The herald's cry cut through the coliseum's roar, a blade of sound that silenced the cheap wagers and idle chatter, focusing thousands of eyes on the arena gate.
"From the Southern Wilds, a challenger who has silenced her critics—Lia of the Greenwater!"
A wave of cheers, louder and more confident than before, washed over Leonotis as he stepped into the sun. The name felt heavier now, less like a disguise and more like a mantle woven from the crowd's expectations. He walked toward the center of the pit, the sand a brilliant, unforgiving gold. His cloth-wrapped wooden sword felt flimsy in his hand, a child's toy against the legend he was about to face.
From the opposite gate emerged Thabo of the Wulu Highlands. His muscles lean and corded, his movements economical and precise. He carried two slender sticks—one for attack, one for defense—and a small hide shield strapped to his left forearm. White clay patterns adorned his chest and face, symbols of his clan that spoke of lightning and storms. He did not swagger or preen. He simply walked to his position, planted his feet, and became as still as the mountains he hailed from. The àṣẹ that radiated from him was sharp, clean, and electric.
High in the stands, Low settled onto a stone bench, pulling the cowl of her Grom disguise lower. She had tried to find a secluded spot, a place where she could watch without the distraction of others, but it was not to be.
"Grom! Friend!" Adebayo's voice boomed as he and Zola dropped onto the bench beside her, their youthful energy a stark contrast to Low's coiled tension. "You cannot watch this one alone! This will be a true test of styles!"
Low grunted, not bothering to hide her annoyance. "Came for the quiet."
Zola laughed, unfazed. "There is no quiet on the day of the Clash of Titans! Besides, we must see if our quiet Lia has more thunder in her than she lets on."
Low didn't answer. Her knuckles gripped the stone railing. She knew what Thabo was. A master of Nguni stick fighting, a discipline that treated combat as a percussive, deadly rhythm. And worse, he was an àṣẹweaver of the storm. A bad matchup was an understatement; this was a potential execution.
In the arena, Jabara's voice rolled across the sand, carried by her wind. "Let the Clash of Titans begin! Fight!"
The drums started—a fast, complex rhythm, a series of sharp, staccato beats. And Thabo moved with them.
He didn't charge. He flowed. His feet shuffled across the sand in a pattern that was both a dance and a combat advance. The two sticks in his hands became a blur, weaving a protective cage around him as he closed the distance. Faint sparks of blue-white energy crackled at the tips of the wood.
Leonotis braced himself, the words of Jacqueline echoing in his mind. Be undeniable. It was a hollow mantra against the storm rolling toward him.
Thabo struck.
The attack was a lightning-fast jab, aimed not at Leonotis's head or chest, but at his leading knee. The air crackled with the power of lightning. Leonotis barely managed to twist away, the lightning-infused stick grazing his thigh, leaving a trail of numb fire in its wake. He hissed, stumbling back.
"Lia is on the defensive immediately," Adebayo observed, his voice a low, analytical murmur. "Thabo's style is about breaking the opponent's foundation. He attacks the legs, the wrists, the shoulders. He dismantles his enemy piece by piece."
Thabo pressed the attack, his sticks a whirlwind of motion. Clack. Hiss. Crack. One stick blocked while the other struck, a seamless, unending rhythm of offense and defense. Each jab was infused with a tiny jolt of lightning àṣẹ, not enough to kill, but enough to numb, to disrupt, to steal the strength from Leonotis's limbs. Leonotis was drowning in the onslaught. Every block sent a shockwave up his arm; every dodge was a fraction too slow. A sharp strike caught his wrist, and his fingers went numb, his grip on his sword faltering.
"She's being overwhelmed," Zola said, her playful energy gone, replaced by genuine concern. "His rhythm is too perfect. Lia can't find an opening to land a single blow."
"She is not meant to," Adebayo countered, leaning forward. "You do not break a storm by striking the lightning. You must find the eye. She needs to disrupt his footwork."
But Leonotis couldn't find his own footwork, let alone Thabo's. The bindings on his chest made every breath a shallow, desperate gasp. The relentless, percussive strikes of Thabo's sticks were disorienting, the flashes of lightning blurring his vision. He was being herded, driven back toward the solid stone wall of the arena. He could feel Gregor's fight replaying in his mind—the same desperation, the same feeling of being hunted.
No, he thought, gritting his teeth. Not again. Be undeniable.
He lunged forward, a desperate attempt to break the rhythm, swinging his sword in a wide, horizontal arc.
