The platform shimmered under the golden haze of early evening, suspended like a marble stage between towering structures that gleamed in the warm light. A soft breeze tugged playfully at Evie's braid as she stepped forward, wand grasped firmly in her hand and her heart surprisingly calm amid the mounting excitement.
Across from her, her opponent moved with an elegant fluidity—barefoot and robed in deep Uagadou violet, each motion perfectly synchronized to a rhythm that Evie couldn't quite hear but could sense deep within her bones. The girl bowed slightly, a gesture of respect and challenge. Evie mirrored her, determination sparking in her core.
Then, the chime rang out, sharp and clear, slicing through the tension that hung in the air.
It felt like dueling the very shadow of a tempest. The Uagadou spell-dancer twisted and flowed through the space with an ethereal grace, casting spells in arcing sweeps that left shimmering, glowing threads trailing behind her. Evie focused intently, deflecting three sharp strikes aimed at her with quick, precise parries, but nearly lost her footing on a charm that sent ripples coursing through the floor like disturbed water.
Suddenly, a spiraling chain spell grazed her arm, briefly wrapping around her wrist with an unsettling grip before she shattered it with a forceful burst of wind, sending fragments spiraling away.
"Damn," she muttered under her breath, ducking low to evade the next wave of attacks.
She quickly realized she couldn't out-dance this girl; her movements were too fluid and instinctive. But Evie didn't have to mirror her opponent's grace to win. Instead, she began to time her counters not to the rhythm of the spells but to the pauses between the girl's steps. She shifted her focus away from the wand, choosing instead to lock her gaze on the subtle cues—the hips, the heel, the very breath of her adversary.
And there—in the briefest moment of suspension, as if time itself held its breath—Evie found her opening.
With a determined flick of her wand, she conjured a slowed field on the left flank, then unleashed a split hex cloaked in an illusion of flickering light. Her opponent moved… just half a second too late.
Impact. Disarm.
The spell-dancer stumbled, her body caught mid-turn as her wand clattered against the edge of the platform, the sound echoing like a bell tolling victory.
Cheers rang from the gathering above, reverberating through the air like a celebratory chorus. The Uagadou mentor rose from their seat, clapping slowly, each sound echoing with pride. They nodded once, a subtle gesture that conveyed affirmation and encouragement.
Evie took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle on her shoulders before she turned away from the biting wind, seeking refuge from its chill as she prepared to face whatever lay ahead.
The Russian boy possessed eyes like polished steel, and his expression was unyielding, as if carved from ancient stone. Alessandro cracked his neck with a sharp, deliberate movement before stepping onto the dais, the sound of his boots echoing against the black-carved stone, intricately laced with glowing runes. The air around him chilled noticeably, as if the very essence of his opponent's presence had plunged the platform into a winter's grasp.
Silence hung heavily between them; no greetings were exchanged, only the palpable tension of impending confrontation.
Suddenly, the chime echoed through the arena, and with it came a wave of transfiguration that hit Alessandro like an avalanche.
The ground beneath him rapidly dissolved into jagged obsidian spikes. Reacting swiftly, he leaped, conjuring a protective shield beneath his feet just in time to roll to the left—only to find the next assault arriving with merciless speed. Ice daggers flew toward him like arrows, while sharp gusts of wind slashed at his skin, accompanied by an overwhelming bludgeoning force that seemed to have a mind of its own.
"Lovely," he muttered under his breath, crouching behind a sturdy arc of rock that he had conjured in his defense. "A real human glacier, indeed."
A particularly vicious spike shattered against his shield, glancing off to leave a narrow cut on his cheek. The warm trickle of blood danced tantalizingly along the edge of his collar.
Yet, despite the danger, he smiled—a predatory grin that hinted at his escalating excitement.
Dropping low, he feigned an unsteady falter, allowing himself to be propelled backward by a mild kinetic spell, just enough to create the illusion of being taken off guard.
The Russian prodigy stepped forward, exuding an air of cold confidence that was almost tangible.
Alessandro waited, heart pounding in time with the tension in the air… waited… and then, in a flash, he vanished.
A decoy.
The real Alessandro descended swiftly from above, the air around him still as he primed his silent cast, his wand already arching with precision.
The Russian, caught unaware, turned just a moment too late to react.
In an instant, he was disarmed, lying flat on the ground, stunned by the sudden attack.
Alessandro landed gracefully beside him, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. "That's for the cheek," he remarked with a hint of playful mockery.
