Quincy strolled into the fighters' waiting room with a satisfied air, stretching her arms lazily over her head. "That was a good long day. Good matches, great job everyone," she announced brightly before her eyes flicked toward Even. Her grin sharpened. "Except you."
Even sighed and slouched in his chair. "I'll make it up to you. You made me promise, didn't you?"
"You should apologize to me as well!" Callum interjected, raising a hand like a scolded schoolboy. "You traumatized me by surrounding me in metal that burns me when I touch it!" He hugged himself dramatically, shivering at the memory.
"Have the others not recovered yet?" Annabel asked curiously.
"Well, Mae and Bryanard should be fine by now," Quincy answered, as she crossed her arms. "But Calvinel has to soak two hours in the Healing Springs to finish mending, so he'll be good in half an hour or so." Her tone dipped a bit as she added, "As for Gurion, the staff said he woke up earlier but hasn't moved from his cot."
The room grew quieter at that.
"He did say he was fighting to save his village," Zeva murmured, rubbing her chin in thought. "The loss probably weighs heavily on him."
"That's why he's in the tournament?" Ulrich asked, brow furrowing.
"He never told us," Edluar said, rubbing his upper-arm.
Zeva shrugged. "It seems like something he doesn't want to talk about. Since he didn't go into any detail."
"Well we can't just let him rot!" Lexy declared, already moving toward the door. "Let's go drag him and everyone else out of the infirmary!"
"Yeah!" Amos and Hittag chimed, pumping their fists before charging after her.
"We should probably go make sure they aren't too rough," Vilak muttered, earning nods from the others as they all filed out after the trio.
---
Inside the Mathers steamwagon the atmosphere had shifted. It wasn't as taut with tension as the days before, but the quiet hung heavier than usual.
"You haven't said much today," Samwell remarked from his seat, tone flat, not a question nor concern—just observation.
"I guess I haven't," Matthew admitted, his gaze locked on the floor. "There just wasn't much excitement today."
"I suppose that's right. Other than that knight using his Soul Chamber, there was nothing of worth," Samwell replied, eyes turning to the window. The words landed like a period—conversation over.
*He really doesn't notice anything…* Matthew thought bitterly, shoulders stiff. *I guess I really never was a son. Just a tool…*
---
Prince Mark couldn't help but notice the shift in his sister's demeanor. Walking close beside him, Zara seemed locked in her own storm of thought, her gaze fixed on the ground, brows drawn together, one hand pressed lightly to her chin. Concern and excitement warred openly across her face, so vivid it was impossible not to see.
"What weighs on you, Zara?" he asked at last. Her heart gave a small leap—his use of her name still felt strange, almost intimate, in a way she hadn't yet grown used to.
"It's just thoughts about tomorrow, Mark. I don't know what to make of them."
"And what do you mean by that?" he pressed, lifting a brow.
Zara let out a quiet hum before answering, her tone thoughtful but heavy. "I'm worried for Clara's sake. Her friend Xain will be facing the Mathers. He's proven himself twice already, doing the impossible right before everyone's eyes… but even with all that, the chance of him winning is still painfully slim. And yet…" A sharp glint of satisfaction crossed her expression as her hand dropped from her chin. "I can't help but feel excited too. Zeva Blossom is going to crush Calvinel into the dirt where he belongs. She'll wipe that arrogant smile clean off his face, and I'll savor every moment of it."
Mark studied her for a beat before nodding slowly. "I see." He turned his eyes forward again, though a private thought stirred within him. *The way she speaks of Sir Calvinel drips with so much hatred that it tempts me to despise him myself—despite never once meeting the man!*
---
High above, in the grand upper halls of the coliseum, the Emperor of Aeruna walked in measured step beside Tianteng. His guard followed at a respectful distance, their armor clinking softly in the vast corridor.
"Tell me," the Emperor said at length, his voice calm but curious, "who do you believe will triumph in tomorrow's bouts?" He shifted his gaze just enough to catch her from the corner of his eye.
"The Mathers and Blossom," Tianteng answered at once, not a flicker of hesitation in her tone.
"You reply so quickly," he remarked, the faintest smile curling his lips.
"It is the expected outcome," she said, lifting her shoulders in a controlled, almost dismissive shrug. "For all their defiance today, their opponents remain outmatched. I see little chance of either falling tomorrow." Her words were delivered with certainty, as though no other truth could exist.
"I suppose we shall see," the Emperor mused, unbothered. "After all, you have been surprised more than once in this very tournament."
He strode forward without pause, never noticing the moment Tianteng's hand curled tightly into a fist, her knuckles whitening, nor the cold fire that flashed in her eyes—a glare that could have pierced him through. Just as swiftly, her mask returned, her expression smoothed to serenity.
*Patience,* she told herself, letting her gaze harden on the hall ahead, unyielding. *Wait, and act. The reward will come.*