As Alex's round came to its chaotic but decisive finish, the VIP section stirred. What had been idle clapping and murmured courtesy before suddenly swelled into a patchwork of reactions.
Not all the legacies betrayed that ever-graceful restraint.
"Well, look at that, he sure does know how to spice up a show," Jade Warren laughed, amused. "How unpredictable. You can't say it wasn't entertaining." She angled her gaze toward Darius Runehart, who was seated not far off to her left.
"He must have been lucky." Darius shrugged, sipping from his glass with his usual all-pleasing expression.
His reply earned a cheery laugh from Jade. "Oh come now, Darius! That kind of luck you can't teach."
Further along, a beer-bellied nobleman fanned himself lazily. "I suppose the fact that he held, counts for something."
Lady Abby Marrowfield leaned back into her seat, her fingers toying with the rim of her goblet. "For someone who stumbles like a boy fresh off the farm, he certainly knows how to cling to a win," she commented, her words measured—meant for those around her to overhear, but not invite further debate.
There was an instant shift in the air as the announcer called her name. "Next to face the Gauntlet—Elya Runehart, of house Runehart!"
At the name, a wave rippled through the arena. Conversations hushed. The Runehart name carried weight. Power. Expectation. Alex found himself leaning unconsciously forward, his hand tightening against his knee. He could hear Brinn whisper something like "Here we go" under his breath, but Alex's attention was already caught, his gaze drawn to Elya as though the whole arena had narrowed down to her alone. She wore the academy's training garb like it had been made for her, every thread sitting in perfect order. He caught the way Elya adjusted her gloves before stepping into the arena—deliberate, unhurried.
Elya paused at the start, closing her eyes for a brief second. To the crowd, it looked like stillness, but Alex saw something else. Her fingers brushed the air, subtle, almost imperceptible. Not an incantation—not quite. It was more like she was listening. Testing.
Then her eyes opened, sharp and crystalline. She took a step forward.
The first platform held. She moved with unhurried calm, as if daring the illusions to reveal themselves. Where Alex had darted forward with bursts of raw instinct and near-misses, Elya approached as though the entire course was beneath her understanding.
At the fifth platform, she shifted. Instead of stepping onto the obvious next stone, she tilted her body slightly and leapt sideways to a thinner, less noticeable one. The audience gasped—the "correct" path seemed to lead straight ahead.
But the moment her foot landed, the supposed direct platform shimmered like smoke and vanished.
"She… she saw it," Brinn muttered, his eyes wide.
Alex's breath caught. Elya hadn't even hesitated.
From that moment on, she moved like someone reading a pattern only she could see. Her steps were deliberate, but not stiff. There was a rhythm, a flow, almost like a dance. Each leap was precise, her landings soundless.
Halfway through the course, the platforms began to flicker—illusions woven more intricately, designed to mislead even the most disciplined. Alex remembered how he had nearly slipped, trusting his gut more than his eyes. Elya, however, did something different.
She crouched low on one platform, her hand hovering over the next two options. She didn't touch, didn't probe—she simply waited. And then, softly, her lips moved. A whisper of magic slipped into the air, so faint it was more sensation than sound.
The left platform wavered, the illusion unraveling for only a second before reforming. The right stayed steady.
She rose, as fluid as a tide, and continued.
"She's not just surviving the Gauntlet," one of the other nobles murmured. "She's… composing her own performance."
As the platforms narrowed, requiring leaps farther and farther apart, Elya's elegance only magnified. Where Alex had launched himself with raw bursts of energy, stumbling and catching himself midair, she seemed weightless.
Her body arched with each leap, her arms slicing through the air like a blade. Her landings were never loud, never uncertain. Even when she barely caught the edge of a stone with the tips of her toes, she transformed it into a poised recovery, as though she had intended it all along.
"She's… breathtaking," Brinn admitted, sounding almost defeated.
Alex clenched his jaw. He wasn't jealous—not exactly. It was out of admiration. Watching her made him feel like he was seeing someone operate on a level entirely different from his own.
The crowd had gone strangely quiet, their awe palpable. Each step she took felt like a spell cast over them, pulling them deeper into the spectacle.
The last third of the Gauntlet was the cruelest. Illusions overlapped, platforms flickered in and out of existence, and the gap widened to a near impossible leap. Alex remembered the terror of that section, the way he had barely scraped by.
Elya approached it with unshaken calm. She stood at the edge, her hair swaying slightly in the faint breeze.
And then she leapt.
Not recklessly. Not desperately. But with the controlled momentum of someone who knew she would land. Her feet touched down, the platform solid beneath her, and in one seamless motion she spun forward, carrying the rhythm into the next leap, then the next.
Gasps and cheers erupted, echoing off the arena walls.
And then—silence, as she reached the final stretch. Only one platform left. But unlike the others, this one shimmered faintly, as though deliberately taunting her.
An illusion? Or real?
Elya didn't pause. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing, and for a split second Alex could have sworn he saw a smile tug at her lips. Then she leapt, her form cutting through the air like a blade of silver light.
Her feet struck solid stone.
She had crossed.
When she stepped off the final platform, she didn't raise her arms or bow dramatically. Instead, she simply walked forward, her head high, her movements as composed as when she had entered. Graceful.
And that, somehow, was what made the arena erupt.
The audience roared, the sound rolling like thunder. Some were shouting her name, others simply screaming in disbelief.
From the VIP booth, Darius Runehart's hands tightened together in satisfaction, his face glowing with pride and something fiercer—something that said: This is what it means to be Runehart.
"Just as graceful as ever," Alex breathed, a smile painting his lips.
Brinn whistled low. "Gracefully? More like flawlessly. Did you see how she—how she just knew? Like the Gauntlet was made for her."
Alex couldn't argue. He had fought the course, battled every step of it. But Elya Runehart… she had tamed it.
And as she turned, her eyes caught his for the briefest instant.
It wasn't a gloat. Wasn't even pride.
It was serenity, pure and unshaken.
As though she had already known she would succeed.