"Yo yo yooooo! Welcome to the final stage of the under-16 tournament! I hope you all have your snacks and drinks ready for the first round of the final stage. Today, we have 8 matches for you to enjoy, filled with excitement and competition," the announcer said, pausing to give everyone some time to shout in excitement.
The arena echoed with the sound of stamped feet, rattling seats, and vendors shouting last-minute sales as they dashed up and down the aisles. Flags were waving, charms were glittering, and somebody behind me was already crying that they'd lost their ticket before the matches even started. Typical.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, there will be a small change in the schedule of fights. Since one of the first fighters will be a bit late, we will schedule that fight for the end of today. If you ask me, it's the best idea. The Crazy Fox will be at the end. It's going to be a positive ending for today. Oops, I shouldn't have said that out loud. Please disregard that comment, everyone, and let's proceed with the first match!"
"He blabbers on as always," I hummed, a little disappointed that I wouldn't be fighting first and getting it over with. The crowd noise washed over me and then past, like waves that couldn't quite reach shore. Being pushed to the end meant more waiting, more staring, and more people pointing and asking if I was "that" fox. I tugged my hood a fraction lower anyway.
"Dammit, dammit, I am not ready," a small dwarf muttered next to me, voice pitched low but not low enough to hide the panic crammed into every syllable.
I glanced down. He had the blocky sturdiness dwarves always carried, a face dusted with grit that wouldn't wash away even if you scrubbed him with a river, and hands that couldn't stay still—wringing, flexing, patting the haft of a hammer that looked far too big for his back. His braids were tight, his jaw was tighter, and sweat made a clean line down one temple.
"Are you fighting first now?" I asked, intrigued despite myself.
"Yes, dammit."
"Hmm, if I recall correctly, most of the first fights will be against angels, right?" I said this more to organize my thoughts than to engage in conversation.
"Yes, I am fighting against Sir Arthen," the dwarf said, looking up at me as if I'd be the one swinging the hammer in a minute.
"Sir?"
"It's his first name," the dwarf said, like a man swallowing a nail.
"Right." I dismissed the harmful naming convention before it infected me. I let my eyes flick back to the arena. The warding barrier shimmered faintly, a translucent shell over an oval of hard-packed earth that had already been repaired a dozen times this week and would need it a dozen more by nightfall. Up high, the announcer's booth glittered like a jeweled cage; opposite it, the judges' box sat quieter, colder, with their lenses and crystals and the long, thin quills they liked to scratch with when something offended them.
"You can use earth and wind magic, right?" I asked the dwarf, already knowing the answer from a glance at his stance and the faint smell of stone dust that clung to him even in a breeze.
"...Yes?" He looked wary of the question, like a kid being quizzed by a teacher holding a stick.
"Construct a large defensive wall while remaining hidden underground until he either lands or attacks the wall. Use ranged attacks against them. They might be stronger than most, but they are really dumb," I explained, sketching the pattern in the air with two fingers. My hand moved without thinking—raise, fold, twist—old movements learned the hard way.
"...Why?"
"I hate angels," I said, shrugging as if that were a perfectly scientific rationale, then turned on my heel and started toward the stands.
He blinked after me for a heartbeat, then looked down at his hands like the answer was hidden in his knuckles.
I pulled my scroll from a pocket as I walked. The sun flashed along its edge; the etched runes pinged my fingers with cool, eager light.
'I wonder if Amari is in the stands,' I thought, flicking the seal and calling her. The haptic tremor tickled my palm twice before she picked up.
"We're on the north side. Apricot is here," Amari said, and immediately ended the call.
"Sigh, she is really becoming like Mom," I laughed, stuffing the scroll away as I threaded into the flood of people. Lines of vendors drifted like shoals—skewers hissing, steam buns winking in bamboo baskets, shaved ice turning to glitter in wooden cups. The scent of fried dough and caramelized nuts tried to mug me on the stairs.
Not even five minutes later, I found them. Apricot had claimed three seats like a tiny general laying siege—bag in one, coat in another, legs flung across the third until she spotted me. She waved both arms with zero shame.
"Yo, Mom, come sit next to me," Apricot yelled. Heads turned. A handful of people looked from her to me and then back, like they were trying to line up a portrait with inadequate lighting.
