The crowd thinned.
Not because the tension vanished—but because no one wanted to stand too close to someone who didn't burn normally.
Kaelen lowered his wall, dust scattering around his boots. He didn't look at Riko again. He didn't need to.
Yolti muttered, "And that's why I hate Recon's lead."
Selka didn't speak.
Zephryn let the staff fall to the dirt. He didn't pick it back up.
Not out of defeat.
Out of restraint.
Later, after the field reset, the squads dispersed.
But one figure stayed behind.
Not a challenger. Not a critic.
Just Nima.
She wasn't in her Medic uniform—just a slate-gray training wrap, scarf pinned over one shoulder, a soft glow trailing behind her as she walked.
She didn't come directly to Zephryn.
She sat on the stone bench near the outer ring, pulled a pulse-threaded ocarina from her belt, and began to hum.
Not a melody.
Not a tune.
Just a note.
Low. Gentle. Like wind brushing against a memory that hadn't breathed in years.
Zephryn turned.
Slowly.
The hum in his ribs flinched.
Because he knew that note.
He had heard it once—not in this life, but in the fall.
When the glyph burned.
When the fire remembered him.
Nima didn't look up.
She just kept humming.
And beneath her breath, just loud enough for him to catch it:
"You're not the only one the system tried to forget."
Zephryn stepped closer.
"You heard it too."
She nodded.
Still playing.
Still quiet.
"I didn't hear it. I sang it."