The hollow ache left behind by Amara’s defeat still clung to arena like a shadow when the herald’s voice cracked across the arena, calling the final Quarter-Final match: Neema versus Nurabia Kabirui.

  The clash was sharp and breathless from the first heartbeat.

  Nurabia’s spearwork was a storm of motion—flickering, slicing, probing. Her speed was the kind that made the crowd lean forward without realizing it, the kind that turned breath into suspense. She hammered against Neema’s iron wall of muscle and will, each strike a blur of skill and raw spiritual intent.

  But the wind cannot uproot a mountain.

  Neema endured, absorbing her attacks with the patience of stone. Every blow she landed drained her, while every blow he accepted made him stronger. When her movements finally faltered—just a fraction, just enough—Neema surged forward. He cast aside his shield, wrapped Nurabia in his enormous arms, and with the grounding power of Earth à??, pinned her to the arena floor.

  It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even brutal.

  It was simply final.

  When the drum signaled the end, Neema rose, chest heaving like a forge-bellows, claiming the last open place in the semi-finals.

  And just like that, the day’s carnage had shaped its final four contenders: Grom. Lia. Silas. Neema. A strange, frightening constellation of power, secrets, and lies.

  The setting sun smeared the coliseum in deep orange, its dying light casting long shadows across the blood-slick floor. Defeated warriors limped or were carried from the palace’s competitor wing, each step slower than the last. Through the archway came Leonotis and Low—Lia and Grom—finding Adebayo and Zola waiting with wounds bound and spirits muted.

  Adebayo gave Low a respectful nod, the kind that existed only between people who had tested each other’s souls.

  “Grom Stonehand,” he said. “Your ferocity will be spoken of for years.”

  Low ducked her head. “You hit hard, big man. Broke two of my ribs.”

  She tried a smile. “Fair fight.”

  Adebayo chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that hurt to hear because of the truth it carried.

  “I hope our next meeting won’t require armor or blood.”

  “Me too,” she whispered, and Leonotis felt her sadness like a tug in his own chest. She knew this was the last time she’d ever stand in their light.

  Leonotis stepped forward, heart tight, and found Zola leaning on her cane. Her light à?? glowed like gentle morning mist around the wounds she was coaxing closed.

  “You fought beautifully, Lia,” Zola murmured. “You reminded the coliseum that honor isn’t a relic.”

  “And you showed me the strength of discipline even when hurting,” Leonotis replied. “When this is all over… I’d like to share a drink.”

  Zola smiled, but the softness of it nearly broke him.

  “Adebayo and I will stay to watch the semi-finals. We’ll be cheering for both of you. May the Sunstone rise for a champion worthy of its light.”

  For a moment, all four stood together—warriors who had earned each other’s respect by clashing steel and heart. The bond between them was delicate and precious, the kind that could only form in places where death is near enough to taste.

  And Leonotis and Low knew the truth: once their disguises fell, there would be no “later.”

  No drink.

  No reunion.

  No peace.

  Leonotis felt it like a stone lodging beneath his ribs—a sharp, quiet loneliness for a life he could never touch. A life with simple friendships, simple honor, simple futures.

  Adebayo and Zola walked away, their silhouettes fading into the palace corridors as if carried by the dark. They left behind the echo of something warm and fleeting.

  Something the fugitives could never keep.

  Back in their lavish prison of silks and stone guards, the masks finally came off. Leonotis peeled away the binding linen, muscles screaming from strain. Low shed the dwarf armor, shrinking back into the small girl she truly was—small, exhausted, brave despite all of it. Jacqueline and Zombiel sat waiting, tension written in the tightness of their stares.

  Low didn’t even sit. She went straight to the hidden supply chest.

  “That King’s invitation?” she said, voice like splintering wood. “It was a trap. The dinner was a test. The bathhouse was an interrogation. The semi-finals…”

  Her breath hitched.

  “…the semi-finals will be an execution.”

  “Amara’s defeat proved it,” Leonotis said, rubbing the pain from his shoulders. “Silas is the favorite.”