"Are you ever going to stop calling me that?" I said, ignoring the weird looks. If I glared at every single one of them, we'd be here all day.
"Nope, it's too fun," Apricot laughed, scooting aside and patting the seat. Her eyes were bright in that way that always made me suspicious she had a plan and I was a pawn in it.
"Come on, Kitsuna, it's not that bad," Amari said, leaning back with her ankle hooked over a knee, mouth tugging toward a smirk she pretended wasn't there.
"I don't really care too much about it," I said, shrugging. My tail betrayed me by thumping once against the seatback.
"Yeah, tell yourself that more until we believe you, alright?" Amari said mockingly.
"Sigh, whatever. Did the first fight start yet?" I dropped into the seat next to Apricot, which made her weirdly happy, and propped my boots against the bar in front of us.
"Any minute now. ""Oh, there they are, walking onto the stage," Apricot said, pointing with a paper cone of candied nuts. She popped one in her mouth without looking and nearly dropped the rest when the drumline under the arena burst into a rolling thunder to welcome the entrants.
"Hmm, it really is the dwarf fighting now," I muttered. He looked smaller out there in the open, swallowed by the low ring of the arena and the high wall of crowd noise. Sir Arthen—what a ridiculous title for a first name—descended on white wings I wanted to burn, sunlight winking on polished bracers, his short sword hanging at ease against his hip like a promise.
"Hey, Amari, who do you think will win this?" Apricot asked, tipping her head toward the floor but staring at Amari for the answer like a school test was on the line.
"Hmm, hard to say. It seems the dwarf is a mage." I'm not sure what element he uses, but considering his race, it is probably earth." Amari deduced, her eyes narrowing as they do when she builds outcomes like towers in her head.
"Well, he has two elements: wind and earth." "I don't know much about the angel, but he likely possesses some light magic or something similar because of his race," I said, leaning into the words just enough to mock her—playfully, of course. Mostly.
"Hey, I am not racist," Amari muttered, but the corner of her mouth gave her away.
"Sounded like that, hahaha," Apricot said around a mouthful, laughter spilling out anyway.
"Hey now," Amari said, nudging her. "So who do you guys think will win?"
"The dwarf," I said without pause. I could see the outlines of it—the patience, the dirt-sense, the way rock could carry vibration better than any wing ever could.
"Sadly, the angel," Amari said, shrugging. That statement caused me to turn and look at her.
"What? There is no way he will be able to win in long-range combat," she added, glancing at the glinting wings and the sword. She wasn't wrong about speed or maneuverability, but speed without thinking is just running in circles faster.
"Who said he is a close-range fighter? You even said he is a mage just now."
"No, fighters can use magic as well. I didn't say he is a mage." She pointed with her chin toward the dwarf. "However, he could still be a mage; just look at the giant hammer on his back."
"...Amari, don't always assume things from appearances," I said, returning my eyes to the arena just in time to watch the dwarf sprint at the angel with the hammer in hand like a man late for work and trying to catch the last carriage.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, facepalming as a collective rumble of amusement went around the stands. A few dwarves three sections over started shouting in their tongue, but it was unclear whether they were offering encouragement or hurling insults. Insults? With dwarves, encouragement and insults often sound indistinguishable from each other.
"Hahaha," Apricot cackled at my reaction. Amari folded her arms and lifted her chin like she'd personally planned the charge and was proud of it.
The bell chimed, clean and cruel. The angel shifted his weight, and then he wasn't there, a puff of dust in his place. He reappeared a stride to the dwarf's left, a powerful cross snapping into the dwarf's jaw with the casualness of a greeting. The hammer whistled through the air, missed by a breath. Laughing, the angel's voice locked into the unsightly bracket of a smug mouth.
I felt the dwarf's world narrow—even from up here, you can always sense it when someone's tunnel vision starts. His swings came faster and wilder. He ate a knee in the ribs, winced, and swung again; the angel was punished the way a cat takes a bath—irritated at the existence of water.
'Sigh, I actually thought he would listen to me,' I thought, annoyance tightening into a knot behind my eyes.
"Haaagh!!" he roared suddenly. He planted his feet and slammed the hammer into the ground, and the earth answered. Fracture lines webbed out from the impact, and a collar of stone leapt up around him like a ring of teeth. The angel hopped back, eyebrows up.
