The frost hadn't even faded from the sand when the king stood.
I didn't need to see him. The arena changed when he moved, tension stretched across the terrace like a drawn bow, even the murmurs dropping low in their throats.
His voice came next — not loud, but final.
"Before the final match is called, I must speak."
Stillness. Held breath. Even the flags above the terrace seemed to hush.
"I have seen enough."
The words landed like stones in a still pool.
"There are two who have shown strength without equal. Discipline without hesitation. Magic without waste."
Then, the names.
"Annabel Valor. Rōko Tsume."
The crowd swelled — not yet noise, just pressure, like a storm wall building behind the silence.
"The two of you will bear the Metal Scrolls."
There it was. The first crack of thunder — thousands of voices at once, shock and disbelief and wild, rooting joy. I heard gasps. Cheers. A single, long whistle from far in the south steps.
Tovin's breath caught beside me.
Even Salem's mana flinched softly against mine — not surprise, but… pride.
The king's voice cut through again, cold and clear.
"You've already proven yourselves."
He let the weight of that settle. Then—
"There is no need to clash. Not unless you wish it."
And they did.
The crowd did.
I could feel it in their feet on the stone. In the way the wind curled forward over the walls. In how the sand in the arena tensed like something waiting to be broken.
Behind me, Salem's presence touched mine one last time.
Warm.
Unspoken.
Then she stepped away.
Tovin hesitated a breath longer — unsure, still tethered to disbelief — but he followed. Boots against stone. Faint, retreating.
They were gone.
Leaving only me.
Another presence joined the terrace then — and the air shifted again.
Not with sound. Not even with mana.
With gravity.
I knew that weight.
Everyone did.
Lincoln.
I felt him like a fault line across the world. No spell. No speech. Just presence — the kind of presence that made warlords kneel and kings speak quieter.
He stepped up beside the throne — beside Beren — and the entire arena bent subtly around him.
No challenge.
Only reverence.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
If he was here to witness this…
Then what followed would be carved into history.
I stepped forward in the pit, right after Salem and Tovin stepped away.
"If the choice is ours," I said, "then I have a request."
The terrace quieted. Even the breathless corners hushed.
"If this is to be fought…" I exhaled slowly, voice steady as frost, "then let our teammates rest."
I turned my head slightly — toward the pressure I knew to be her.
"I will pull Salem back. And you may stand alone as well."
I waited.
No sound.
Then leather shifted against stone — soft, deliberate.
Boots left the terrace.
She didn't fall.
She landed.
And the arena changed.
Her feet struck the sand like punctuation — sharp and perfect. Her mana pressed outward in a low, humming ring. Not heavy. Not hostile.
Clean.
I heard the rasp of steel — not surrender, but readiness.
The sickle hadn't been dropped.
Good.
I didn't put my staff down, either.
This wasn't about proving we could play fair. This was about proving we could fight whole.
Two weapons. Two wills.
One answer.
The king's voice returned, quieter now.
"Then let it be known — the scrolls are claimed."
"This duel is not for glory."
"It is for memory."
"For meaning."
"And may it never be forgotten."
Then, the names.
Final. Weighted.
"Annabel Valor. Rank Two."
"Rōko Tsume. Rank One."
"Begin."
No roar.
Just sand.
Just breath.
And two silences colliding.
The silence held — sharp as drawn steel.
Then a breath — too sharp, too close — cracked the stillness.
I didn't wait.
The first step hit hard, magic pouring into the ground beneath me in a pulse of earth. I mapped the arena in the way I knew how — through the drag of grain and weight, the pressure of still air brushing displaced.
She was already moving.
The chain cut the silence first — slicing through it like a drawn line. I caught the motion, not visually, but through vibration — through the way the mana shifted, through how the air tensed before metal sang.
I turned my staff into the arc — steel meeting steel — and felt the jolt down my arms.
Not a clean block.
Not meant to be.
Just a deflection. Enough to feel her distance.
She pressed in — again, again — rhythm looping with learned precision. Mid-range control. Every strike measured.
The chain scraped wide.
I twisted just under the next pass — leaned into the cold, and exhaled.
Then folded space.
Not a tear. A crease.
I slipped.
Vanished from where I'd stood — not even a breath of air left behind — and stepped back into reality behind her.
The swing came fast.
But she ducked.
The sickle was already turning.
She knew.
She turned with me — momentum coiled into a full-body pivot — and the chain snapped, tight.
A breath late, I blocked with the butt of the staff.
Too slow.
She lunged.
I tried to fold space again, but she was already inside the gap.
Her fist hit my ribs hard. Centered. Air cracked out of my lungs.
Then steel kissed skin.
Pain lanced across my back — high, shallow, but hot.
The blade didn't go deep.
But it was enough.
The crowd shifted — I heard the inhale ripple across them like breaking surf.
Not loud. Not cheering.
Shock.
From the terrace, I felt Salem's mana snap — not flaring, not yet — just a sharp recoil, like a needle against my own.
Kate's voice followed. Low. Measured.
"Easy," she said. "She's not done."
Below, I dropped low, braced the staff with both hands, and kicked ice outward.
