The colosseum buzzed with a nervous energy that wasn’t around during Gai’s previous matches. Sunlight beat down, washing out the colours until the sand under Gai’s feet looked nearly white-hot. The old stone arches threw broken lines of shade around the arena, shifting as the crowd leaned in, packed tight and restless. Banners whipped up high, their colours faded—bits of red, blue, gold, and white hanging on like some half-remembered festival.

  Gai lingered in the tunnel, nerves stretched thin. Every shout and groan from the stands rattled through him; the crowd’s noise never settled, always surging or falling with each clash in the ring. His shirt clung damp to his back; sweat ran slow down his spine and gathered at his collar. His wrist guards chafed, stiff with old use. He focused on his sword, holding it so tight his fingers throbbed, eyeing how the blade picked up bits of sunlight beyond the gate. He curled his hand, knuckles grinding against the corded grip, then rolled his neck and shoulders until they cracked. Somewhere out in the stands, Anders and Ed were probably arguing about whether he’d survive a full minute or if Cedric would turn him into a cautionary tale before the match really got going. Edgar was finally out of the infirmary—still wearing a sling, but free. It wasn’t much, but knowing they’d be out there yelling for him counted for something, sort of. He tried for a grin; nothing happened.

  He remembered his first clash with Cedric during training—definitely not something he liked to revisit. Back then, he could barely keep himself upright, head still spinning from being handed a zero on the elemental tests. Cedric didn’t waste a second hammering that in. Just pieces of it now: blood in his mouth, his jaw throbbing, grit digging into his cheek while he tried to stay conscious. That was a long time ago. Now he had the kind of toughness you only earned from endless drills and a handful of fights that weren’t exactly fair. He’d come through worse than anything Cedric could throw at him. This wasn’t going to be like before. He held onto the memory—not because it scared him, but because it reminded him he’d already taken his hits and kept moving. Jaw set, hands steady, ready for whatever was next. He wasn’t the beaten-down kid Cedric remembered—and today, Cedric was going to have to deal with that.

  A bell sounded—a hard, urgent clang—and the crowd quieted all at once, a hush falling so quickly Gai could suddenly hear his own heartbeat. The gate ahead cranked upward, flooding the tunnel with light. He stepped forward, boots sinking into the fine, hot sand, and blinked against the glare. The full breadth of the colosseum revealed itself: thousands of faces, a patchwork of noise and color, all of them bearing down on the two dots at the center of the ring.

  He caught sight of the princess in her elevated box, flanked by guards and her odd retinue of advisers. Her golden eyes tracked him as he walked, and he felt a strange weight to her gaze. Next to her, Sir Maric sat with arms folded, lips pressed in a thin line—watchful, impassive, but clearly invested. Gai tried not to look for Elle; he figured she’d be there if she wanted to, and if not, she’d find some way to hear about it later.

  Then there was Cedric. Already waiting at the far end, he looked as if he’d grown a full head taller since their last encounter. His hair was slicked back, his uniform rolled up at the sleeves, and already there was a spark of something feral in his eyes. His hands hung empty at his sides, fingers flexing and unfurling with the lazy, dangerous confidence of someone who'd never needed a weapon to win. At his feet, the sand had been scuffed into crude patterns, as if Cedric had spent the last hour pacing and planning every possible way to break bone with nothing but his bare fists.

  The referee—if you could call the old sergeant that—shuffled to the centre, shoulders hunched and voice rattling off the stone. “You two know the drill,” he said, not bothering to check if they did. “First down or first blood takes it. No lasting injuries—say it again, no permanent damage. If you mess around, you deal with me.” He jerked his chin at Cedric. “You set?”

  Cedric’s reply was a smirk and a roll of his broad shoulders. “Always.”

  The sergeant turned to Gai. “You. Ready?”

  Gai nodded, his jaw clenched tight. He steadied his breath, forced his feet to plant solidly in the sand, and raised his blade.

  Stepping aside, he shouted, “Begin!”

  Cedric’s voice cut through the colosseum’s tension. “Better get comfortable down there, Gai—I’ll try not to step on you when you hit the sand.” Some laughter rippled from the seats, and even the heat seemed to twitch with anticipation. Gai felt irritation crawl up his spine, but he pressed it down, jaw clamped tight. There was no way Cedric was getting the first bite; Gai stayed silent, eyes sweeping over the mayhem in front of him instead.

  The arena floor was anything but simple. Traps and rough patches were scattered everywhere—thanks to whoever thought the fights needed extra spice—along with loose drifts and rocks ready to trip up anyone who forgot to look down. The edge of the pit was lined with jagged stones that didn’t promise much safety. Gai’s grip on his father’s sword tightened, cord biting into his callused hands. He drew a slow breath, sweat slipping past his ear, and mapped out how he’d dodge whatever Cedric threw at him right out of the gate.