Without waiting for applause or acknowledgment, he turned his back and moved on.
The sky blazed a fierce orange as Severus stepped onto the vast dome stage, his heart pounding in time with the flickering hues above. Below him, translucent panels illuminated the ground, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that hummed softly, shifting in mesmerizing patterns.
Opposite him, Kinjo Aoi stood poised and still—tall, serene, and devoid of a wand. Energy radiated from his hands, shimmering with spell-borne wind, as arcs of light flickered and danced between his fingers like playful spirits.
There was no grand announcement, no flourishing bow to mark the beginning of their confrontation.
Then, the chime struck—a clear, resonant sound that pierced the charged atmosphere.
With a fluidity that defied gravity, Kinjo moved like the very air around him—silently, swiftly. Wind razors sliced through the space between them, followed by sinuous water blades that glimmered unnaturally in the waning light, each movement a violent poetry of elemental magic.
Severus ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as a blade narrowly missed him, but the fabric of his sleeve gave way, splitting open with a sharp, tearing sound.
"Break the rhythm," Eva's voice echoed in his mind, steady and imperative. "Stagger your steps. Force asynchronicity."
Severus nodded subtly, his footwork shifting in an erratic dance as he expressed his defiance of conventional rhythm. For the first time, Kinjo paused, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Severus seized the moment.
With a swift movement, he lunged forward, conjuring a dense haze of smoke that engulfed the arena. Hidden beneath the cover of the smoke was a subtle yet potent jolt, finely tuned to exploit the magnetic pressure of the air around them. The force erupted just beneath Kinjo's right foot, sending him sprawling off balance.
In the blink of an eye, Severus's wand flicked upward.
"Disarm."
Kinjo's spell-light fizzled and faded as he crashed to the floor, the momentum of his downfall robbing him of both dignity and power.
A heavy silence enveloped the crowd for three heartbeats, only to be shattered by a swell of murmurs and whispers that filled the air.
"He didn't outfight him," someone quietly remarked in awe, "he outthought him."
From the judges' box, Flitwick leaned forward ever so slightly, a proud grin dancing across his lips as he observed the unexpected turn of events with delight.
"Well," said the MACUSA judge, her quill tapping against the parchment, "Moore was nothing short of impressive. She not only followed the rhythm; she transformed it into something entirely her own."
The Uagadou judge inclined his head in agreement. "And what of Deluca? He possesses a tactical acumen that many underestimate."
Flitwick offered a faint smile, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, Alessandro? He's explosive, yet undeniably effective. Like a flamboyant peacock, he struts with a hidden knife concealed in his boot."
"And what about the Shafiq boy?"
Flitwick paused, his gaze steady and unwavering. "If I'd been raised in flames rather than sweetness, I would have dueled just like him."
A heavy silence enveloped the room, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air.
Clearing his throat, the delegate from Castelobruxo stepped forward, breaking the tension. "There's mounting pressure from several councils to elevate their heirs to the top spots, regardless of their performance on Day Two."
Flitwick's expression turned icy, his irritation barely concealed. "Then those councils should have trained their heirs more thoroughly."
The air crackled with tension as their conflicting priorities hung heavily over the deliberations.
Ultimately, despite the heated discussion, the top ten list was compiled, the rankings formalized regardless of the strife.
In the fortress common hall, names hung in the air in golden script.
Top 10 Duelists – Final Day Selection
Severus Shafiq.
Evie Sterling.
Alessandro DeLuca.
Benedict Hale.
Kinjo Aoi.
Tatiana Volkova.
Noah Carrow.
Lucienne Selkirk.
Milo Tsang.
Sanjiv Rao.
Evie leaned back against the plush couch, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "That's it then. We're in," she declared, her voice tinged with a mix of excitement and apprehension.
Beside her, Ben sprawled out, his long limbs stretched comfortably as he rested his arms behind his head. "So, that Potter kid is still out there crying somewhere?" he quipped, a smirk playing on his lips.
Severus chose not to respond, but he noticed the way Ben's fingers twitched subtly, a telltale sign of his own anxiety.
Meanwhile, Alessandro was already immersed in his task, diligently sketching strategy notes in a conjured notebook. His quill moved rapidly across the pages, filled with diagrams and annotations that reflected his sharp mind and thorough preparation.
Outside the towering glass windows, the tournament arena was undergoing a dramatic transformation. Runes glowed and flickered, lifting massive stones as they reshaped the floating stages, morphing them into an impressive full coliseum, brimming with potential for the challenges ahead.
