The whistle hadn’t even faded before Iron Vanguard moved.

They came like a landslide—four hunters in black and green, their heavy hitters at the front, flankers sweeping wide. Their leader, a woman named Greta with arms like iron cables and a shield the size of a door, led the charge. Her boots pounded against the arena floor, each step a hammer blow.

Cora didn’t wait.

She phased through Greta’s shield, reappeared behind her, and slashed at her legs. Greta spun, faster than a woman her size had any right to be, and her shield caught Cora’s blade. The impact rang through the arena.

"Annoying," Greta growled.

"You have no idea," Cora said, and phased again.

Mason met the other heavy hitter head-on—a man named Torin who wielded two massive axes, each one glowing with enchanted fire. Mason’s gauntlets caught the first axe, heat radiating from his palms. The second axe came low, aimed at his ribs.

He jumped.

The axe whistled beneath him. Mason landed, grabbed Torin’s wrist, and unleashed a burst of heat. Torin grunted, his grip loosening, but he didn’t drop the axe.

"You’re strong," Mason said.

"You’re not bad yourself," Torin replied, and shoved him back.

Sera had climbed onto a raised platform at the edge of the arena, her crossbow barking bolts at the flankers. One went down with a bolt in his leg, another ducked behind a pillar. She didn’t stop. Her blood sense tracked them through the stone, through the shadows, through the chaos of the fight.

"Two more, left side," she called.

Derek raised his staff. Ghosts materialized—two, three, four of them, their forms translucent and cold. They drifted toward the flankers, freezing their weapons, their hands, their breath.

"Keep them there!" Derek shouted.

The ghosts obeyed.

Lucian watched from the center of the arena, his blades sheathed, his feet planted. He wasn’t fighting. Not yet. He was reading the battlefield—the flow of the fight, the positions of the enemies, the fatigue in his teammates’ movements.

Iron Vanguard was strong. Experienced. But they weren’t a unit. They were four individuals who happened to be fighting together.

Greta was the key.

She directed their movements, called their formations, covered their weaknesses. Without her, the other three would fall apart.

Cora knew it too.

She feinted left, phased right, and appeared in front of Greta with her blade at the woman’s throat.

"Yield."

Greta’s eyes blazed. "Never."

She swung her shield. Cora phased through it, reappeared behind her, and swept her legs. Greta fell—hard, her shield clanging against the floor. Cora’s blade was at her throat again.

"Yield."

The arena was quiet.

Greta stared at the blade, at Cora’s face, at the crowd watching from the stands.

"Yield," Cora said again, softer this time. "You’ve fought well. Don’t throw away your team for pride."

Greta’s jaw tightened. She looked at Torin, still locked in combat with Mason. At her flankers, frozen by Derek’s ghosts and pinned by Sera’s bolts.

"Fine," she spat. "We yield."

The referee raised her hand. "Iron Vanguard surrenders. Ashen Dawn advances to the finals!"

The crowd erupted.

Cora stepped back, sheathed her sword, and offered Greta a hand. The woman stared at it for a moment, then took it, pulling herself to her feet.

"You’re good," Greta said.

"I know."

Greta almost smiled. "Annoying."

"That’s what they tell me."

The teams separated. Mason’s gauntlets cooled. Sera lowered her crossbow. Derek’s ghosts faded. Lucian finally moved, walking to the center of the arena where his team gathered.

"You did well," he said.

"We did," Cora agreed. "You barely fought."

"I wasn’t needed."

She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t. He was right. They had won on their own. No Lucian carrying them, no hidden power tipping the scales. Just Ashen Dawn, fighting as a team.

It felt good.

---

The Silver Falcons’ match was next.

Thornwick Academy was fast, aggressive, and well-trained. They had advanced through the brackets with minimal losses, and their leader—a sharp-eyed woman named Valeria—had a reputation for breaking through defensive lines.

It didn’t matter.

Dorian dismantled them.

He moved like water, like shadow, like something that had never been solid to begin with. His blade flickered between opponents, never staying in one place long enough to be parried. His team flowed around him, anticipating his movements, covering his blind spots. They weren’t just coordinated—they were symbiotic.

The match lasted four minutes.

Thornwick surrendered after Valeria took a blow to the shoulder that would have shattered a lesser fighter’s collarbone. She walked off the arena floor with her head high, but her eyes were dark.

The Silver Falcons stood in the center of the arena, their uniforms immaculate, their breath steady. Dorian looked toward the waiting area where Ashen Dawn watched.

He smiled.

Cora’s hand tightened on her sword. "I really hate him."

"You’ve said it several times," Lucian said.

The referee raised her hand. "The finals are set. Ashen Dawn versus Silver Falcons. Tomorrow at noon."

The crowd roared.

Dorian’s smile never wavered.

---

Ashen Keep – Training Yard – Evening

The team didn’t celebrate.

They didn’t have time. Tomorrow was the finals, and the Silver Falcons weren’t Iron Vanguard. They were faster, smarter, more experienced. They had years of training together, years of perfecting their craft.

Ashen Dawn had months.

But months had been enough.

Lucian stood at the center of the yard, his arms crossed, watching his team run drills. Cora phased through a series of swinging weights, her blade striking targets with precision. Mason’s flames were steady, controlled, no longer flickering. Sera’s blood sense was sharper than ever, tracking multiple targets through walls. Derek commanded three ghosts now, their movements synchronized, their cold presence no longer making him flinch.

They were ready.

"Tomorrow," Cora said, landing beside him. "The finals."

"Tomorrow," Lucian agreed.

"Are you going to fight?"

"If I need to."

She studied his face. "You’ve been holding back. The whole tournament."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He looked at her. "Because there have not been a worthy opponent for me."