  Cedric set himself solidly and drew in a lungful of air. Then, quick and rough, he slammed his fist into the ground. Instantly, dirt and stones rushed up his arms, coiling around his legs and chest in thick layers until he looked less like a fighter than a walking mudslide. In seconds he was armored up, skin lost beneath moving earth. At his feet, the sand bulged and gathered together into an awkward club nearly as long as Gai’s arm. Cedric hefted it one-handed and flashed a grin—sharp white teeth behind a wall of earth—ready for round one.

  “You’re going to wish you’d never com here,” he said, and this time the threat was more than just talk. The weight of it hung in the air, as real as the heat rippling off the arena.

  For a heartbeat, Gai sized up the gap between them. It was barely eight metres, but the distance felt both nothing and impossible—Cedric could close it with two wild swings, or Gai could break it down with a single reckless feint. The crowd’s anticipation roared back to full volume, a rising tide of sound that made Gai’s skull vibrate.

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  Gai sprang first, cutting sharply toward Cedric’s right with his sword catching glints of sunlight. He didn’t go for the obvious target—Cedric’s chest—but instead slashed at the wrist, hoping to mess up that club before it really got moving. The sword slammed against stone with a noise like someone dropping a skillet from a rooftop, sparks jumping. The jolt shot up Gai’s arms, but he kept his feet, twisting for another try. Cedric was already reacting, carving trenches in the sand as he spun and swept the club low toward Gai’s legs. Gai barely cleared it, boots skimming just over the rock as gritty sand stung his calves and made him screw his eyes half-shut. He dropped and rolled, coming up just as Cedric smashed the ground where he’d been—a near miss that left a fresh crater.

  Cedric wasn’t subtle: he hammered forward with raw power and refused to give Gai any breathing room. Any time Gai made space, Cedric stomped it out again, churning the sand into a sticky mess. In the back of his mind, Gai heard Yami—never try to out-muscle earth. Stay light on your feet, make him work for it.

  So that’s what he did—dodged left, feinted right—making Cedric turn again and again, not letting him plant himself or settle into a rhythm. The armour weighed on Cedric now; Gai could spot it in every motion—a little slower on each pivot, each swing just a bit lazier than the last. It was enough. All Gai had to do was keep moving and wait for the cracks to show.

  “Stop running and fight!” Cedric’s bellow was pure animal. He drove forward, shoulder lowered, the club a blur as it split the air. If it landed, Gai knew he’d be out cold or worse.

  But Yami’s ghost rode his shoulder, speaking in cool, clipped phrases: Don’t block. Control the angle. Use their force. The memory of that dusty yard, of Yami’s hands snapping quick as pigeons, kept his feet moving even as the arc of the club came at his head. Gai cut under it, feeling the wind shear past his ear, and stabbed low at Cedric’s knee. The sword bit deep, enough to draw a snarl, but the earth-mantle just sloughed off the blade like it was nothing. Still, even a glancing shot slowed Cedric’s next step.

  Gai retreated, eyes on Cedric’s footing. He could see the way the sand stuck to the stone shell, the way it dragged at Cedric’s ankles when he tried to turn. The weight wasn’t just in the armour—it was in every movement Cedric made. The harder he fought, the more he buried himself.

  Then Cedric stopped. He sucked in a breath, chest heaving, then slammed his free hand into the ground. The sand shivered, rippling out in a ring from where he stood—Gai felt it wobble through his boots, the whole arena floor going loose and treacherous. A second later, it bucked, as if something alive twisted underneath. Gai lost his balance for half a second; Cedric launched himself in with a roar.

  This time, Gai didn’t run. He set his stance, let the world slow, and watched the club descend. At the last moment, he stepped in—closer, not away—feeling Cedric’s shadow swallow him. He jammed his sword up, not at Cedric’s ribcage but right into the crook of his elbow, bracing it with all his weight. The force behind the club ripped it clean out of Cedric’s grip as his own swing overextended, twisting his whole body off-centre. The club hit the ground with a skull-rattling boom, rolling away.

  Cedric’s howl was a mix of pain and outrage. He swung his fist at Gai’s temple, but Gai ducked and pivoted, rolling behind Cedric and slashing at the meat of his calf. This time he saw blood—a shallow cut, but enough to make Cedric stumble. The earth-armour around Cedric’s thigh cracked, fissures opening in the dried layers.

  “Cheap shot, squid,” Cedric spat, voice thick with hate.