It was a novice's mistake.
Thabo didn't even bother to block. He flowed backward, letting the sword slice through empty air, and as Leonotis overextended, Thabo's attacking stick snapped forward, slamming into his ribs. The lightning-laced impact was like being kicked by a zebra. Pain exploded in his side, and the air rushed from his lungs. He crumpled, hitting the sand hard.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. In the stands, Low shot to her feet, a growl rumbling in her chest before she forced it down.
Thabo stood over Leonotis, his expression unreadable, his sticks held ready. He had won. The fight was over. He had dismantled his opponent flawlessly.
Leonotis lay in the sand, pain radiating from his ribs, his vision swimming. He could feel it—the hot, eager surge of his own àṣẹ begging to be released. A wall of thorns, a cage of roots—he could end this in a heartbeat. But he could see the King's dais from the corner of his eye, the glint of the sun on the throne. Exposure was a death sentence.
Undeniable, Jacqueline's voice whispered in his mind. Not lucky. Not a monster. A master.
He had to get up. He had to make it look like a plan.
With a groan, he pushed himself to one knee. His eyes scanned the arena, desperately searching for something, anything. And then he saw it.
At the very edge of the arena, near the wall where the sand met stone, a single, stubborn weed pushed its way through the ground. A tiny, insignificant splash of green in a world of gold and blood.
It was enough.
As Thabo stepped forward to deliver the final, ceremonial strike to yield, Leonotis focused every ounce of his will. He didn't push his power out in a wave. He sent a single, silent thread of àṣẹ through the ground—a whisper of life, a quiet command.
Grow.
The weed swelled. Its roots, thin as threads, thickened instantly, burrowing deep, turning the sand around them dense and heavy, just for a moment. It was an almost imperceptible change.
Thabo, moving in for the final blow, took his last, perfect step. But the sand beneath his foot was no longer light and loose. It was thick, resistant, clinging. His flawless rhythm, honed over a lifetime of training, faltered for a single, critical heartbeat. His foot slid just an inch, his balance shifting, his body compensating for a change in the earth that he couldn't possibly have anticipated.
It was the smallest of openings. A crack in the storm.
And Leonotis dove into it.
He exploded upward from his kneeling position with a sudden, shocking burst of speed. To the crowd, it looked like a masterful recovery, a fighter using the ground to spring into a counterattack.
He ducked under Thabo's descending stick, the lightning crackling inches from his hair. He flowed, just as Gethii had taught him. He used his left hand to slap Thabo's leading leg, pushing his already compromised balance further off-kilter. With his right, he brought the flat of his wrapped sword up in a sharp, brutal strike against Thabo's wrist.
The defensive stick clattered to the sand.
"By the Orisha!" Adebayo breathed from the stands, his eyes wide with disbelief. "She baited him. She must have took the hit to draw him in and break his weapon hand!"
Zola was on her feet, screaming with the crowd. "LIA! LIA!"
Thabo tried to recover, spinning to bring his remaining stick around, but Leonotis was already inside his guard. He moved like a dancer himself now, a whirlwind of controlled, precise motion. He slammed his elbow into Thabo's side—the same spot where he'd been struck—then used his momentum to spin behind him. He hooked his leg around Thabo's ankle and pulled.
The master of the storm, the man whose rhythm had been perfect, fell. He hit the sand with a heavy thud, his last stick scattering from his grasp.
Leonotis stood over him, chest heaving, sword pointed at Thabo's throat. The arena was a vortex of sound, a deafening roar of a crowd that believed it had just witnessed a mastery of skill.
Thabo looked up from the sand, not with anger, but with pure, unadulterated shock. He had been untouchable. He had been perfect. And then, in a blink, he had been dismantled.
Slowly, respectfully, he tapped his hand on the ground. The sign of yielding.
Jabara's voice, filled with a note of awe, declared the result. "Victory… to Lia of the Greenwater!"
Leonotis didn't feel victorious. He felt sick. He offered a hand to Thabo, helping him to his feet.
"You are fast," Thabo said, his voice heavy with respect. "I did not see it coming. You hid your true skill well."
Leonotis could only nod, his throat too tight to form words. He had done it. He had been undeniable.
But as he turned away from the cheering crowd, his eyes instinctively flicked up to the royal box. King Rega was not cheering. He was not clapping. He was leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand, a look of intense, analytical concentration on his face. His eyes were cold and dissecting. He had seen the victory, but he had also seen the impossible moment that preceded it—the flawless master's single, inexplicable stumble. And his silence was more dangerous than any roar.
