The dust and heat hung heavy.
Kael stood alone in the center of the arena, hair soaked in sweat, his shirt half-burned away, skin smudged with soot, ash, and blood that wasn't all his. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured gulps.
Across the fractured battleground, the scorched wing of the Hybrid twitched once—then stilled.
The obsidian slab where the Cloaked One had stood was now cracked down the middle, glowing faintly where the relic had imploded. No sign of a body. No cloak. Not even dust.
Just absence.
Kael lowered the Knife.
"Damage report?" he muttered.
The blade hummed. "You're alive. They're not. Congratulations, General."
He exhaled through his nose, slow and even. His legs were trembling. He didn't let it show.
Above him, the amphitheater was silent.
Gods watched from gilded thrones, some standing now. The murmurs had stopped. Even the orb of judgment hovered at a distance, uncertain, its once booming voice silent.
And then—like a stone dropped into deep water—laughter.
A single, crisp laugh echoing from the high seats.
Kael looked up.
Thorne.
Still beautiful. Still smug.
But his smile didn't quite reach his eyes anymore.
"Enjoy it, Last Pick," he called. "You've bought yourself a delay. Not a destiny."
Kael raised a bloodied hand.
Gave a deep, slow bow—mocking, exaggerated.
"Glad I could disappoint you," he said.
And then turned his back on them all.
As he walked toward the exit archway, the Knife whispered, "They thought you were a joke."
Kael didn't answer.
"Now they're wondering if you're the punchline. Or the knife in their back."
He stepped into the tunnel's shadow.
Behind him, the crowd slowly began to speak again.
And none of them were laughing.