. And stopped.
"Don't move," Kate said quietly.
Bren froze.
The rest of the coliseum didn't.
Because Igan had reached Quillon.
And fire erupted.
A ring of flame burst from the ground, arching in a controlled circle around Quillon's feet. Igan stepped into it like it didn't matter—because to him, it didn't.
But it should have.
Quillon slammed a foot down. Stone cracked, and a column of jagged earth tore up from the floor, catching Igan square in the chest and launching him backward.
He rolled once. Came up snarling. Threw a hammer.
Quillon raised both hands. Fire leapt from his fingertips, wrapping around the hammer mid-air—melting the handle, warping the head.
It clanged to the ground in two pieces.
Igan growled—and charged again.
Too direct.
Quillon didn't move.
But the arena did.
A ripple shot beneath the stone as he pressed his palm flat to the ground. The floor rose in a sudden wall between them, then split as fire licked through the cracks, erupting outward in a searing line.
Igan skidded to a halt.
Panting now.
Smoke rising from his sleeves.
He looked across the arena at Kate, maybe hoping for a shift in the fight.
She hadn't moved.
Bren hadn't either.
Her sword still sat quietly at his back.
"Your partner's done," Kate said. "Move and i drop you next."
Bren's voice was thin. "He won't quit."
"He should."
He didn't.
But Quillon ended it anyway.
With a low breath, he curled his fingers—and the stone beneath Igan's feet swallowed him. Not fully. Just enough to lock his legs mid-step and leave him off-balance.
One final burst of fire swept across the floor, skimming past Igan's cheek.
Close.
Controlled.
And hot enough to hurt.
Igan froze.
Hands raised. "Enough."
Quillon exhaled. Fire flickered once more, then vanished into the cracks he'd made.
The coliseum was dead silent.
Then Beren's voice rang out:
"Team Eleven… advances."
Kate withdrew her blade. Bren exhaled.
They left the arena without a word.
But no one forgot what they'd just seen.
Beside me, Tovin whispered, "He's good."
"Yeah," I said. "He is."
Salem didn't say anything.
But I saw the way her fingers curled slightly.
The next match was announced. But I wasn't listening.
Because my mind had already shifted forward.
To what came next.
To who was left.
To Rōko.