It would come down to just one day—one pivotal fight that could change everything. One outcome that would decide their fate.
Evie leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper, as if talking to the very air around her. "No room for hesitation tomorrow." The weight of her words settled in the stillness of the room, her resolve evident.
In his corner seat, Severus sat in contemplative silence, a storm of thoughts swirling within. He clenched his jaw, determination hardening his features. Then I won't hesitate, he vowed silently to himself. Not for anything.
James Potter POV
He didn't wait to hear the entire list of names. Deep down, he already knew the outcome.
James Potter stood under the archway that connected the arena to the sponsor's viewing wing, his heart pounding in his chest. As soon as the parchment finished glowing with the revealing names, he turned sharply on his heel and strode down the dimly lit back corridors, his footsteps echoing in the empty space around him.
The final names reverberated through the halls behind him, a haunting reminder of what could have been.
Not his.
The tightness in his chest intensified, swallowing him whole; it didn't ease—it thickened and hardened into something more painful. He had triumphed in both of his matches, showcasing skill and determination. Why should the closeness of the second bout matter? What did Hale's mocking taunts signify?
Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the cold stone wall, the impact splitting his knuckles and sending a jolt of pain through his arm.
"They wanted him," he muttered to himself, bitterness lacing each word. "They pushed me down to make room for him. Just like that."
Suddenly, a door creaked open behind him, drawing his attention.
"James," came the familiar voice of Remus, cutting through the silence.
He didn't turn away from the scene before him; his gaze remained fixed ahead, unfocused.
"You still made it to Day Two," Remus said gently, attempting to bridge the widening gap between them. "That's more than most people would have achieved."
"I should've made it to Day Three," James replied, his voice tense, laced with frustration.
A long silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"They were always going to choose him," James finally murmured, his tone low and bitter. "The judges, the press, everyone. It was clear from the moment he won that trial."
"Severus didn't take anything from you," Remus countered, trying to inject a sliver of hope into the darkness.
"Didn't he?" James spat back, his eyes flashing with anger. "He has the spotlight. He has the prestige. Now he even has the sympathy. What do I have, Remus? What's left for me?"
Remus found himself at a loss for words, unable to provide the comfort his friend so desperately needed.
James's voice wavered, a crack of vulnerability breaking through his bravado. "I was supposed to be the best."
His tone softened, almost a whisper: "I thought I was."
Remus stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on James's shoulder to offer support without invading his space.
"You can still become something better than that," he said, his voice filled with earnestness.
But James remained silent, a storm of emotions swirling within him, leaving Remus to wonder if he could truly find a way to rise above the pain.
Isadora Zabini POV
From behind the glass pane of the north gallery, Isadora Zabini observed the list flickering in radiant gold.
Ten names.
Ten stories, each now on the brink of resolution.
She had witnessed all of them in their duels—scrutinizing not just the spells they cast, but their posture, the subtle hints of misdirection, the flicker of pain in their eyes, and the palpable pressure surrounding them.
Most of the competitors exuded strength, confidence radiating from their every move.
Yet, only one among them moved with an understanding of the inevitable conclusion.
Her gaze lingered on Severus Shafiq, studying him intently.
"Calculated," she murmured softly to herself, noting the sharpness of his movements. "Cold. Focused. Almost… fractured."
Each of his gestures spoke volumes, layered with complexity as if he carried the weight of unspoken burdens.
Behind her, the enchanted quill danced across the parchment, scribbling notes in precise red ink, detailing her insights in the dossier before her.
Project Orbis – Revised Notes
Shafiq: Calm under pressure. Adapts mid-duel. Possible predictive technique. Refuses to seek validation. Weaponizes detachment.
Isadora leaned forward intently, her gaze fixed on Severus as he strolled with his group toward the fortress commons. Beside him, Alessandro whispered something that made Evie laugh softly, and Ben wore a smirk—the triumphant expression of someone relishing a recent victory. Yet, despite the camaraderie surrounding him, Severus's face remained impassive, devoid of any smile.
Isadora narrowed her eyes, keenly observing the subtle interactions. "Not just a duelist," she whispered to herself, her thoughts racing. "A weapon forged by experience." She felt a shiver of recognition at his intensity, an awareness that came from her own battles.
Without glancing back at her companions, she scribbled one last critical note in her journal: Do not underestimate. Not even now.
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