  Jacqueline’s eyes hardened. “And the King knows you two are the last unknowns. He saw the monster hiding in Grom. He saw the conflict strangling Lia. And he knows the one thing that will break you, Leonotis.”

  “My honor,” Leonotis whispered.

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  He crossed the room to the small oak sapling. He brushed a thumb along its tiny leaves, grounding himself, then reached for the parchment of tournament prizes.

  First Prize: The Sunstone — a jewel of undiluted divine radiance.

  Second Prize: The Royal Treasury’s Golden Chest.

  Third Prize: Ada Ogun, Blade of the Forge.

  Leonotis stared at the final one until the words blurred.

  Gethii’s sword.

  The last piece of his à?? signature.

  Low moved beside him, quiet and with grief lingering in her expression from the goodbyes they’d never be allowed to return to.

  “We came here for Gethii and Chinakah,” Leonotis said, voice rough.

  He tapped the third prize with a trembling knuckle.

  “I’m not aiming for first place, Low. I’m aiming for third.” He exhaled, resolve hardening like iron cooling in water.

  “We get Gethii and Chinakah out. And when we break him free…”

  His fingers closed into a fist.

  “…he’ll need the Ada Ogun.”

  The sapling’s tiny leaves shivered in the lamplight, as if bearing witness.

  The roar of the crowd rolled like thunder over the stone walls of the arena.

  Banners snapped in the desert wind—scarlet for King Rega, deep green for the southern clans, black for the mercenaries. Thousands of eyes pressed down from the tiered stands, their cries merging into a single, hungry chant:

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  Leonotis stood at the edge of the sand, the heat bleeding through his sandals. His heart beat like a drum. He had faced monsters, soldiers, and mercenaries—but never this. The gaze of an entire city demanding blood, his blood.

  Across the arena, his opponent stepped forward.

  Low scowled beneath her false beard. Her armor gleamed under the sun, her war axe slamming into the ground with a grunt that drew approving cheers. The crowd loved her.

  And now this match: Lia versus Grom.

  The royal herald lifted her wind chime staff. Its blare cut through the crowd.

  “Champions!” she cried. “By decree of His Majesty, King Rega, the semi-finals begin! To the victor, glory. To the vanquished—” she paused, letting the tension sharpen to a knife’s edge, “—honor in defeat.”

  The gates clanged shut behind them.

  Leonotis drew his linen-wrapped sword. He tried to steady his breathing. Across the sand, Low shifted her grip on the axe. Her eyes flicked once to him. For a heartbeat, he saw the girl beneath the disguise.

  They would fight—convincingly—but not seriously.

  The horn sounded again.

  The arena erupted.

  Low charged first, axe arcing downward in a blow that would have split a man in half. Leonotis dove sideways, the blade biting into sand where he’d stood. Cheers went up, the crowd hungry for blood.

  He rolled, came to his feet, and slashed back. His blade caught the shaft of her axe. For a moment, their weapons locked, faces inches apart.

  “Make it look good,” Low muttered, her voice barely audible.

  “You’re trying too hard,” Leonotis hissed back.

  They shoved off, breaking apart. Dust billowed around them. Leonotis feinted left, darted right, and slashed across Low’s shoulder. The blade kissed metal, leaving a shallow scrape. The crowd roared as if he’d drawn blood.

  Low retaliated with a spinning sweep of her axe, forcing Leonotis back. The weapon whistled past his ribs, close enough that he felt the wind of it. He stumbled, caught himself, and lunged again—his blade clanging off her breastplate.

  The rhythm built: strike, parry, dodge, counter.

  The crowd’s chant split—half shouting for “Lia of the Greenwater,” half for “Grom Stonehand.”

  But above it all, Leonotis felt the King’s gaze. From his throne, Rega watched with unreadable eyes. Testing. Measuring. Waiting for one of them to slip.

  Low drove her axe into the sand, spraying grit into Leonotis’s face. He reeled, blinking furiously. She pressed the advantage, swinging broad arcs that rattled his bones.

  “Keep up!” she barked, loud enough for the stands to hear.

