Robert dropped to his knees, not because anyone had forced him to, but because his own body simply couldn't do otherwise anymore. He was fully aware of his mistakes, powerless against an outcome he had brought upon himself, for impatience and panic had defeated him long before Valentine had even made her final move. This was the price of having thrown away his victory, and that price weighed heavier than any blade could ever have struck.
Valentine looked up, toward the dwarf king, and her voice carried far across the suddenly silent field.
"I will win this tournament."
She said it with confidence, without a trace of arrogance, as if merely stating a fact that had long since been settled. She was prepared to walk over bodies to reach where she wanted to go, and nothing in her gaze so much as hinted at questioning that resolve. Quietly, almost speaking to herself, she went on murmuring.
"Regina will grant me the wish I've longed for, for so long."
Her gaze dropped briefly to the ground before she raised it again.
"Wait for me. Just a little longer."
The field on which they had just been struggling over victory and defeat began to withdraw, shrinking piece by piece back into its original form, while the Aether that had carried it slowly faded away. What remained was pure joy on one side, and nothing but disappointment on the other, settling over Robert like a heavy coat.
His own kind booed him. Lying on the ground, he had no strength left to answer, let alone defend himself. Defeated. By a human. The orcs were a greedy, sometimes ungrateful people who knew little of respect, and their mockery struck Robert harder than any weapon could have.
But Valentine stopped short.
"Losing is no shame!" she shouted from the depths of her soul, loud enough that even the farthest rows heard her. "Anyone who has a problem with that can step forward."
The crowd fell silent. Not out of fear, but out of a kind of spellbound respect for the stake this woman was willing to put up, only to protect the dignity of someone she herself had defeated just moments before.
Robert lifted his head. Tears streamed down his face, as fierce as if a waterfall had broken loose inside him. Among the orcs, pure fury erupted. Some insulted one another, others spat down into the arena, and four of them, who thought themselves particularly clever, drew their weapons and leapt over the railing in one single, reckless motion. Blood was wanted, that much was clear.
Valentine held her ground and drew her sword.
"You brat," bellowed the largest of the four, "you dare challenge us?"
He towered even over Robert, more than two meters and forty-five centimeters of muscle and rage, a greatsword in his hands nearly as large as he was.
"Enough now."
The king didn't speak loudly, and yet his voice cut through the uproar as if he had placed it directly into everyone's ears. He was already standing behind the four orcs with his massive hammer, without anyone having noticed his movement.
"Whoever has the nerve to lay a hand on the flow of this tournament…" He paused briefly. His eyes widened, glowing with a light that allowed no argument. Then, in an almost casual, almost ordinary tone, one that was all the more threatening for it: "…will have to deal with me."
The four orcs froze under the sheer weight of the king's presence. Within a few heartbeats they retreated, climbing back up the stands like children caught in the act, as if nothing had happened, without another word.
Valentine gave the king a brief bow and returned to her seat. Robert, on the other hand, left the arena, gaze lowered, accompanied only by his own silence.
Up in the stands, Nouel closed his eyes and leaned back, as if he'd just finished a particularly fine meal.
"What an exciting round," he said, in a voice better suited to an old man simply savoring the moment than to a young archer who hadn't even warmed up yet.
The king raised his voice once more, and with it, the next announcement.
"The next candidates: Gallant and Sephiro!"
Gallant was a shapeshifter, a Mutari, thirty-nine years old. His opponent, Sephiro, a dark elf of fifty-five—still remarkably young for an elf, considering the age his race could actually reach. Both strode down into the arena with perfect calm, as if time itself had decided to stay loyal to them. They savored every single second of this atmosphere, which for others was an unavoidable moment of life and death, and for the two of them merely a pleasant pastime.
The usual ritual began. The king became one with the spirits, illuminated by the souls of the departed speaking through him to the living. Their decision came quickly: this duel would be an arena of water. Water flowed into the arena, enclosing the two combatants, while a small, circular island rose from the ground beneath their feet. Whoever fell into the water had already lost, no matter how the fight otherwise unfolded.
"Begin!" the king shouted.
Weapons were allowed. Aether could be used. So far, these were the best conditions this tournament had offered.
Up in the stands, Alvios crossed his arms impatiently, grumbling quietly to himself because he still wasn't allowed to fight. Nearly drained from all the waiting, he sank back into his seat.
"Man, how much longer do I have to wait."
Viktoria giggled softly beside him.
"I can hardly wait either, to finally show what I can do."
Nouel pulled a long face, while Raiiko sank silently into himself, meditating inwardly, as if the actual tournament lay far outside his attention. Since the starting signal, nothing had moved down in the arena at first. It looked more as though both fighters were still gathering themselves.
Gallant reached for his weapon first. Two jagged knuckle-blades appeared on his fists, gleaming cold in the light. Sephiro drew a collapsible spear that unfolded to its full length with a dry click. For a moment, nothing happened. No fighting stance, no advance, only a strange stillness in which even the crowd seemed to hold its breath. Both combatants began circling one another, gazes locked, as if they meant to measure each other more with words than with weapons.
Sephiro pointed the tip of his spear at Gallant.
"Tell me, why are you taking part in this tournament."
Gallant's eyes lit up in surprise.
"Me, oh… well, this is really just a pastime for me."
The elf didn't believe a single word. He shot Gallant a dark look.
"I don't believe you."
The spectators, tense and curious, barely dared to move, let alone speak.
"You're a shapeshifter, aren't you."
Sephiro searched deliberately for the words meant to unsettle Gallant.
"Your kind is well known."
He finally shifted into a clear fighting stance, spear tip lowered, ready.
"Wherever you show up, people die."
Gallant, too, now took up his stance, calm, almost bored, and answered with only a single sentence.
