In the upper halls of the coliseum, the Emperor of Aeruna walked with the same composed stride he always carried—measured, graceful, exuding the calm authority of someone born into power. His guards flanked him as usual, silent and vigilant, but his focus was only half on the path ahead. The other half lingered on the woman walking just behind his shoulder.
Tianteng, his trusted attendant, advisor, and guide through the Tournament of Greatness, was uncharacteristically quiet. He had seen her thoughtful many times, contemplative even—but never like this. There was always a certainty in her. A knowing. Yet now, her eyes were clouded by something unfamiliar: doubt.
"You're still thinking about the end of the last match, aren't you?" the Emperor asked, his tone level, unpressing.
His words drew her back from whatever deep place her mind had wandered to. She blinked once, then gave a small, precise nod.
"Yes, my Emperor," Tianteng admitted, her voice even but tinged with something she rarely showed—frustration. "I brought you here assuming I knew the scope of what you would witness. I was confident in that. But now it's clear I don't. And that lack of foresight puts your safety at risk. If I missed this, what else have I missed?"
The Emperor raised a brow, more curious than concerned. He looked at her, then turned forward again with a faint shake of his head.
"Is that all?" he asked calmly. "Tianteng, with you and my guards at my side, even the unknown holds no threat to me."
She did not respond right away. Behind him, out of his view, her eyes narrowed faintly. She fought back a scoff, burying it behind that ever-practiced, thin-lipped smile.
"As you wish, my Emperor," she replied smoothly.
---
Inside the steamwagon, the atmosphere was somehow more suffocating than it had been the night before. The tension was thick enough to feel with every turn of the wheel.
"Too many unknowns in one day…" Samwell muttered to himself, voice low and pacing. His fingers tapped anxiously on his armrest. "How was he able to use blood magic? Who taught him? Was it that half-blood woman? She flew down to him personally after the match…"
His mind was a whirlpool of unease. The boy's victory, the werewolf, the necromancer—all of it kept turning in circles.
"Not just any necromancer," he muttered again. "But one who cast a spell I've never seen or felt before. What was that thing at the end…?"
Even's win still twisted in his gut. Part of him—it disgusted him to even acknowledge—had considered it. A return. A reintroduction to the family. With the boy's newfound blood magic, he could supplement the family's legacy with something ancient, powerful…
He squashed the thought immediately. Ridiculous. One win wasn't enough. Not even with that kind of magic.
He cast a glance at his son beside him, but Matthew hadn't spoken a word since the end of the match. And Samwell didn't press him. He welcomed the silence.
Matthew preferred it too. Every second of it gave him time—time to plan, to prepare, to figure out exactly how he would approach his older brother tonight.
---
"Mark, I have been meaning to ask," Zara said, her voice casual but laced with something quieter, more deliberate, as she and her brother stepped into the common room of the inn they had rented for the tournament. She didn't sit—just lingered near the door, hands clasped behind her back. "Who do you think is going to win this tournament?"
Prince Mark turned slightly, surprised by the question. His expression shifted to mild confusion. "Why are you asking that now?" he replied, brows lifting. "Bit late in the tournament for predictions, don't you think?"
"I just wanted your opinion," Zara said, fidgeting ever so slightly with the hem of her sleeve. "I… have someone I want to win, you see. I was curious if it's the same person for you."
Mark gave a thoughtful hum, placing one hand under his chin as he considered. "I'm not particularly rooting for anyone," he admitted, "but if I had to say who I think is going to win… Zeva Blossom or Even Matters. I doubt anyone else stands a real chance against them." He shrugged, the motion light. "What about you?"
Zara nodded slowly, as if expecting that answer. "I suppose those are the expected names," she said softly. "But it's not me who wants this person to win. It's Clara—you know, the Margrave's daughter? She's taken quite a liking to him. So… as her friend, I want him to win too. For her."
Mark blinked. For a moment, he just studied her. It had been a long time since he'd seen his sister like this—soft in the way she usually wasn't. Sentimental. Almost childlike in how earnestly she spoke.
"I see…then I hope he wins too," he murmured, stepping toward his room. He reached for the doorknob, then hesitated—just a second—and added quietly under his breath, "For your happiness as well."
It was barely a whisper, barely audible. But it made Zara freeze on the spot.
His door closed behind him.
Zara stood in place, stunned. Then slowly, her hands went to her cheeks as the heat bloomed beneath her skin. Her ears turned red. She pressed her fingers against her lips to suppress the grin threatening to break across her face—and the giggle that nearly escaped with it. It would have been wholly unbecoming of a princess.
She spun on her heel and glided toward her own room, whispering to herself as she went, "I have to plan… false assassinations on myself."
And with that, she disappeared behind her door—off to scheme how to earn just a little more of her brother's attention.