Leonotis walked from the arena on trembling legs, the chants of "Lia! Lia! Lia!" feeling like accusations. He passed into the cool shade of the tunnel, the noise of the crowd fading behind him. He leaned against the stone wall, pulling the wrap from his face, gasping for air that wasn't filled with dust and lies.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached from the other end of the tunnel. It was Low, her Grom disguise a grim silhouette against the light of the arena. Her name had just been called.
She stopped in front of him. Her eyes were filled with a terrifying mixture of pride and relief. She said nothing. She didn't have to.
He met her gaze, his own eyes conveying the ragged edge of his control, the terror of what he had almost revealed. He had won the battle, but he felt as though he had taken one step closer to losing the war.
The herald's voice boomed from the arena, announcing her opponent.
"Grom Stonehand versus Kazimir Bloodaxe!"
Low gave him a single, sharp nod—a gesture that said now it's my turn.
She walked past him and stepped out into the unforgiving arena.
The arena tunnel still vibrated with the echo of the crowd's cheers as Leonotis stepped out into the corridor leading up toward the stands. His pulse hadn't yet settled; his ribs still throbbed where Thabo's lightning strike had caught him. The roar of the crowd had been deafening but now everything felt too quiet.
He spotted Adebayo and Zola waving at him from higher up in the seating tiers, already saving him a space. Leonotis forced a smile beneath his wrap and started toward them.
"Lia."
He froze.
Amara's voice echoed down the hallway behind him. He turned to find her approaching with that serene, unreadable calm she always wore like armor. Her hair glinted in the sunlight from the archways, and her hands were clasped lightly at her waist.
"Congratulations," she said, her smile gentle. "Your victory was… impressive. Truly." She tilted her head, studying him. "Though… a little odd."
Leonotis's heart tripped. "…Odd?"
"Yes." Her eyes were steady, searching. "It almost seemed like Thabo stumbled at the last second. For someone with his footing and experience, that's… unusual."
Leonotis swallowed, keeping his tone light. "Maybe. But… it doesn't matter. I won."
Amara held his gaze a moment longer than was comfortable.
"Then why," she asked softly, "do you look like someone who lost?"
The question pierced deeper than the blow Thabo had landed. Leonotis stiffened. His mouth opened, then shut again. He had no answer that wouldn't breed suspicion. No lie that wouldn't sound like one.
Amara's expression softened, though her eyes remained sharp. "It's alright," she said, as though she were offering mercy. "Forget it."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering just slightly. "Do you want to sit together?"
Leonotis blinked. That wasn't what he expected. "Uh… sure. I was actually going to sit with Adebayo and Zola."
For the faintest moment Amara's smile faltered. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for him.
A hint of contempt. Quickly buried.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "Let's go to them, then."
She fell into step beside him, the perfect image of a supportive companion, walking just close enough to seem friendly. And yet Leonotis could feel an odd tension coming from her.
They ascended the stone steps toward Adebayo and Zola. The crowd thundered as the next fighters were announced.
Low's fight was about to begin.
Whatever this day had already taken from him, it was far from over.
The royal dais overlooked the arena like a carved throne of judgment. King Rega lounged in his seat, fingers tapping impatiently against the armrest as the attendants prepared the grounds for the next match. The crowd buzzed with theories about the last fight, but the royal platform felt tense.
Kenya stood to Rega's right, arms folded, her wooden mask angled toward the sandy pit below. Zuri stood at his left, posture crisp, eyes scanning every shifting shadow across the arena.
Rega exhaled sharply through his nose. "That last bout… Thabo should've won."
Kenya hummed thoughtfully. "He hesitated. That's what cost him."
Zuri shook her head. "It wasn't hesitation. Something threw off his footing. You saw it. His foot just before the finishing strike."
Rega leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But I don't believe in luck. Not in my arena."
Kenya's mask tilted slightly toward him. "Do you think the Lia girl did something?"
Rega's gaze lingered on the archway where fighters entered, the shadows long and shifting.
"Possibly," he said finally. "What interests me…" His eyes gleamed with calculation. "…is how a fighter as trained as Thabo would falter in the first place."
Zuri stepped closer. "What do you think?"
Rega smirked. "I'll keep that to myself a little longer."
Jabara below began prepping the audience, but the king wasn't listening. His mind was already threading through the puzzle pieces.