The seventh quarter-final arrived with a crowd that had grown lean and hungry. They had tasted pain in the previous bouts and found they liked the flavor. The arena dirt had been raked by the attendants, but it still held darker, damp patches where blood had soaked deep into the earth. Whenever the wind shifted toward the platform, it carried a sharp, iron smell that made the back of Alaric's throat ache.
Alaric stood on his wooden step, his small boots already coated in a fine layer of grey dust. His cloak hem was gritty, and the platinum ring on his left hand felt unnaturally cold again, as if the metal itself knew what was coming. Dawn stood close to him, her quarterstaff held upright. Her jaw was set in a hard, straight line that didn't belong on a child's face, her eyes fixed on the gates.
The heavy timber doors creaked open, and Cassian Redmark strode out like he owned the sun. He wore clean, polished armor that caught every ray of light. His arming sword was a work of art, and the buckler on his left arm looked chosen for style as much as defense. He bowed dramatically to the crowd, basking in the roar, then let his eyes slide up toward the platform. His gaze lingered first on Asimi, then on Alaric, with an expression that sat somewhere between a salute and a challenge.
Alaric felt the prickle of it immediately. Cassian didn't see a lord; he saw an opportunity.
Branna Kestrel entered from the opposite gate and drew a different reaction. The cheers faded into murmurs. She wore practical, riveted leather that had been oiled until it was almost black. No cloak, no tassels, no decoration. She carried a short spear and a small round shield, both scarred and dented, both honest. She did not bow. She simply set her spear point toward Cassian's chest and stared at him like she had already decided exactly what he was worth.
Cassian's smile widened, his teeth bright against his tanned skin. "My lady," he called out, his voice loud enough to invite the crowd's laughter.
Branna didn't answer. She didn't even blink.
The bell rang, the sound sharp and final.
Cassian moved first. He was light-footed and elegant, showing off clean angles and quick, deceptive feints. He tried to circle her, tried to make her turn and overcommit. Branna tracked him with a plain, grim efficiency, her spear point always a hovering threat. Her footwork wasn't pretty, but it was solid, the kind of movement learned on lonely roads where a single mistake meant a knife between the ribs.
Cassian slid in close, finding the gap he had been hunting. His blade scraped along Branna's shield rim with a screech of metal on metal and bit deep into her forearm. Blood appeared instantly, bright and slick, running down her tan skin to her fingers. The crowd made that eager, collective sound people make when pain finally proves the thing is real.
Dawn inhaled sharply beside Alaric, her grip tightening on her staff.
Branna's face didn't change. She didn't pull back. Instead, she jabbed forward, and her spear point punched into Cassian's thigh hard enough to wipe the smile off his face. He hissed and hopped back, his eyes hardening into something ugly. Blood welled around the puncture and began to soak into his fine fabric, a dark, spreading stain.
Cassian stopped performing.
He surged forward, his buckler snapping out to knock the spear shaft aside while his sword came over the top in heavy, desperate arcs. Branna blocked and gave ground, her boots skidding in the loose soil, dirt spraying in her wake. Cassian pressed her toward the boundary ropes like a man chasing a victory he felt he was owed, not thinking about the rhythm of the woman he was fighting.
Branna let him come.
When Cassian lunged again, putting his weight behind the strike, Branna stepped inside his swing. The spear butt came up in a blur and smashed into his mouth with a dull, wet crack. Alaric saw the flash of broken teeth and blood as Cassian stumbled back, spitting red into the dirt. The crowd screamed—half thrilled by the brutality, half horrified by the fallen idol.
Cassian's eyes went wild.
He charged again, sloppy with rage. Branna met him head-on, shield into buckler, her spear shaft jammed between them to keep his sword at bay. Cassian tried to slide his blade around her guard, but Branna stamped down on his wrist for a heartbeat and drove the spear forward with everything she had.
It pierced his upper arm.
Cassian screamed, a high and raw sound that cut through the noise of the arena. Blood ran thick and fast down his sleeve, dripping from his fingertips.
Neither yielded.
Cassian spat pink, tooth-broken saliva into the sand and lunged again, fueled by nothing but humiliation. His buckler hit hard, jarring Branna's arm. His sword followed and cut deep into her shoulder, splitting both leather and skin. Blood welled fast, darkening her shoulder strap until it turned black.
Branna grunted, her knees buckling for a split second, but she did not fall.
Cassian advanced like a man who couldn't feel his own body anymore, only the frantic need to win. He lifted his sword again for a finishing blow, and the crowd leaned in, starving for the end.
Branna's eyes stayed calm.
She baited his swing, ducked low under the arc of the steel, and slammed her shield edge into Cassian's wounded arm. Cassian howled, his sword dipping as his muscles failed him. Branna drove the spear butt into his gut hard enough to fold him in half, then swept his leg out with the rim of her shield.
Cassian hit the dirt on his back with a heavy thud.
Blood bubbled at his lips as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. Branna stepped over him, her spear point hovering at his throat, her own blood dripping from her shoulder and forearm to pit the dust. Her breathing was ragged and wet, but her aim was as steady as the tower on the hill.
"Yield," Branna said quietly.
Cassian's pride fought a losing battle in his face. He looked toward the crowd and saw their expressions—no longer admiring, only hungry for whichever ending came next. His jaw clenched.
Then he nodded once.
The bell rang, sharp and final. The herald screamed Branna's name, and the arena erupted into chaos. Medics dragged Cassian away, leaving a long, red smear in the dirt. Branna stood swaying for a moment, the adrenaline fading, then lowered her spear and let herself be supported by the attendants.
Alaric stared at the blood-streaked ground and felt his throat tighten.
Asimi leaned close to him. "When you give rank, Alaric," she murmured, her voice a cool shadow, "you reward what people are willing to do for you. Some offer their skill. Others offer their blood."
Alaric swallowed and nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the dark patch in the center of the ring. Dawn's hand lingered near his sleeve, not gripping this time, but close, as if she was steadying herself without wanting to admit the world was shaking.
"She didn't stop," Dawn whispered, her voice full of a strange, fearful respect.
Alaric watched Branna limp toward the gates and answered softly, "No. She didn't."
Above them, the Wizard's Tower caught the late sun and gleamed, silent as a grave. It watched the victors and the broken alike, as if measuring the weight of the strength being born in the mud beneath it.