"You talk too much."
A powerful sprint erupted. Gallant shot forward, straight at Sephiro, the jagged knuckle-blades leading, while the elf brought his spear into position.
The clash lasted only the blink of an eye. Metal met metal, a short, hard clang, followed by a second and a third, as both fighters traded blows in a fast, controlled exchange without either truly gaining ground. Sephiro's spear swept aside in a tight arc, Gallant dodged with a short step, countered with a hook that met nothing but air, and both broke apart again almost in the same instant, as if they had silently agreed on a brief pause. They fell back into their stances, circling each other again, this time tighter, more watchful, while the Aether around them grew noticeably denser.
Gallant now stood near the outer edge of the small island, the dark water only a few steps behind him. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, a tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth, as if something had just occurred to him that he rather liked.
Sephiro attacked.
The spear shot forward, aimed, precise, with all the force of a fighter seizing his moment while his opponent, apparently, had no escape left at the edge of the island. But at that exact instant, as the spearpoint cut through the air, Gallant's shape began to change.
His outline blurred like smoke in the wind. The jagged knuckle-blades dissolved into fine Aether dust, his build grew slighter, more supple, his clothing seemed to adapt to the new form on its own. Where a broad-shouldered man had stood a moment before, there now stood a woman of striking beauty, dark hair drifting around her face in the wind of the motion, a smile appearing in the exact split second Sephiro's spear should have struck her.
Sephiro froze. Not for long, only a single heartbeat too long, but that one heartbeat was enough. His eyes widened, his grip on the spear loosened, almost imperceptibly, as if part of him were fighting against his own mind, refusing to believe this apparition.
Gallant, still in that unfamiliar, graceful form, sidestepped with a flowing turn, letting the spearpoint sweep past just barely, and in the same breath delivered a kick, clean, powerful, straight into Sephiro's flank. The elf staggered, tried to correct himself, but the momentum had already carried him past the edge of the small island. With a loud splash he vanished into the churned water, while Gallant, having shifted back into his original form, remained standing calmly on the island, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
"The match is decided!" the king announced, though with a hint of astonishment in his voice. "The winner is Gallant!"
Up in the stands, Alvios's mouth hung wide open, and for a long moment he didn't even seem to blink.
"What… in the world was that."
He kept glancing back and forth between the arena and Nouel, as if someone might explain what he had actually just witnessed. Nouel, on the other hand, said not a single word. He only watched with an unmoved expression, while behind his forehead a single, unspoken question was forming: what in the world was that. But outwardly he showed nothing but his usual, faintly haughty calm, crossing his arms and continuing to watch as if he'd seen a hundred things like it before. Viktoria, meanwhile, nearly burst out laughing, pressing a hand over her mouth and whispering, barely audible: "My prince, you should see your face." Even Raiiko, rarely shaken from his composure, opened his eyes a fraction wider than usual for a moment, before sinking back into silent observation.
Down in the water, Sephiro resurfaced, sputtering, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered across his face, and climbed with visible effort back over the edge of the arena onto dry ground. His gaze sought out Gallant, but instead of anger it carried something else: a reluctant respect.
"That was…" he coughed up water, "…not fair."
Gallant shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"I never claimed to fight fair."
Sephiro shook his head, a tired, faintly amused smile on his lips, as he trudged past the other contestants, dripping wet, back toward the stands, accompanied by scattered laughter from the rows.
Barely had the excitement settled when the king raised his voice again, deep and carrying across the entire arena.
"The next two candidates, step forward!"
He reached into the jar, drew two slips, unfolded them—and a broad grin spread across his face before he had even said a word.
"Herkule and Alvios!"
For a single heartbeat, no one moved. Then Alvios shot up from his seat so abruptly that he nearly tripped over his own feet.
"FINALLY!"
His shout rang out louder over the stands than any cheer the crowd had produced so far. Viktoria burst into laughter, Nouel closed his eyes in resignation, as if he had seen exactly this reaction coming, and even Raiiko allowed himself a small, barely visible shake of the head. Alvios took the steps down to the arena two at a time, as if every further breath of waiting caused him physical pain.
From the opposite direction his opponent stepped forward. Herkule was an orc in his prime, broader still than Robert, with scarred arms that told of countless fights, and a calm, almost amused look that showed he felt neither anger nor contempt for his young opponent, but something closer to respect. He gave Alvios a brief nod as the two faced each other in the middle of the arena.
The king stepped forward, closed his eyes, and once again connected with the voices of the ancestors. This time it took longer than usual, as if the spirits themselves were deliberating over the choice, while his body trembled faintly and a harsh blue light flickered beneath his closed eyelids. When he opened his eyes again, his voice was no longer that of a single man, but a chorus, deep, many-voiced, unshakable.
"Disarm yourselves. No steel shall speak today. Only the flow itself."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Two guards stepped forward and took Herkule's massive axe from him without so much as a change in his expression, while Alvios's hand instinctively moved toward Libertas's hilt—and sank back down empty as he realized no one would let him keep his blade today.
No steel. No runes through which he could channel his flow, the way he had during the qualification round. Only himself, and whatever it was inside him that was waiting for a call he himself still didn't fully understand.
Alvios looked down at his own hands, felt his fingers close slightly, and thought of the past two days, of Raiiko's calm voice, of the fire he had seen during his meditation and still hadn't managed to shake off. He didn't know what would emerge from within him in this fight, now that for the first time he had to rely entirely on his own flow, alone.
Herkule settled into position, fists loose, posture relaxed, as if he had already fought a hundred fights just like this one. The crowd fell silent. The king raised his hand.
And Alvios stood there, without a sword, without certainty, with only the Aether waiting somewhere deep inside him for its first conscious call.