Three days slipped by like an exhale. Wads spent them the same way he'd spent the three before: hours carved into quiet fragments of training; breath measured; aura threaded thin and then gathered; mind sharpened against impossibilities. He prodded the edge of Aetherial Eclipse until his thoughts rang hollow. Nothing. No matter how he set the board or starved himself of distraction, the horizon refused to break. He let the frustration pass through him, counted heartbeats, and thought instead about control—about what he could shape when the thing he wanted would not answer.
"What's with the long face?" Klyden slung an arm across his shoulders as if he'd been waiting his whole life to do it in this exact hallway. They were drifting with the current of students toward the Colosseum, sunlight laddering down across banners, air bright with the spice of roasted nuts and resin from freshly oiled practice weapons. Klyden was also balancing a giant cup of popcorn—barbecue dust on the rim, knuckles stained gold-red.
Wads rolled his eyes in reply.
"It's going to be great," Klyden promised the world, then to the popcorn: "We trained for this."
They passed under the Colosseum arch and sound swallowed them—crowds layered on crowds, the scrape of sandals on stone, the brief roar whenever a familiar upper-year strode into view. The amphitheater opened like a stone flower: wide tiers of seating; pennants hanging from iron rings; sigils etched along the lip of the arena floor, faintly luminous, promising containment and survival. Sand lay smooth and pale in the circle below, raked to a blank page.
They cut right along a guarded stair and climbed to the low wall of the second tier on the 1st-year side. This section was almost empty; only ten seats were occupied or saved, roped off with braided cords—spaces reserved for today's duellists. Liora stood waving both arms as if she could flag down stars. "Here!" she shouted, grin sharp.
Wads let his gaze pass her shoulder while they walked. Across the ring, the sophomores mirrored them—another second tier, another ten, a scattering of poses. One boy sat sprawled like he owned whatever his shoulders touched; a girl with a braid tight as rope kept her hands folded and spine straight; another student in a high collar rested with eyes half-lidded, pulse unreadable. Cockiness? Composure? Hard to tell at this distance. Harder to care. He filed silhouettes, not attitudes.
As they reached the rail, a salt-and-cinnamon murmur floated from the normal 1st-year seating above them.
"That's them—look—"
"Top ten? Stars, they look—"
"Is that Wads? The black aura guy?"
"Liora's hair is perfect even when she breathes."
"Do I bow? Do we bow? Don't bow."
Wads sighed, sat, and let the stone cool his back. Liora immediately fished a fistful of popcorn from Klyden's tub. Klyden didn't even pretend to guard it. He plopped down on Wads's other side, elbow already hooked behind his friend's neck.
"We only find out who faces who after the announcement?" Liora asked around a crunch.
"Balanced pairings," Wads said. "They'll try parity of strength and Diety. No favorites." He rested his forearms on his knees and watched the opposite ledge again, not quite staring. "I'm more curious about the order."
"First fight's always cursed," Klyden announced like a superstition he intended to break.
A pulse rolled through the Colosseum air—subtle, then bright. The emcee stepped into a beam of daylight near the center rail: a student in Academy blacks with a red headband tied around his brow, its tails fluttering when he moved. He had a red gem cupped in one palm; when he raised it, his voice unfurled cleanly to every corner of the arena.
"Zheno!" he called, joy unforced, grin immediate. "Are you ready?"
Noise detonated. Klyden howled. Wads frowned on principle.
"For today's duels, I have the honor of shouting at you until my voice fails." The boy gave an extravagant bow and a breezy wave. "Kaizer Aleksander Zheka—fourth-year senior, your guide and your very responsible older brother figure." He winked at the nearest section; a knot of students erupted like he'd thrown them candy.
Wads's lips parted; Klyden's eyes went round. Kaizer's mouth, that easy grin—yes. The bone structure was close to Keiya's, the tilt of the brow familiar, though his eyes were a clean, bottomless black where Keiya's held violet-sapphire edges. Personality? The opposite of a tempered blade.
Klyden leaned forward until he was almost in Wads's lap. "Keiyaaa," he stage-whispered past him, "is that—"
"Do not finish that sentence," Keiya said from Liora's other side, voice crisp as winter light. She had materialized with the quiet efficiency of someone who refused to rush for anyone. "Yes. He is my brother. Yes, he is… that." She placed one palm over her face without actually touching it, dignity calculating the minimum viable embarrassment.
"He's great," Klyden decided instantly.
"He is exhausting," Keiya corrected.
"Love it," Klyden said.
"Of course you do," Liora murmured, feeding herself another handful of Klyden's popcorn while he was distracted.
Down on the catwalk, Kaizer spun the gem once and let it catch the sun. "We'll keep it simple. Use what you've got: tactics, Diety, weird heirlooms, that one move you swore you'd save." The crowd laughed. "No fatalities. Severe injuries are forbidden. Surrender ends a match; unconsciousness ends a match; inability to continue ends a match. No time limits. The wards will hold. Healers are ready. If you're going to be brilliant, be quick about it."
Another cheer, ragged and happy. The sigils around the arena brightened until their lines were clear.
Kaizer lifted a parchment, but he didn't need to look at it; the names came like he'd rehearsed them in his bones.
"Ashborne Dunsmore versus Cassian Volterrani."
