Fantina's second Poké Ball bursts, light spiraling into a shape too sharp to be smoke. Mismagius hovers above the stone, its robe-like body drifting, eyes glowing with an intelligence I don't trust. The lavender lanterns sputter, as if bowing to her arrival.
"Honedge," I say. My voice feels smaller than I mean it to. The blade emerges onto the field with no theatrics—just the steel whisper of presence. His tassel curls once, then steadies.
"Confuse Ray, ma chère!" Fantina trills.
Mismagius lashes out, eyes flashing jagged light. The beam writhes like ribbon meant to tangle thought.
"Flat cut!" I bark. Honedge swings—not edge, but flat—through the stream. The light shatters into sparks. The audience murmurs. My pulse drums in my ears.
"Shadow Ball!" Fantina snaps.
The orb of darkness streaks toward him. Honedge tilts, catches it on his flat, but the impact drives him back, screeching across the stone. His tassel trembles, eye narrowed.
Then Fantina's voice sharpens: "Non—strike ze boy!"
For a moment, I think I misheard. Then Mismagius turns, and the next Shadow Ball is aimed directly at me.
The crowd gasps. My body locks.
A blur of steel slides into my vision. Honedge plants himself in front of me, blade vertical. The orb slams against his guard and bursts into smoke. Cold dust washes over my face. The shock rattles my ribs though I wasn't the one struck.
"Honedge…" My voice cracks. His tassel brushes my wrist—tight, firm. He doesn't look back. He doesn't need to. He is telling me: I am your wall.
The referee hesitates, glances at Fantina. She only shrugs, smiling too wide. "Ah, illusions, they wander. The stage, it has appetite."
The crowd laughs nervously. My hands shake. In my head, Cynthia's voice cuts clean: Don't let her write the story. Decide what it is yourself.
I swallow. "Honedge—withdraw."
It feels like betrayal to recall him after he just saved me. But keeping him in would be worse—it would be disrespect. I asked him to guard me, and he did. To let him duel Mismagius until one of them broke would cheapen that.
"Luxio—your turn."
Honedge disappears in red light, and Luxio explodes out, sparks bursting from his mane like angry rain. His fangs flash. His eyes are all hunger.
"Bite!"
He lunges before Fantina can adjust, jaws clamping down on Mismagius's trailing form. The ghost shrieks, writhing as Luxio shakes her hard.
"Encore! Shadow Ball!" Fantina cries, but the orb fizzles when her Pokémon's body contorts under Luxio's grip.
He slams her against the stone with a savage snap of his neck. The lights flicker. Mismagius's glow sputters out.
"Mismagius is unable to battle!" the referee calls.
My lungs burn. Luxio prowls back toward me, tail high, sparks spitting. His eyes ask: Did you see me? Did you see I ended it? I nod once. He bares his teeth in satisfaction.
Fantina doesn't look rattled. She twirls her final ball with dancer's grace. "Et maintenant, ze finale! Froslass, shine~!"
The ball bursts, spilling icy mist. A Froslass floats to the ground, her body elegant and terrible, kimono-like drifts trailing frost. Her eyes glow pale blue. Cold knifes through the arena. The lavender lanterns dim to white around the edges.
Ice. My gut twists. Grotle would suffer instantly here. Luxio has speed but not durability. Honedge is too weakened. That leaves—
I glance at Tyrunt. He meets my eyes. His tail twitches once, controlled. His jaw is set. Let me.
"Alright," I whisper. "Your field."
He bursts out in a roar, claws scraping sparks on stone. A small dinosaur, jaw lined with ancient power, tail muscle still learning obedience—but fierce and alive.
"Double Team!" Fantina commands.
Froslass splits into four, images rippling, drifting on mist. My sleeve bells jingle faintly but the sound wavers; the room is colder than sound wants to be.
"Half arcs only!" I bark. "No hero swings!"
Tyrunt pivots, tail sweeping in a half-arc. It doesn't hit her—but it forces two illusions to overlap, and I see them blur. There. He steps, pivots again. Another sweep, lower. The crowd murmurs.
"Ice Shard!" Fantina cries.
Shards crack from the air, jagged teeth of frozen light. One pings off Tyrunt's scutes—he snarls, furious. Another grazes his shoulder. Pain flashes in his eyes, but he plants his feet, stubborn. The third streaks for his tail muscle—the part still healing.
"Up!" My throat is raw, but he listens. He hops, higher than I thought he could. The shard whistles under him. He lands perfectly balanced, tail steady.
I nearly sob in relief.
"Avalanche!" Fantina sings, voice too sweet.
The air above Tyrunt thickens. Ice walls crash down, illusions made heavy. For a second, I almost believe he's crushed. My bells don't ring. That's the lie.
"Through!"
He lowers his head and charges into the collapsing sheet. His body hits where the fake wall pretends to be real, and it shatters around him like sugar glass. He bursts out the other side, frost clinging to his snout, triumphant roar echoing.
"Now! Bite!"
Tyrunt lunges, jaws clamping down on the real Froslass. The illusions vanish with her cry. His fangs dig deep; he shakes once, hard.
The cold glow sputters. Froslass slumps, kimono folds drooping, eyes dim.
"Froslass is unable to battle!"
The crowd erupts. My knees go weak, but I lock them. Luxio's ball trembles at my hip; he's still vibrating with adrenaline inside. Tyrunt stands in the middle of the frost, chest heaving, eyes fierce, tail twitching with pride and pain.
Fantina walks forward, the silk of her dress whispering against the stone. Her smile is still wide, but her eyes have cooled. She presses the badge into my palm. It's shaped like a fragment of stained glass, purple and blue, cold metal edging it.
"You did not let me write you," she says softly. "Bon. Ze story is yours… for now."
She turns with a swirl, cloak of silk following. The audience's shadows fold away with her.
I stare at the badge in my hand until the edges bite my skin. My chest is full—of relief, of pride, of shame at how close I came to freezing when she aimed at me. Honedge saved me. Luxio finished with fury. Grotle held when patience was needed. Tyrunt proved control and courage in the face of cold that wanted to break him.
The bells on my sleeve ring softly as I leave the arena. Their sound is mine again.