The horn split the air like a blade.
I startled upright—then instantly winced as my head bumped something warm and solid.
"Sorry!" Tovin's voice, too loud for the hour. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—uh—just, the horn went off, and I figured you'd want to be—well, awake."
I rubbed the side of my head and pulled the blindfold halfway down, blinking against the muted dark blur of the room. Salem still sat where she had all night, unmoved beneath me, her hand resting lightly on my hip.
Tovin hovered near the foot of the couch like someone waiting for permission to breathe.
I yawned. "Thanks. How long was I out?"
"Like seven hours," he said. "Maybe more."
"Of course salem didn't wake me either."
He hesitated. "I… asked her that. She looked at me. That's it."
"She needs my permission. It's a bond thing," I said, voice rough from sleep. "She won't touch unless I ask her to."
Tovin blinked. "That's… very respectful."
"It's Salem. Of course it is."
I sat up, slowly. My body ached, not from injury—just from carrying too much tension for too long. My blindfold slid into place again, cutting the world into touch and sound.
The noise was immediate.
Boots. Weapons clashing. Sparks from enchantments. Laughter. Roars of approval. Even this high up, the crowd outside was impossible to ignore.
"Feels like a festival," I muttered.
Tovin shifted beside me. "They've been out there all night. The stadium's full. Overflow crowds lining the cliffs."
"King Beren knows how to build a spectacle."
He nodded. "And milk it."
I rose, hands brushing over the couch edge, then Salem's arm. She followed instantly, like a shadow already halfway toward moving. No need to speak. No need to ask.
We stepped out into the hall, then down the open terrace steps leading toward the sparring courtyard. The air was thick with heat, dust, and sharpened mana.
I didn't see the space. But I felt it.
Training spells flying in high arcs. Shields locking into place with heavy earth magic. Ice crashing into reinforced wards. The whole arena echoed with the friction of anticipation.
And then—
Sharp.
Precise.
Fast.
The movement pulled my attention like a sudden gust in a still room. A girl—not even fifteen by the feel of it—her mana snapped around a chain and sickle with perfect control. Every swing was deliberate. Every recoil clean. She wasn't wasting movement. She wasn't testing her strength. She was playing with it.
And she was sparring with Kate.
"Chain-user's good," I murmured.
Tovin followed my line of attention. "That's Rōko Tsume, She's rank one. People are calling her the youngest prodigy."
"Maybe," I said, tilting my head. "But I'm younger."
He blinked. "You're… what?"
"Ten."
There was a pause. Then a sharp exhale. "You're ten?"
I turned my face toward him slightly, blindfold shifting with the breeze. "You say that like it's shocking."
"I mean—it is! You could pass for fifteen. Sixteen even, easy. How on earth do you look like a young adult at ten?"
I shrugged. "Court girl posture training. Terrible childhood."
He went quiet.
Didn't apologize. Didn't pity me. Just stood there, thinking. I liked that more than anything else he could've said.
"She's sharp," I said, returning to the girl with the sickle. "But her chain rings too loud when she resets it. Watch her step—she corrects left every third swing."
Tovin blinked. "You can hear that?"
"I hear everything."
And then came the second horn.
Not loud—deep.
Something that sank through stone and silence and ribcage alike. The stadium responded in waves—thunderous feet, chants echoing like waves striking steel.
And above it all, King Beren's voice.
Amplified by mana, layered with power.
"This day begins not with violence," he said, "but with intention."
The crowd quieted.
"There are thirty-two teams. Sixty-four mages. You will face each other across a single bracket. Two versus two. One match at a time."
Gasps rippled through the stadium.
"There will be no byes. No second chances. No re-matches. Every fight is final. Healers are on site, so don't be scared to hold back!"
I heard the metallic shiver of banners unfurling above the crowd—team names carved into glyph-inked silk.
"The first match begins within the hour," Beren continued. "All other teams will watch. Learn. Measure yourselves against your peers. You will not be called randomly. You will be called when I believe the stakes are high enough to be worth our time."
Tovin made a strangled noise beside me. "That means he's watching all of us."
"Of course he is," I said. "This might be a tournament. But it's also."
"It's a selection."
"Exactly."
