The basin did not empty after Afi claimed it.

  If anything, it grew more crowded.

  By the next morning, warriors she did not recognize lingered at the edges of the stone platforms, pretending to stretch, pretending to pass through, pretending not to watch. Their eyes followed Afi’s movements openly now, measuring, reassessing, recalculating the hierarchy they had assumed was already settled.

  Afi ignored them.

  She trained as if the basin were empty.

  Her forms were controlled and unhurried, each motion clean and deliberate. She focused on efficiency rather than force, letting Inner Energy reinforce her movements only where necessary. Sweat gathered at her temples, tracing slow lines down her bronze skin and darkening the stone beneath her feet.

  Ashen lay curled in the shade of a broken pillar, half asleep but never fully unaware. His ears flicked whenever someone drew too close. His tail tapped the stone once, then again when tension sharpened.

  Miroa remained nearby.

  He did not interfere. He did not instruct. He watched from a distance, arms folded, eyes steady. When others drifted too close or spoke too loudly, a single glance from him was enough to quiet them.

  It was near midday when laughter broke the rhythm.

  It was light, almost cheerful, and entirely out of place.

  “Well this is disappointing,” a voice said. “I thought there’d be blood.”

  Afi did not stop moving.

  She felt him before she saw him. The air shifted, not with pressure but with presence, like heat shimmering above stone. Someone stepped into the basin with an easy confidence that did not belong to Muscle stage.

  Afi finished her sequence and turned.

  The man standing there looked relaxed to the point of carelessness. He was lean rather than broad, his posture loose, weight resting comfortably on one leg. His hair was tied back with a strip of red cloth, strands falling free around a face that carried a perpetual hint of amusement.

  A short blade rested at his hip.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The flame around him was subtle and contained, tracing faint patterns along his arms like living ink.

  Early Bone stage.

  Afi’s eyes sharpened.

  “So this is the one everyone’s whispering about,” he said, looking her up and down without apology. “Smaller than I expected.”

  “You expected wrong,” Miroa said calmly.

  The man laughed again.

  “You always say that.”

  He turned his attention back to Afi, head tilting slightly.

  “Name’s Teki.”

  Afi inclined her head.

  “Afi.”

  “Ah,” Teki said. “The chief’s blood.”

  The phrase landed with curiosity rather than reverence.

  Teki’s gaze flicked briefly to Ashen, then back to Afi.

  “Nice beast. Expensive appetite.”

  “He eats what I kill,” Afi replied.

  Teki grinned.

  “Efficient.”

  He stepped closer, boots scraping against the stone.

  “Mind if I test you?”

  Afi met his gaze.

  “You’re already watching.”

  Teki chuckled.

  “Fair.”

  He did not draw his blade.

  He moved without warning.

  His strike came fast and light, a probing slash aimed not to injure but to measure. Afi shifted back, parrying with her forearm reinforced by Inner Energy. The impact rang through her bones.

  Teki was already moving again.

  He flowed around her guard, footwork precise, blade flickering in short arcs that tested her reactions.

  Afi responded in kind, adjusting her stance and refusing to overcommit.

  Their exchange drew murmurs from the onlookers.

  Teki laughed softly as he moved.

  “You don’t panic. That’s rare.”

  Afi countered with a sharp elbow that he barely avoided.

  “You talk too much,” she said.

  “That’s what keeps me alive,” Teki replied lightly.

  He pressed harder then, flame sharpening his movements, each strike carrying a precise edge of heat. Afi felt the pressure build, her body responding instinctively, Inner Energy reinforcing her muscles to keep pace.

  She adapted.

  She shortened her movements, cut angles, and forced Teki to commit.

  Their clash intensified, stone cracking beneath their feet, heat rippling through the basin.

  Then Teki disengaged abruptly, hopping back with a laugh.

  “Enough,” he said, raising a hand. “You’re not boring.”

  Afi steadied her breathing.

  “You didn’t win,” she said.

  Teki smiled.

  “I didn’t lose either.”

  Miroa stepped forward.

  “This isn’t a game.”

  Teki glanced at him.

  “Everything’s a game if you survive long enough.”

  He looked back at Afi, his expression softening just a fraction.

  “You’re strong. Stronger than most at your level. But strength alone won’t carry you through the selection.”

  “I know,” Afi replied.

  Teki’s eyes flicked briefly to her chest, as if sensing something deeper.

  Something sleeping.

  “Good,” he said quietly. “Because the others won’t go easy on you.”

  He turned and began to leave, then paused.

  “Oh,” he added over his shoulder. “Try not to die before the matches. I’d hate to miss the look on everyone’s faces.”

  With that he was gone, laughter fading as he climbed out of the basin.

  Silence lingered behind him.

  Miroa looked at Afi.

  “He’s second.”

  Afi nodded.

  “I could tell.”

  “The one above him won’t laugh,” Miroa continued. “And the one below him will hate you.”

  Afi’s gaze drifted toward the path Teki had taken.

  “Then I’ll be ready,” she said.

  Ashen rose and padded to her side, pressing his head against her leg.

  The flame within her stirred, quiet but attentive.

  The embers were beginning to laugh.

  And soon they would burn.