When the dust and the watery haze finally settled, the arena fell silent.
There, in the center, stood Juan—his sabre trembling, the blade poised inches from Isabella's throat. She knelt before him, one hand braced on the ground, her body marked with blood and sweat.
She raised her head slowly, a faint, almost amused smile playing on her lips.
"Well done," she whispered. "Now kill me."
The edge of Juan's sabre shook. His jaw tightened, and for a moment the crowd held its breath, expecting crimson to spill. But instead Juan straightened, pulling the blade back with a sharp motion.
"No," he said firmly, his voice carrying across the coliseum. "I won't become like you."
Gasps rippled through the spectators, some surprised, others approving.
At the judge's podium, Grandmaster Aurelius rose to his feet. His voice thundered across the arena, echoing in every stone arch:
"Victory belongs to Team Twenty-Seven!"
The crowd erupted. The young hunters' names, whispered in doubt, now roared across the coliseum. Aurelius lifted his hand, four fingers raised.
"Four flames are granted to this team for their triumph over their Warden!"
The sound of applause mixed with murmurs of disbelief. Few had expected the masked novice, the disciple of Bartolomeu, the orphaned archer, and the ambitious disciple of Basil to emerge victorious.
Lucien—Azazel—let out a shaky breath. His vision blurred, colors bleeding into each other. The sharp burn in his chest spread like fire. The adrenaline was gone; all that remained was the raw, brutal reality of broken ribs.
His knees gave out.
The last thing he saw was Isabella, being lifted by the healers at the same time as he collapsed. Her eyes, still sharp, flicked toward him—not with malice, but something closer to respect.
As the medics carried him away, Aurelius's booming voice continued, unrelenting:
"Next, Team Twelve! Your trial is upon you. Three flames, for victory over—" He paused for weight. "—the cursed spirit of the Carmine Wolf."
The audience roared again.
But Azazel heard nothing more. Darkness wrapped around him. And in the silence of his mind, a familiar voice spoke—warm, proud, and faint:
[You did well, boy.]
His grandfather's words were the last thing he heard before unconsciousness claimed him.