From the distant sparring square, Kate and the girl broke apart. I felt Kate nod once before turning to walk off—no wasted words. The girl stayed behind, chain still humming softly around her wrist like a song only she could hear.
I reached for Salem's hand, not because I needed to.
But because I wanted her to know I was ready.
The crowd roared again, but not like before. This was focused. Hungry. Like a million voices leaning forward all at once.
And above them, Beren's voice sharpened:
"Let the names be known."
There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. Then a hiss, long and sweeping, as enormous banners unfurled from the coliseum heights. Dozens of them—runed silk catching light, soaked with mana, glowing faintly even in the rising sun.
I didn't see them.
But I felt them.
Each name carved into the fabric like a ripple of identity—stitched not just with ink, but with power. Every team a knot of intent. Every name a mark of challenge.
"Team One: Rōko Tsume and Jerel Yune."
"Team Two: Daniel Ironbark and Aster Nymmira, bound to the water-spirit Kalos."
"Team Seven: Caddis and Reeve of the Iron Hollow."
Team eleven: Katelin Skybreath and Quillon Redguard
"Team Twelve: Ilen and Veska."
"Team Twenty-One: Nyari Kel and the blind geomancer called Writhe."
"Team Twenty-Three: Ilya of the Third Coil and Marren Brightborn."
"Team Thirty-One: Helmyr and The Stranger."
"Team Thirty-Two… Annabel Valor and Tovin."
I felt Tovin flinch beside me—not from fear, but from recognition.
"Last," he whispered.
"Not least," I said.
"Still feels like we're being saved for something."
"We are."
Beren didn't believe in chaos. His bracket was deliberate. Structured. Weighted.
"Think about it," I said softly. "He doesn't just want strength. He wants spectacle."
Tovin didn't answer. But I felt his hand shift—closer to the hilt on his hip.
The banners finished their descent with a heavy ripple through the wind. The crowd quieted again. Almost reverent now. Thousands—maybe more—crammed into tiered seats, standing on cliff edges, pressed into makeshift scaffolds of wood and stone.
Humans. Dwarves. Elves. A scattering of nymphkin glowing faintly like moonlight on moss. And near the front rows, I sensed something else—something ancient and slow, like trees that had learned how to watch.
"Even small spirits came to spectate," I murmured.
Tovin shifted. "Is that normal?"
"No."
The field below rearranged itself, stone platforms shifting in timed pulses. A seamless enchantment. The arena floor peeled open in parts—barriers rising, sections collapsing, each battle zone adjusting to meet whatever challenge Beren intended.
The crowd hadn't stopped. It surged like a tide, crashing in waves around the stadium walls, rising with every creak of movement in the arena below. Even through my blindfold, the sound clawed at my bones—cheering, chanting, whispering like wind in a canyon.
And beneath it all, magic.
Thick and coiled. Tangled roots of it, all earth-tuned. Resonant. Aggressive.
I could feel the stone shudder with every pulse. Each of them had touched the metal scrolls. Each of them bore the same mark beneath the skin—tied to the weight of the world.
Even so, they wielded it differently.
"Still think you're the youngest threat out there?" Kate murmured beside me.
I kept my blindfold on. "I am the youngest threat out here."
Kate chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Rōko's fifteen. Rank One. Not as many elements as you but she doesn't just bend the earth. She moves through it. Like she's part of it."
"Is she really that good?" I asked.
Kate didn't hesitate. "Daughter of the last jungle samurai clan. Southern wilds. They didn't build armies—they built warriors. Each one trained to master terrain as if it were their own body. Rōko's chain isn't a gimmick. It's an extension of that. Her control's surgical."
I nodded slowly. "So she's a scalpel."
"And Daniel's a hammer," Kate said.
I heard the subtle clack of banners unfurling. Team names shimmering into visibility above the arena.
"Team One: Jerel of Argenhold, Rank Four. Rōko Tsume, Rank One."
Jerel stepped into the ring first—heavy armor, heavy mana. Earth and wind crackled around his limbs like two storms fighting for control. His gauntlets already hummed with reinforced stoneshape.
Then came Rōko.