Seizing the heartbeat he'd bought, the dwarf hurled his free hand forward. A tight shiver rippled the air. The ring of rocks didn't just fall; they flew—lifted by wind, spun by it, sharpened by grit, and sharpened by anger. They whistled through space like slung bullets.
One caught the angel square on the temple. The pop it made against his helm echoed nastily. He staggered, wings flaring to catch himself, eyes blinking hard, and mouth curling like he'd just tasted something bitter.
"Woah, he actually hit him," Apricot said, surprised enough that she lowered her snack.
"Augh!!" The angel's shout lost its lovely tone. He drove forward, wings digging for air, sword flashing free in an arc that promised to end the match in one neat, heroic frame. He crossed the final meter—and the dwarf vanished.
No, not vanished. The dwarf sank—knees, hips, shoulders—into earth like it had been water all along. In the same heartbeat, the ground bulged and closed. Over him, a dome of rock smoothed itself, the pieces sliding together with the slick sound of a giant kneading wet clay. It wasn't pretty; it was better. It was safe.
"Hmm, what is his plan now?" Amari asked, though there was less certainty in her voice.
The angel landed on the dome and tried to walk his weight forward in the practiced rhythm of a soldier storming a bunker. He took two steps before his boot heels jerked. He hissed, jerking up again. A dozen tiny stone spikes punched up from the dome's surface, no bigger than thorns but exactly where a foot's soft points would come down. He leaped, flared his wings, and hovered instead, a few white feathers spiraling away like surrendered flags.
"And now they are stuck in a stalemate," Apricot said, more annoyed than bored.
"I am not so sure about that, Apricot," Amari said, pointing up. The angel raised his palms. Light gathered, obedient and smug, coalescing into dozens of lances that hummed with the clean threat of sharp iron freshly honed.
"Yes, but that won't be able to break through the rocks," I added, eyes half-lidded.
"How sure are you about that?" Amari asked.
"The dwarf is on the ground rather than on the stage. That dome is 100% rock," I said with a grin. Not just a shell scraped off the floor—a plug pulled from the arena's bones and reshaped. No hollow thump, no fake topsoil. Solid. Dense. Home.
The angel's lances hissed downward. The first six hit and shattered, the sound like bells thrown down a well. The rest stitched bright holes into the dome's surface, but not deep; they bled light, not stone. The angel's mouth tightened. His wings beat; he circled; he set up for another volley from a different vector, like the angle would change the math.
'Hmm, does he know where the angel is, or is he waiting for the angel to make a move?' I hummed, half to myself, half to the pulse of mana under the arena. The dwarf had to be listening—cheek pressed against bedrock, breath slowed, hands spread. Rock carries everything—footsteps, wingbeats, the greedy kiss of light against stone. If he were patient, he would turn a fight into a trap.
'I mean, I know I asked the guy to do this, but he doesn't know where the angel is, so he can't do any counterattacks against him,' I told myself. Then I caught the faintest quiver, like a yawn before it happens. The dome sharpened.
Thousands of spikes punched outward from the rock in a single, blooming instant, like a porcupine deciding it had had enough of hugs. The spikes were short, dense, and ubiquitous, creating a bristling burst that struck the barrier with a sound reminiscent of rain on glass—if rain could bury itself a hand deep into a shield woven by nine arch-wardens. The barrier flared hard enough to tint the air blue. People in the front row jerked back instinctively, and one noblewoman shrieked in the register reserved for mice and sudden bills.
As for the angel, he shelled himself in light—shoulders, torso, head—instinctively protecting the places his training told him were important. He forgot his wings. Or rather, he remembered them half a second too late. The spikes chewed through feathers, then membranes, knitting themselves through the delicate structure like someone had fed silk to a sewing machine.
"Aaaugh!!" he screamed, a raw animal sound. Light flared, but pain made it stutter. He dropped, not gracefully, not with that smug little glide angels like to use when they want applause. He fell like something punctured, the way a wineskin collapses after a knife.
He hit the ground hard enough to pop dust up around him—hands first, then knees, then forehead as his balance betrayed him. Before he could push off—before training could click the next muscle memory into place—the ground answered the dwarf again. Spears of earth erupted in a neat, ugly geometry from the stage. One went through the angel's thigh. Another spear pierced the soft area above the hip. One took him under the jaw. The last blow struck him squarely in the eye.