  He grinned through the pain. “Don’t hold back on me, short-stuff.”

  Laughter rippled through the stands.

  Their weapons clashed again. Leonotis twisted, slid inside her guard, and kicked at her chest. She staggered back, sand spraying beneath her boots.

  The crowd surged to its feet. The fight looked real now—too real.

  Leonotis’s breath came ragged. He couldn’t keep this up forever.

  Low steadied herself, raising her axe once more. Then, barely above a whisper, she said:

  “Trip me.”

  Leonotis didn’t hesitate. He ducked under her swing, swept her leg, and sent her sprawling into the sand.

  The arena exploded in cheers. Dust flew. Low slammed her fist into the ground as if enraged, then leapt up, brandishing her axe.

  “Not bad!” she growled theatrically. “But it’ll take more than that to stop a dwarf!”

  The crowd howled.

  Leonotis’s chest burned. They were going to fight to exhaustion—maybe to blood—but not to death. Rega set up this fight because wanted to see who would break first.

  And they couldn’t break.

  For Gethii. For Chinakah. For each other.

  Above them, King Rega leaned back in his throne, smiling thinly.

  The semi-finals had only just begun.

  Their staged went on for a bloodthirsty audience. Leonotis ducked a sweeping strike, the wind of the axe grazing him. His feigned thrust was easily parried by Grom's massive axe.

  Low pressed her advantage, embodying brutal strength, driving Leonotis back. He blocked and dodged, but his exhaustion was showing. The crowd demanded a decisive blow.

  With a roar, Low lunged, her axe a thunderclap. The sheer momentum caught Leonotis mid-roll. The flat of the axe head slammed into his side, stealing his breath and sending him sprawling. His sword flew from his grasp, skittering into the sand.

  The sand stung Leonotis’s cheek as he hit the ground.

  The roar of the crowd shook the air, but beneath it he could hear only his own heartbeat, loud and frantic. His blade lay just out of reach. Above him, Low stood tall, axe raised, her shadow cutting across his body.

  It was the perfect moment for a finishing strike. The crowd was ready—chanting Grom’s name, stamping their feet so hard the arena trembled.

  But Leonotis didn’t move. He didn’t even reach for the sword.

  Instead, he met Low’s eyes and nodded.

  A fraction of a movement—enough.

  She understood.

  He was telling her without words: End this. Take the victory. I’ll yield.

  If he pushed her too far, one of them might slip, reveal too much, expose everything.

  Low’s axe hovered. The crowd held its breath.

  Then, she slammed the weapon down—burying it in the sand beside his head. The blade bit deep, showering him with grit. Gasps turned to thunderous cheers.

  Leonotis went still, letting his body sag as though defeated. His chest rose and fell raggedly.

  Low planted her boot on his chest and raised her axe high, playing the part of the triumphant victor. The crowd’s cheers turned to jeers, their bloodlust unsatisfied.

  Leonotis forced himself not to react. Every insult, every jeer pressed down like stones.

  This wasn’t about them.

  The herald’s voice cut through the chaos:

  “The winner—by dominance—Grom Stonehand!”

  Low raised her arms, axe gleaming in the sun, laughing, thumping her chest, the perfect brutish victor.

  Leonotis lay in the dust until attendants rushed in, dragging him toward the exit.

  The noise of the crowd followed him like smoke.

  When the gates clanged shut, silence fell.

  The attendants muttered about disappointment and wagers lost, leaving him alone in the torchlight.

  Minutes later, Low entered. She yanked off her helmet, sweat streaming down her face.

  “Wow,” she said breathlessly. “That was fun.”

  Leonotis raised his head. His lip was split, blood crusted at the corner. He gave a humorless laugh.

  “We entertained them long enough.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, Low knelt in front of him, her hand brushing his shoulder.

  “They’ll remember you as the coward who fell too easily.”

  “They’ll remember Lia, not me,” he murmured. His gaze drifted to the far tunnel where the King’s banners hung. “The truth isn’t for them to know. Not yet.”

  High above, King Rega watched the tunnel where Leonotis had vanished—his eyes cold, calculating.