Smaller. Quieter. But the silence around her was… unnatural. A kind of pause that moved with her. The chain looped around one wrist, both sickles sheathed for now. She didn't posture. She didn't need to.
"Team Two: Daniel Ironbark, Rank Three. Aster Nymmira of the Riverborn, Rank Four."
Daniel marched forward like a siege engine. His mana clung to the air like iron dust. Earth-only, but his bloodline came from Duvain's shieldline—known for their raw strength and frontline magic. His hammer thudded into the ground with each step, echoes warping the stone beneath him.
Aster glided beside him. Water and earth, braided like river silt. Her summoned spirit—a long, serpentine construct of flowing water—spiraled protectively around her.
"Begin."
The arena shifted.
Stone cracked and realigned, forming jagged platforms, trenches, and rising slabs. No flat floor—just broken terrain, perfect for bending.
Jerel went first.
He stomped the ground, and the wind around him exploded outward, sending dust into Daniel's eyes. At the same time, he raised a hand and called a low-tier seismic arc—thin fractures spread toward Daniel like lightning made of stone.
Daniel didn't flinch.
"Cragbreaker Surge!"
His hammer crashed down, and the floor beneath him erupted upward in a geyser of jagged shale. It devoured the fractures. Swallowed the momentum. Then it rolled forward, a pulsing wave of raised earth aimed straight at Jerel.
Jerel braced—
Too slow.
The wave crashed into him, hurling him backward into a wall of stone. His armor absorbed the worst of it, but the groan he let out said the wind had been knocked from more than just his lungs. Taken down in a single amplified attack. That's daniel's style
Daniel advanced.
But Rōko had already moved.
She sprang from a ledge above, using a slab of angled stone to pivot mid-air. Her sickle snapped free, chain whistling behind it. One loop caught Daniel's arm, the other anchored to a rising pillar she pulled from the floor with a twist of magic.
He was thrown—not far, but enough.
She hit the ground rolling and came up low, palm slamming against the stone. Her mana surged through the arena's floor like a lightning bolt, and a spike of rock shot upward beneath Aster's feet.
Aster jumped, barely dodging. The water spirit caught her mid-air, shifting into a coiled platform. From that perch, Aster raised both hands.
"Torrent Shell!"
A wall of spinning water laced with bits of stone erupted between her and Rōko, sending slivers flying like knives.
Rōko ducked, rolled, threw one sickle high to intercept—then twisted the chain so it caught on a ledge, swung her sideways, and launched her directly at Aster's blind spot.
Aster's spirit intercepted again.
But this time, Rōko feinted.
Her sickle spun around the spirit, curved back toward Aster, and clipped her arm just as she raised another defense.
Blood.
Only a line.
But enough to break the casting rhythm.
Aster stumbled backward. Her water spirit wavered.
And Daniel, seeing an opening, charged.
Hammer raised. Power gathered.
But Rōko didn't run.
She let the earth rise beneath her—pushing her up like a thrown spear. She met Daniel mid-strike, chain snapping forward to wrap his hammer's haft. Her sickle hit the side of his knee. He grunted.
Then she used her entire body's weight to twist.
He fell.
Not out.
But vulnerable.
She didn't hesitate.
sickle dropped down like a fang. Not to kill—never that—but to end.
She hooked Daniel's hammer away.
Aster tried to move.
But the stone beneath her feet caved, pulled by Rōko's lingering spellwork. She dropped to one knee, balance lost.
The crowd held its breath.
Then came the sound of the final chime—match end.
Silence.
A blink.
And then the eruption.
Thunder. Screams. Flags waving. Magic flaring from the stands in celebratory sparks.
Rōko Tsume stood alone in the arena, Jerel groaning behind her, Daniel kneeling in front, and Aster still stunned where the earth had caught her.
I didn't need sight to feel it.
Her mana was steady. Focused. Like stone grown sentient.
"See? She's good," Kate said beside me.
"No," I murmured. "She's great."
I flexed my fingers against Salem's hand.
"She's older than me. Stronger, for now. But not untouchable."
Kate tilted her head. "You're planning something already, aren't you?"
I smiled behind the blindfold.
"Just Measuring."
"For now."
Because the moment Rōko won, I knew—
This wasn't her tournament to win.
It was mine to take from her.