Morning crawls into my room like a second chance. Light through bakery smoke, warm and sticky with yeast. My sleeve bells clink when I stretch. The sound reassures me; it tells me I didn't dream the idea of using them.
Tyrunt is the first awake—he always is. He noses my shoulder before the alarm rings. His breath is hot with sleep and old kibble. I rub his snout until his tail thumps the floor. Luxio yawns wide enough to bare every tooth, then pretends he isn't watching me. Grotle lumbers out of his corner with a leaf shake that sprinkles dew on the blanket. Honedge lifts from the curtain rod where he hung himself and drifts over like a thought deciding to matter.
"Breakfast," I say, voice still hoarse. Four sets of eyes lock on me like I said the world's first word.
It's routine, but routines feel holy on a day like this. Grotle crunches into his mix of grains and greens with calm focus. Tyrunt tears into his fortified protein like he's auditioning for carnivore of the year. Luxio crouches to his bowl, eats neat, pretends he's above it but never leaves a crumb. Honedge doesn't eat in any visible way, but I pour the warmed salt-water into his ritual dish and dip the cloth in oil before stroking along his blade. His tassel curls once, satisfied.
I check tails and claws, paws and shells, edges and eyes. Tyrunt's tail muscles aren't quivering this morning—he slept well. Luxio's coat bristles with low-level sparks that don't sting; he's carrying energy without losing control. Grotle's leaves smell sharp and clean, no rot. Honedge's edge is smooth under my thumb, his eye unblinking. We are bodies ready to do what they can.
I lace the bells into my sleeves again. Not for show. To hear myself when the room lies. Fantina loves rooms that lie.
The streets are washed clean by morning fog. Vendors sweep incense ash from their doorsteps. The bell ropes sound muted, as if someone has stuffed the sky with cotton. Trainers walk in knots, nervous laughter bubbling too loud, then vanishing when they remember where they are. I keep to myself, but I hear things.
"She made me fight in the dark," one boy mutters to his friend.
"Did you win?"
"I don't know," he says, and they both laugh too hard again.
The Gym sits across from the Contest Hall, as if the city couldn't decide whether it wanted art or battle, so it built both and asked Fantina to be both. The facade is all sweeping stone curves, indigo banners, stained glass that doesn't depict saints but Pokémon—Mismagius, Drifblim, Froslass—figures that seem to move when you look too long. The doors are taller than they need to be. The League logo is etched deep above them, but the stone around it has been carved into spirals, like the insignia is sinking into a whirlpool.
Inside, the air is colder than it should be. The receptionist sits at a crescent desk, hair immaculate, nails painted a purple that glints silver when she moves. "Appointment?"
"Thirteen fifty," I say, showing her my screen.
"Check-in now. You'll need to sign the waiver." She slides me the form. Acknowledges risk. Accepts use of Ghost-type illusions. Releases the League and Gym Leader from liability for psychic disorientation, burns, or emotional distress.
I sign. The pen squeaks.
"You'll be called when ready," she says. "Warm-up yard C is available. Do not scratch the stone. Do not extinguish lanterns. Do not open doors that close themselves."
Her tone is flat, like these are all things people have tried.
Yard C is walled in black stone, high enough to trap the light. There are chalk lines drawn by nervous trainers before me, scuffs where battles rehearsed themselves. I recall everyone, then release them again one by one.
"Half arcs," I tell Tyrunt, chalking a V on the floor. He steps, anchors, pivots, swings the tail—not all the way. Just enough. Control is harder than power. He snarls with frustration and I scratch the ridge behind his eye to steady him.
"Eyes," I tell Luxio, pointing to my own. He stalks a rolling ball I kick across the yard. He doesn't spark. He waits. He bites when the angle matters. His jaws click loud in the air. I praise him even when he misses the first two—he misses cleanly.
"Anchor," I tell Grotle. I tie rope around a sandbag, rope around his shell, and have him pull, hold, release. Pull, hold, release. His breath comes slow, steady, patient. He moves like a door that only opens on purpose.