The sound the crowd made wasn't cheering. It was that sharp intake the whole world takes when something breaks in a way it can't unbreak. The warden's barrier flickered and dimmed, then steadied—blood never does a shield any favors.
"Woah, I didn't see that one coming," Amari said, voice thinner than usual. "Actually, I am surprised by how brutal that ending was."
"Well, it worked, I guess," I muttered, shrugging. You can't call it elegant. But clean outcomes are for people who've never watched a friend bleed. The dwarf's dome softened, crumbled back into chunks, and then subsided into a flat. He rose from the earth at its edge, covered in dust and shaking just enough that his hammer rattled against his back when he breathed. He looked ten years older and two inches taller.
Across the arena, a team of clerics and judges rushed in under the barrier's permission rule, robes flashing, hands already glowing. Two of them slowed as they approached, their faces closing when they saw the angle of the spears. One knelt anyway, whispering a prayer that sounded more like an apology than a cure. The spears withdrew at a gesture from the head judge, the stone flowing back into itself like a tongue into a mouth. They covered the body with a plain gray sheet that always looks too thin.
"And the winner is the son of Raje, Cam. It was an incredible match, and we're just beginning!" the announcer boomed, his voice a notch softer, just enough respect to say he'd noticed the sheet. The crowd surged again—less thunder now, more waves. The dwarves three sections over were on their feet, pounding chests and railings, one old dwarf crying so hard he'd forgotten to pretend he wasn't.
The wardens fanned out. Ribbons of golden sigils floated down and stitched the stage back together. The spikes that had buried themselves in the barrier loosened and fell like dry seeds, pattering onto the arena floor to be swept up by invisible servants. In the judges' box, quills scratched again: a note for the record, a fine measured out, and a sanction added to the list for "excessive lethal force," which would be argued about for exactly sixteen minutes and then waived because this was the final stage and everyone had signed a line promising they understood what "final" meant.
"Hmm, well, the next match will only be after they fix the arena. "Would you like to go get some proper breakfast?" Amari asked, turning away first. The reliable thing about Amari is that she steps out of the blood a half-second before it turns into a memory.
"Sure," I said, standing and stretching until my shoulders popped. The announcer yelled something about a "brief intermission," a brass band tried to restart joy like a stubborn engine, and vendors rose in a fresh tide.
Apricot hopped up and looped her arm through mine before I could pretend to be taller than this seat row. "You're buying. I need a mountain of food so I can judge the next fight with moral authority."
"You don't get moral authority just because you're chewing," I said, letting her tow me into the aisle anyway.
"Says who?" She said this while scanning the stalls like a hawk circling chickens. "Ooh—look, meat pies. And those stuffed peppers. The sour cream buns with the jam in the middle were also a delight. And—"
"And water," I cut in. "Or you're going to claim you're sick every time somebody gets impaled."
"That was once," she sniffed, then added, "Fine. Two waters. One for you to pretend you're responsible."
We descended with the throng, a ribbon of bodies moving toward heat and grease and the easy relief of buying a thing with your hands. Behind us, the arena hummed back toward readiness, sigils dimming as the wardens finished their weave. I glanced over my shoulder once. The dwarf—Cam—hadn't left yet. He stood near the archway that led back into the competitors' tunnel, his head bowed, his hands wrapped around the hammer like he needed to feel the weight to remember he was still here. A steward touched his elbow and said something quiet. He nodded and went inside.
Apricot tugged. "Come on, Mom."
"Are you ever going to stop calling me that?" I asked again, because it made her grin every time, and because I wasn't sure I wanted her to.
"Nope," she said, bright as a bell. "It's too fun."
Amari fell in step on my other side, her phone already open to the bracket again, her mind racing past breakfast and into the next fight, the next calculation. "Think they'll keep the angels bunched?" she asked me, eyes not leaving the screen.
"If they're smart, yes," I said. "If they're arrogant, also yes."
"That's not how that sentence is supposed to work," Apricot said, laughing.
"It is when you're talking about angels," I said, and then—because the line moved and the meat pies smelled like they'd been cooked by someone who believed in butter—I stopped thinking about angels at all for one perfect, greasy minute.