A ripple moved the opposite tier; a tall boy in gray with a silver-stitched collar—Cassian, likely—tilted his chin as if accepting tribute he hadn't yet earned. On Wads's side, Ashborne pushed off the rail and stood, expression unreadable, white hair catching sun like polished bone.
"Ysoria Eldridge versus Isolde Falkenrath."
Ysoria lifted a hand, soft smile hiding a blade. Across the way, Isolde didn't move, the line of her mouth serene and dangerous.
"Thaddeus Wynthrope versus Edric Blackmoore."
Thaddeus adjusted his cuffs with elegant annoyance. Edric grinned in a way that suggested broken rules and a mother's sigh.
"Jerken Knightmore versus Thalassa Corvane."
Jerken cracked his neck theatrically. Thalassa balanced her weight like a dancer, hair pinned with a single obsidian pin.
"Vexana Tret Gewerson versus Gideon Ashcroft."
Vexana rolled a shoulder; Gideon's smile was a scythe.
"Keiya Anastasia Zheka versus Benedictus Marrowe."
Keiya's lashes lowered a fraction; across the ring, a blocky boy with a heavy jaw spat to the side and missed the mark by a finger-width. Keiya's mouth thinned in silent judgment.
"Klyden Yurei versus Lyra von Heissen."
Klyden's grin turned into a sunrise. Lyra, a narrow girl with Auburn hair, in a high knot, didn't dignify him with a glance.
"Liora Vallegoire versus Seraphine d'Artois."
At that, Liora's heterochromatic gaze sparked. Seraphine, all lace collar and calm poise, tucked a stray hair behind her ear and met Liora's eyes without blinking.
"Reiyell Georgia Frey Ravenscroft versus Alaric Veynar."
The arena seemed to inhale. On the sophomore ledge, Alaric stepped forward into full light, ash-brown hair a shadow against his temples, the scar at his left eye catching white. He scanned their line with slow intent and settled on Wads for the briefest of moments—a courteous nod, nothing more. Reiyell answered no one's gaze and everyone's with the same composed stillness, a queen's patience in a girl's body.
"And finally," Kaizer said, grin hitching higher, "Wyxro Waxzi versus Evelina Petrovna."
A girl with a blade-short bob and ink-dark eyes lifted her chin from the sophomore side; she wore her uniform like a dare. Wads breathed out once and let the name settle where it belonged—in the place where he filed the next necessary shape.
Kaizer spun in place with ridiculous grace, threw his free hand wide. "That's the slate! First fighters, ready yourselves. You've got five minutes to make every mistake you'll pretend you didn't mean to make." He bowed, then—because he was Kaizer—winked at absolutely no one and managed to make a third of the arena scream anyway.
Keiya's eyebrow climbed almost to her hairline. Across Wads's shoulder, Klyden was vibrating with glee.
"Your brother's a menace," Liora observed.
"He is… practiced," Keiya allowed, which in noble parlance meant impossible and yet tolerated.
Wads let their chatter wash along the rail while he did what he always did: watched. On the sand, attendants raked and smoothed one final pass, then withdrew. Along the rim, the sigils' glow steadied into a halo. He tracked Ashborne's stride—front-foot heavy, shoulders relaxed, eyes measuring angles, not faces. Cassian's walk was performance; he liked being seen. Advantage, Ashborne, if he didn't rush into the lie.
Above, the bleachers became weather: gusts of laughter; bursts of murmurs; pockets of silence. The heat of bodies pressed upward to the second tier. Somewhere a drum began a simple beat—boom… boom… boom…—its patience crueler than any roll.
Klyden nudged the popcorn tub toward Wads's elbow without looking away from the sand. "Fuel?"
Wads took one piece. It was sweet and smoky, stuck briefly in a molar, stubborn. "Save your hands," he said.
"For punching or for clapping?"
"Both."
Liora tipped her head at the sophomores' bench. "Lyra von Heissen looks like she sleeps with a sword under her pillow."
"She looks like she's invented a better pillow out of a sword," Keiya said.
Klyden pretended to be intimidated, then failed and grinned wider. "I hope she's fast."
"You hope everyone is fast," Wads said.
"True."
Across the way, Alaric leaned to say something to a teammate; his profile caught moonlight's memory even in day. Wads remembered the garden—Are you alright?—and the way the man had held power close, not flaunted. This would be interesting when it arrived. Not yet.
A herald in light leathers jogged to the center of the sand and lifted a flag. The drum fell silent mid-beat. Noise tightened into a coil.
Kaizer's voice came smooth as silk over steel. "Ashborne Dunsmore," he called, "Cassian Volterrani. To the circle."
Sand hissed under boots. Ashborne stepped down from the 1st-year's gate; Cassian from the sophomores'. They stopped ten paces apart, sigil light pooling at their ankles.
Wads leaned his forearms deeper into the stone and let everything else fall away. Above, students whispered like wind through pine.
"Look how calm he is—"
"Cassian's smile is illegal—"
"Is that Ashborne's family crest—"
"Shh—"
Beside him, Klyden bounced his knee; Liora stilled, pupils narrowing; Keiya folded her hands and kept her face blank, which told Wads more than any grin.
Five minutes had burned without anyone noticing. The flag dropped.
The day, finally, began.