It bloomed — a fan of frost that caught her boots and threw her half-step off.
Not enough to down her.
But enough to draw breath again.
We separated.
I stood straight. Chest tight.
Blood slid slow down my side. Cold air bit at the cut. I didn't reach for it.
Didn't need to.
She hadn't followed.
Rōko's feet settled in the sand with a care that said she didn't trust the silence anymore. Her chain swayed — the sound more breath less quiet now.
She was waiting.
Smart.
I blinked once.
Folded space again — short, sharp, leftward this time — appearing mid-swing. The arc of my staff met her side—
But she blocked.
Not a clean clash.
Pressure. Weight. Then the chain pulled again.
I let go.
Let the staff fly with her yank.
Then reached—
Space buckled.
And the staff fell back into my hand from nothingness.
I struck again — a blow across her back this time, then dropped low and swept for her legs.
She leapt — just barely — and I followed.
Pressed in. Close.
Her elbow caught my shoulder.
Then mine caught her side.
Metal cracked against her forearm as I pushed up and through, breaking the lock.
Back again. Two steps.
I re-grounded.
No fire.
No wind.
Just cold and space.
It was all I needed.
From above, Tovin's breath stuttered beside Kate. "She's bleeding pretty badly."
Kate didn't answer.
She was too still.
Up in the high terraces, Julius spoke, low. "That's space again. How much mana does that damn girl have now!?"
"Each fold's faster and cleaner aswel." Ramon said.
"But she got cut," Julius muttered.
Ramon's voice was tight. "It won't happen twice."
—
Below, I drew the cold tighter.
Frost crept up my arms — not skin-deep. Not decoration. Armor. Function.
Her feet shifted.
I folded space again — not behind, not beside — but through.
Appeared directly over her swing and dropped into a full downward strike.
She braced — hands locked, stance firm — and caught it.
But I felt it push her back.
A breath.
Then another.
We broke.
And for the first time, I heard it.
The crowd wasn't roaring.
They weren't chanting.
They were watching.
Held in that knife-edge place between awe and fear.
She took one step forward.
I answered with silence.
Two prodigies.
Two weapons still in hand.
And the question neither of us dared say:
How far can we go before one of us doesn't get back up?
The next shift was hers.
Rōko moved with certainty — pressure in the air bending not with force, but with choice. She wasn't rushing. Wasn't stretching.
She was coasting.
The chain flicked again — clean, effortless — and I barely folded in time to avoid the slice meant for my throat.
I landed hard, knees catching dust.
She didn't follow.
Didn't have to.
Her mana barely moved — just a pulse reinforcing the steel of her weapon, and a shallow hum behind the next pillar of stone she launched herself from.
Casual. Controlled.
Each block, each strike, each movement — just enough.
No waste.
I folded again — space groaning at the edge of my spell. The landing was sharp. My shoulder clipped the ground. The pulse in my skull told me I was pushing close to burnout.
Still too far.
Still not close enough.
Above, wind pulled the terrace flags taut — and Lincoln finally exhaled.
"She's losing ground," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it reached Beren like a blade across parchment.
"Which?" the king asked.
Lincoln didn't answer right away. Then:
"Annabel."
Beren's posture didn't shift. "I see no panic."
"No. You won't," Lincoln murmured. "But her space magic folds reality every time she steps. That's no small cost. You can't repeat it like a sword swing. It cuts the caster, too."
"And the other?" Beren asked. "The samurai?"
"Rōko's barely using mana," Lincoln said. "Just a thread here and there. She's moving like she's done this a hundred times — reinforcement on the chain, a stone launch when she wants new angle. She's in no rush."
He paused, then added, almost absently:
"And she still hasn't taken a kill shot."
Beren turned slightly. "You think she could have?"
Lincoln nodded once. "Two — maybe three. She's letting Annabel reset."
A beat of silence passed.
Then Lincoln's voice dropped lower.
"And Annabel's holding back too. You've seen what happens when she lets go."
"I have," the king said.
"She hasn't let go," Lincoln said.
"No," Beren agreed. "Because if she did—"
"One of them wouldn't get back up," Lincoln finished.
—
Below, the sand broke beneath my boots again.
A fresh fold tore across space — this one sharper, closer — and I appeared beneath her arc.
I struck up.
She twisted — effortless, and the sickle snapped down across my forearm. I blocked — metal on metal — then turned the parry into a shove.
She gave ground.
Not far.
Not forced.
Just repositioned. Again.
I dropped back, breathing hard. My mana slipped at the edges — not spent, but fraying.
Rōko's steps were soundless. Her stance remained the same.
Unhurried.
Efficient.
The chain spun once — not a strike, just a warning. She was circling now. Keeping distance. Holding the rhythm she wanted.
I needed to break it.
Not with brute force.
Not with range.
With something else.
I dropped my stance low.
Cold built through my boots — ice biting into the sand. Not to slip. Not to trap.
To steady.
And in that breath, I let myself stop reaching.
No more folding.
Not yet.
Just listening.
Her chain shifted left — the slight hum of air displacement giving it away — and I pivoted early.
Staff raised.
