The day of the tournament

The arena was packed.

Lucian had seen Ashford’s tournament hall before—during orientation, when Alistair had walked them through the layout, explaining the rules and the history and the weight of the inter-academy championship. But seeing it empty was nothing like seeing it full. The stands rose in tiered rows, packed with students, faculty, visiting hunters, and dignitaries from the other academies. Banners hung from the rafters—Ashford’s silver and blue, Thornwick’s crimson and gold, Iron Vanguard’s black and green, and a dozen others he didn’t recognize.

The noise was a living thing, a roar that pressed against his ears and made his chest vibrate.

Ashen Dawn stood in the waiting area beneath the stands, their weapons checked and rechecked, their uniforms crisp. Cora was bouncing on her heels, barely containing her excitement. Mason was calm, his gauntlets gleaming under the artificial lights. Sera had her phone in her pocket for once, her eyes fixed on the tunnel that led to the arena floor. Derek was pale, his staff clutched in white-knuckled hands, but his jaw was set.

Lucian stood apart, watching them.

He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t excited. He was just... present. The system hummed softly in the background, a reminder of the power he carried, but he pushed it down. This wasn’t about him. Not yet.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers.

"First match of the preliminary rounds—Ashford Academy’s Ashen Dawn versus Northmere Institute’s Iron Griffins!"

Cora grinned. "That’s us."

Derek swallowed. "Here we go."

They walked up the tunnel.

---

The arena floor was vast, a rectangle of packed earth surrounded by wards that shimmered faintly in the light. The Iron Griffins were already in position—four of them, all wearing grey uniforms with a griffin emblem on their chests. They looked confident. Experienced. Their leader, a stocky young man with a crooked nose and heavy gauntlets, cracked his neck and stared at Ashen Dawn with open disdain.

"So these are the rookies," he said, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "Heard you got lucky on your first mission. Let’s see how lucky you are without a monster to hide behind."

Cora’s smile sharpened. "Let’s find out."

The referee stepped between them. "Rules—no lethal force. No targeting the head after a knockout. Surrender is binding." She raised her hand. "Ready?"

The Iron Griffins raised their weapons.

Ashen Dawn raised theirs.

"Begin."

The Iron Griffins charged.

They were fast—faster than rookies had any right to be. Their leader came straight for Cora, his gauntlets swinging wide, while his teammates fanned out to engage the others. It was a simple strategy, but effective. Overwhelm the enemy before they could coordinate.

Cora phased through the leader’s first punch, her short sword appearing at his throat. He jerked back, surprise flickering across his face.

Behind her, Mason caught a charging opponent with a burst of heat that sent him stumbling. Sera’s crossbow bolt pinned another’s sleeve to the ground. Derek raised his staff, and two ghosts materialized—one on either side of the fourth opponent, their cold hands freezing his weapon in place.

The Iron Griffins froze.

Not because they were outmatched—because they hadn’t expected the rookies to react so fast. To move so well together.

Lucian hadn’t moved.

He stood near the edge of the arena, his blades still sheathed, watching. The Iron Griffins weren’t a threat. They were a warm-up. A chance for his team to stretch their muscles and test their coordination.

Cora disarmed the leader with a flick of her wrist. "Yield."

His face red. "Never."

She sighed, phased behind him, and tapped the back of his knee with the flat of her blade. He crumpled.

"Yield?"

He glared but said nothing.

The referee stepped in. "Iron Griffins are unable to continue. Ashen Dawn advances."

The crowd cheered.

Derek stared at his ghosts, then at his hands. "We won."

"We won," Sera confirmed, lowering her crossbow.

Mason cracked his neck. "It was easy."

Cora sheathed her sword and walked to Lucian. "You didn’t fight."

"Didn’t need to."

She frowned. "You’re supposed to show them what you can do."

"I showed them what we can do." He looked at the crowd, at the other teams watching from the sidelines. "That’s more important."

Cora followed his gaze.

The Silver Falcons stood in the opposite waiting area, their uniforms immaculate, their expressions unreadable. Dorian was at the front, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Lucian.

He smiled.

Not a friendly smile. A predator’s smile.

Cora’s jaw tightened. "I hate him."

"You’re not the only one."

---

The second match ended minutes later.

The Silver Falcons demolished their opponents—a team from a small academy Lucian didn’t recognize—in less than two minutes. Dorian moved like water, his blade flickering between targets, never staying in one place long enough to be hit. His team flowed around him, anticipating his movements, covering his blind spots.

They were good.

Better than good.

As they left the arena, Dorian paused by the tunnel entrance. His eyes found Lucian.

"Nice warm-up," he said. "See you in the finals."

Then he was gone.

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

"Save it for the match," Lucian said.

---

The crowd thinned as the preliminary rounds continued. Ashen Dawn had the rest of the day off—their next match wasn’t until tomorrow. The team scattered: Cora to the training yard to burn off energy, Mason to the armory to check his gauntlets, Sera to find food, Derek to the library to research their next opponent.

Lucian stayed in the arena.

He watched match after match, studying the other teams, noting their strengths and weaknesses. Thornwick was fast but overconfident. Iron Vanguard was heavy but predictable. A team from a northern academy used coordinated magic that reminded him of Cora’s phase ability.

He was so focused on the matches that he almost missed the face in the crowd.

Almost.

It was in the shadows of the upper stands, half-hidden behind a pillar. A man. Lean, sharp-featured, with pale eyes that tracked the arena floor with the patience of a predator.

Lucian’s blood went cold.

He knew that face.

Kai. One of Voss’s twins.

The rogues who had escaped custody after the Millfield mission.

Lucian moved before he thought, pushing through the crowd, his eyes locked on the figure. But the stands were packed, and by the time he reached the pillar, Kai was gone. The shadow where he’d stood was empty.

Lucian scanned the crowd—the exits, the stairs, the tunnels. Nothing.

He pulled out his phone, typed a message to Alistair: Kai was in the stands. Watching. Gone before I could follow.

Alistair’s reply came a minute later: I’ll alert security. Stay with your team. Don’t go alone.

Lucian pocketed the phone.

His hands were steady, but his mind was racing. Why was Kai here? What did he want? Revenge? Information? Or something else entirely?

He walked back to the tunnel entrance, his eyes still scanning the crowd.

The tournament had just begun.

But the real game was being played somewhere else.