"Guard," I tell Honedge. He hovers in front of me, blade vertical, catches my chalk-throw with a flat strike, pivots, deflects. Again. Again. He doesn't complain. He doesn't need to. He is exact.
The bell at the main hall tolls once, deep and resonant. My slot.
The arena is not a battlefield. It's a stage.
Stone floor smooth as glass. Lanterns mounted high in sconces, their flames flickering lavender. The walls curve up and inward like the inside of a bowl. And Fantina stands in the middle of it, her dress a whirl of violet layers, her hair like coiled night, her eyes painted in swooping shadow. She looks like she walked out of a contest stage and never took the costume off.
"Bonjouuur!" she sings, voice thick with accent, hands spreading wide. "A challenger, yes? Come, come! We make ze battle magnifique, non? Ze stage, it is not just for ze contests, it is for ze life! You will give me drama, you will give me passion, and I will see if you survive."
Her words are a performance, but her eyes are blades.
The referee—a League official in gray—raises his hand. "Three-on-three. Substitutions allowed. Match ends when one side's Pokémon are unable to continue. Begin when ready."
My sleeve bells answer with a quiet clink.
I breathe. "Luxio," I say, and he pads forward, sparks crawling down his back like restless insects.
Fantina flourishes a ball into the air. It bursts in violet light. A Drifblim swells into the space, ribbons trailing, its grin painted too wide.
"Battle, begin!"
The fight is a blur of movement and thought, but I force myself to feel each piece.
Luxio snarls, body low. He doesn't spark—he waits. Drifblim hovers, ribbons curling like it's stretching invisible strings. I know what that means: status. Confuse Ray, Hypnosis, maybe Will-O-Wisp. I can't let them touch first.
"Eyes," I snap.
Luxio's gaze pins Drifblim. The balloon Pokémon wavers a fraction lower. Fantina twirls. "Tricksy, tricksy! Drifblim, Hypnose~!"
Drifblim's eyes glow white. A wave of heaviness slides over the floor. My bells clink faintly—I hear my own sway. That saves me.
"Bite!"
Luxio lunges, jaws flashing. He slams into Drifblim's side, teeth sinking. Drifblim groans, deflating slightly, but its ribbons lash around Luxio's foreleg. I see the shimmer—Will-O-Wisp.
"Shake it!"
Luxio snarls, sparks crawling unbidden, and thrashes until the ribbon tears loose. No burn. My pulse hammers.
Fantina laughs. "Très bien, très bien! You have reflex, but do you have stamina? Drifblim, Stockpile~!"
The balloon swells larger, layers of phantom energy puffing its body. Its defenses rise. My Luxio's fangs won't be enough if this keeps stacking.
"Dark only gets you so far," I mutter. Cynthia's voice in my head: pressure is good, but rhythm kills you if you don't change it.
"Switch! Grotle!"
Luxio retreats, growling frustration. Grotle stomps forward, steady as earth.
Fantina fans her hand. "So slow! Let us see—Minimize~!"
Drifblim shrinks, body compressing, movements sharper.
"Stone," I say, and Grotle grinds a foot into the arena floor, flinging gravel in an arc. The stones scatter, not accurate, but wide. A few ping against Drifblim. It hisses, form flickering. Grotle's bulk makes accuracy less of a problem.
Fantina's eyes glitter. "Shadow Ball, maintenant!"
Drifblim spits a pulsing orb of darkness. It slams into Grotle's shell, rocking him back. Dust scatters. Grotle grunts, plants his feet deeper.
"Bite!"
He surges forward, surprisingly fast for his size, and clamps jaws on one of Drifblim's ribbons. The balloon screeches, body trembling. Grotle shakes once, hard. The ribbon tears.
The referee raises his hand. "Drifblim is unable to battle!"
Fantina recalls her Pokémon with a theatrical spin. "Ohoho! Très intéressant! But ze show, it is only beginning~!"
She throws her next ball. A Mismagius bursts out, its body trailing like smoke, eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence. The arena lights dim on their own. My sleeve bells ring faintly without wind.
I feel Cynthia in my head again: Guard, not duel. Don't fight mirrors with mirrors.
I lift Honedge's ball. "Your turn."