The clash below was brief.
Miri fought like someone cornered — fast, frantic, every movement loaded with the threat of desperation. Lanok followed slower, heavier. A wall of metal and bark-forged armor.
But desperation breaks before discipline.
A crack of light. A scream. Then silence.
"Team Twenty-Nine… advances."
The arena groaned.
Stone shifted beneath the sands, opening the secondary platform gates — the side entrances reserved for upcoming fighters. Where the real quiet settled.
Salem put a hand on my shoulder and nudged.
"This way."
I followed the slope down, past moss-veined walls and glyph-lit sconces. Every step away from the light above felt like a heartbeat. Slower. Louder. Thicker.
We emerged beside the pit's base. A narrow corridor lined with pale-blue sigils. Tovin was already there, rolling out his shoulders like it might push the fear off them.
When he turned, he managed a grin. It didn't quite reach his voice. "They're loud up there."
"Good," I said. "Let them be loud."
Salem crossed her arms, staying just behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her mana pressed thin and watchful against mine.
"Team Thirty-One: Helmyr Hollow, Rank Five. The Stranger… Rank One."
A low current moved through the stands — not cheering. Not yet. Just the unmistakable crackle of attention narrowing, eyes sharpening, bets solidifying.
Then:
"Team Thirty-Two: Tovin, Rank Eight. Annabel Valor… Rank Two."
That's when the tide shifted.
A breathless pause.
Then whispers. Cascading. Slipping down through noble booths and stone terraces like water through cracked marble:
"Annabel Valor… so she's really here."
"She's blind, isn't she?"
"Doesn't matter. Eighty-five percent of the upper houses have gold on her to win the whole damn thing. If she drops now, cities will go bankrupt."
"I heard King Hadrian backed her personally."
"She's got a demon as her bond. That shouldn't be allowed—"
"It is if you're her."
"Still. Her partner's Rank Eight. Why even bother putting him on the field?"
"They're feeding him to the Stranger. That's all this is."
I kept walking. The arena floor flexed with subtle magic, old sigils tracing themselves underfoot — not hostile, just… aware.
The weight of attention shifted from above to here. Now. A million eyes, all waiting for the prodigy to stumble. Or rise.
Tovin matched my pace, his breath tight, but steady.
Salem walked behind me. Silent. Not a person. Not announced. Just a shadow on the leash. But hers was the kind of silence that made even gods look over their shoulders.
Across the pit, I felt the Stranger again. Still, unreadable.
Not rising. Not tensing. Not preparing in any normal way.
Just there.
Salem's voice came low behind me. "They're watching you like you're a miracle."
"They're watching me like I'm an investment," I murmured. "Difference matters."
"No," she said. "Because they don't care if a miracle breaks."
I smiled — just a little — and stopped where the platform gave way to battle.
The sigils flared.
The gates behind us slammed shut.
And above, the crowd fell into hush.
The fight was about to begin.
The silence cracked.
A pulse of magic flared high above the coliseum — then dropped like a hammer into the center of the arena.
The fight had begun.
And I didn't move.
I just turned slightly, staff in hand, and walked to the center of the platform like I had all the time in the world. When I reached the middle, I sat down — legs crossed, bo staff resting across my lap.
Tovin hovered behind me, nerves snapping off him in waves.
I gestured calmly. "Sit."
"What?"
"Sit, Tovin. We're watching this one."
No reason to show my hand. Not yet. Not while Rōko's watching.
He hesitated. "That guy is Rank One."
"So is she."
Salem stepped past me without a word, the chain that connected us glinting faintly in the light. I felt the way her mana sharpened, not in volume, but in intent — like a blade unsheathed in slow motion.
"Don't kill them," I said quietly. "But remind everyone why we'll win."
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Across the arena, Helmyr raised a hand — hesitant, already unsure.
The Stranger didn't speak. Didn't blink. He only stepped back, barely a pace, like he was making room for something.
Salem blurred.