  Gai didn’t answer. He used the opening to press the attack, slashing at the weak point, not letting Cedric turn or catch his breath. He cut high, then low, aiming for the cracks as the crowd screamed for blood. Cedric blocked with his forearms, but the earth coating was thinner now, breaking off in chunks with every blow. Sweat rolled down Gai’s face, stinging his eyes, but he kept his rhythm, never giving Cedric a chance to recover.

  Cedric tried to grab him, fingers clawing, but Gai spun aside and planted a boot into Cedric’s knee. The joint buckled. Cedric dropped to one knee, teeth bared, eyes burning.

  The crowd surged at the sight of him down. Gai circled, blade tip steady, waiting.

  “Finish it, Gai!” A voice—Anders, unmistakably loud—cut through the noise.

  Cedric looked up, breathing hard. The hatred was raw and absolute. “You don’t belong here,” he said, voice low. “You never did. You think because you swing a sword you matter?” He spat blood onto the sand, then drove his hand into the ground again.

  A ripple shot out—faster, sharper this time. The earth cracked open beneath Gai, and he fell, one leg sinking to the knee in a pit that hadn’t existed a second before. Cedric lunged, grabbing for Gai’s throat with both hands.

  Gai’s world shrank to Cedric’s face, sweat and blood and roaring, and the awful pressure as fingers dug into his windpipe. He jabbed the hilt of his sword into Cedric’s side, once, twice. Cedric didn’t let go. The world tipped sideways, and Gai hit the sand hard, Cedric on top of him.

  Darkness edged in at the sides of his vision. He tried to wedge his blade between them, but Cedric’s grip was iron. Gai remembered that first beatdown; the panic, the helplessness. He let it burn, focusing the heat into his limbs. With the last of his breath, he dropped the sword, clawed at Cedric’s wrists, then twisted—hard—yanking one hand away just enough to suck in a gasp of air.

  He jammed his thumb into Cedric’s eye socket. Cedric howled, rolling off just far enough for Gai to claw his way out of the pit and scramble upright. He lurched, shaking, vision swimming, but he found his sword in the sand and yanked it free.

  Cedric was already up, blood streaming from one eye, but the fight was gone from his body—he leaned on his good leg, the earth armour in tatters, breathing in ragged, gulping pants.

  “Enough!” the sergeant ref barked from the edge, but neither moved.

  Gai squared up, sword at the ready. He could end it. He wanted to—wanted to prove, finally, that all the years of being nobody, of being the “squid,” meant something. But the look on Cedric’s face stopped him. It was pure hate, yes, but underneath, for the first time, Gai saw it: fear. Not of being beaten, but of what came after—of being less, of losing whatever had always set him apart.

  Gai stepped back, blade lowered. “You finish with your tricks?” he said, voice raw.

  Cedric staggered, looked at his ruined hands, at the blood on the sand, then back at Gai. For a breath, he almost looked like a kid again, lost and furious. “You’re dead next time,” he said, but the threat was hollow.

  Gai shook his head. “Not today.”

  The sergeant shoved in, pulling Cedric upright. “That’s it, boys. Gai’s the winner. You hear that? Gai’s the winner!” The crowd erupted, first in confusion then in roaring approval, the name carrying up into the arches and echoing off the stone.

  Gai locked eyes with Cedric, holding the stare until Cedric finally broke it, glancing away.

  He felt the adrenaline drain, legs threatening to fold. The sand tasted like old metal on his tongue. In the stands, he spotted Anders, grinning, arms flung up in victory. Ed was next to him, both fists pumping the air. Higher up, Gai caught the gaze of the princess, her face unreadable but intent.

  Gai’s legs nearly gave out as soon as he cleared the ring. Every step off the sand felt awkward, like he was getting used to his own body all over again—sore, buzzing, and not quite under his control. Sweat glued his hair to his forehead, but the shiver running through him was pure nerves. He didn’t bother looking back; Cedric could pick himself up without an audience.

  The corridor outside was almost empty except for a skinny page slouched on an overturned crate, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “You’re wanted,” the kid muttered, flicking a glance at Gai before gesturing toward a side door with his thumb. Gai just grunted, too wrung out to come up with anything clever, and let himself be guided down a narrow hallway.

  The room they put him in wasn’t much—just two battered stools, a cracked jug of water, and the sour reek of old wine hanging in the air. He dropped onto a stool, letting his sword hit the stone floor with a dull clatter, then sat there for a moment staring at nothing. The leftover adrenaline in his veins buzzed like static. He touched the bruised line on his throat where Cedric’s fingers had dug in, then set both hands flat on the cold tabletop, willing them to stop shaking.

  He was still working on catching his breath when the door scraped open behind him. For a split second, Gai tensed, half-wondering if Cedric had decided on round two. Instead, Sir Maric stepped in—helmet tucked under one arm, gaze sharper than ever.