A deflection met her mid-strike — the blow glancing wide.
Another came immediately — vertical this time.
I bent, let the chain whistle past my shoulder, then surged up.
Rōko followed — a stone pillar rising under her boots again, giving her the height she needed.
I turned the motion.
Let her take the high ground.
Because this time—
I didn't appear where I started.
I cut space at an angle.
Re-emerged above her.
Staff crashing down.
She blocked — barely — her forearm meeting mine. Steel clashed.
We locked there.
A half-second where both of us held weight and will against the other.
And in that moment—
We both knew.
Neither of us would break the rhythm.
Only giving up could do that.
The chain came again.
Not wide. Not sweeping.
Precise.
I bent under it — the edge humming just above my ear — and dropped to a crouch.
Then pushed.
A fold cracked the world sideways — not far this time — just close enough to drive me under her guard.
Her boot slid.
A half-second of imbalance.
Enough.
"Flamelight," I whispered.
The cast lit behind my ribs — a heat I rarely touched. Verbal spells cost more, taxed deeper. But they answered harder, too.
Fire jumped from my palm — raw and fast.
It didn't explode.
It clung — wrapping around her right forearm, catching the chain and skin in the same breath.
The first scream of the match ripped the air.
Only half a scream — bitten down. But I felt it.
I struck before she could recover.
The metal of my staff cracked across her jaw — not enough to break bone, but enough to drop her stance.
The crowd roared — sudden, electric — a collective exhale of disbelief and awe.
But Rōko wasn't done.
Her sickle was already moving.
It caught my thigh.
Deep.
The sound it made wasn't clean — more of a tear than a cut — and my breath left me all at once.
I dropped, barely catching myself.
Blood poured hot and fast down my leg.
I reached.
Mana surged through me again — cold this time, pure ice — and I drove it toward her boots. Frost jumped across the sand, climbing her ankle, her shin.
She tried to move.
Too late.
I froze the joint solid — not to trap forever, just long enough.
We both stumbled back.
I couldn't see her face — but I could hear the breath in her throat. Staggered. Controlled. Hurt.
Across the terrace, Salem stood.
I felt it in the pressure of her mana before I ever heard her voice.
Her fear.
Her fury.
It pushed forward like shadow made real — her steps already moving, breaking for the stair.
"She's hurt—" Salem's voice cracked.
"Stay here." Kate's hands caught her shoulders. "She's not done."
"She's bleeding."
"She knows."
Below, we both stood still.
A single breath passed.
Then another.
I felt the mana flickering in me like the end of a candle — heat and ice and pressure too stretched to shape.
But I had one more left.
Not a spell.
Not a fold.
Just a move.
I inhaled sharply.
Let the wind pull behind my ribs — not to cast, but to carry.
Then I leapt.
Wind cracked behind me — a single blast strong enough to lift my boots off the sand.
And I crashed forward.
Straight at the leg I'd frozen.
My staff struck it just above the knee — the brittle edge of half-thawed bone giving a sickening crunch.
Rōko dropped.
Her weapon clattered against the arena wall.
I followed her down — strength leaving me all at once — knees buckling.
I didn't hit the ground.
Shadow caught me.
Fast and sure.
Salem moved like lightning between clouds — not stepping, not sprinting — just appearing beneath me, arms locking tight.
The crowd went silent again.
Not stunned.
Not unsure.
But witnessing.
I heard Lincoln's voice behind it all.
Quiet. Measured. Final.
"There it is."
Beside him, Beren nodded.
"The match is over."
And the sand stilled beneath us all.
The world tilted.
Not from pain.
Not even from the wound.
Just the weight of it.
The quiet.
Then the king's voice cracked through the air — not triumphant, just absolute.
"Rōko dropped first," Beren said. "Annabel Valor wins!"
The crowd detonated.
It didn't sound like noise. It sounded like weather — too big, too wide, rushing down from the terraces like a tidal wave of breath held too long.
And then—
Silence again.
Not quiet.
Stillness.
Because within a second, he was on the field.
Lincoln.
No call for healers. No order for medics. Just pressure.
Old, vast, and immutable.
The sand shifted beneath his boots, though he hadn't moved.
A single step. A single sound.
Then a snap.
Not loud. Barely more than a breath.
And the pain was gone.
My lungs filled easier.
The tear in my thigh — sealed. The blood gone. The heat in my ribs — dulled, cleared. My breath moved through me like it belonged again.
But not all the way.
I ran my hand down my leg.
The skin was whole.
But not clean.
A line remained — faint, but raised. A scar. Cold and exact. Like something frozen in time.
Rōko stirred across from me — I heard her breath catch as she moved, testing herself. Whole. But slower now. Tired.
He'd healed us.
Healed everything.
Because he could.
Because he was Lincoln.
Because when strength needed a shape, the world pointed to him.
No speeches.
No ceremony.
He just turned once. And was gone again.
And behind me, Salem still held my weight.
Shadow and worry and relief all wrapped into one trembling breath.
I didn't lean away.
Didn't speak.
Just listened.
To the wind brushing through the empty space where a duel had ended.
And the memory it left behind.