One second she was walking. The next — she was in front of him.
Not the Stranger.
Helmyr.
Her curved shadow caught something — once — and then Helmyr was down. Not dead. But unconscious before the rest of the coliseum had even caught up.
A gasp swept through the crowd.
I didn't flinch.
Salem turned, her cloak billowing with shadow, then shifted her stance low — like a dancer — curved blade glinting in her one good hand.
The Stranger lifted his head, just slightly.
"Impressive," he said.
Salem didn't reply. Her silence was cold and coiled.
He stepped forward — not careless, not cocky. Just steady. And something about his mana shifted — subtle, but off. Like a puzzle half-solved or a map that didn't quite line up with the land.
Tovin leaned in. "Annabel—"
"I know," I said.
I didn't stand.
Didn't need to.
Because this wasn't my fight.
Not this one.
The crowd held its breath.
Below the banners, only two figures stood.
Helmyr lay sprawled behind the Stranger — out cold, motionless, barely more than a blur in the audience's memory. No one had even seen the blow land.
But the Stranger had.
He drew his sword slowly. A clean, well-balanced weapon — designed for precision and range, for shifting rhythms and adaptability. His mana flared behind it — ice, first. Then earthy stone. Frost rimmed the arena floor around him. The ground beneath his feet hardened, laced with veins of earth-magic reinforcement.
He didn't blink.
Neither did Salem.
"She's the bond?" someone near the front whispered.
"That's not a bond. That's a monster."
"She's got no right to be here."
"She's got every right. She's bonded and Look at her move!"
She moved first — a low slide across the platform, then vanished into shadow. Literally. Her form sank into the ground like spilled ink. Gone.
The Stranger didn't panic.
Instead, he turned — slow, listening. His free hand slammed down on the stone beneath, and a pillar of jagged earth spiked up behind him — where she would've struck.
Would've.
Salem erupted from a different shadow, not even breathing hard, blade sweeping low for his legs.
He caught it. Steel shrieked as their weapons met — the clang swallowed instantly by a burst of freezing wind that blasted her back.
"Did you see that? He matched her!"
"He's holding his own—he's…"
She skidded across the floor — only to vanish again. Gone.
The Stranger spun in place, sword raised high. Frost crawled out from him like fingers searching — tracing every shadow, every crack.
Then Salem dropped from above.
He dodged, barely, sword slashing up in an arc — caught her arm.
Gasps rolled through the arena.
"She's bleeding black blood!"
"She's still standing."
"She's laughing—"
Salem didn't even flinch.
She spun, twisting in mid-air to drive her knee into his shoulder, then flipped back and vanished into the floor again, leaving smoke in her place.
The Stranger staggered. His shoulder was already frosting over. But his footing stayed tight — stable. Earth coiled beneath him. He was ready.
Until he wasn't.
Salem exploded from the ground behind him — faster this time. Her blade didn't aim for the throat. She wasn't trying to kill.
She went for the eye.
She was there in a blink.
The sword moved — but not fast enough.
Steel rang.
A scream cut through the coliseum like thunder.
The Stranger dropped to one knee — clutching his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His sword clattered beside him.
Silence.
Mouths opened — but no one spoke.
Then—
"I told you…" I began, voice calm as the wind.
Salem spoke before I could finish.
"Yeah," she muttered, turning to face me. "Not to kill them. He's not dead."
Her eyes glowed faintly. Shadows peeled off her like heat.
The crowd erupted.
Not with cheers.
With awe. With fear. With disbelief.
Someone in the crowd exhaled sharply.
"She listens to the girl."
"She bows to her."
"How do you bind something like that?"
"You don't. Unless you're Lincoln."
The prodigy sat calm and untouched. The bond — a demon, a murderer once — had fought like a ghost and broken a Rank One with a flick of her wrist and a whisper of shadow.
And still — she bowed.
To me.
Then—
"She didn't move," someone whispered. "The whole fight. That little girl didn't lift a finger."