King Rega sat back in his gilded chair, the velvet cushions doing little to soften the restlessness in his limbs. The arena below was a mess of gore and disturbed sand, the crowd’s bloodlust temporarily sated but quickly rebuilding for the finale. He swirled the dregs of his wine, his sharp eyes flicking from the corpse on the sands to his two most trusted shadows.

  "And you’re sure that the dwarf has been vetted?" Rega asked.

  Kenya stepped out of the periphery, her posture rigid. "Yes, my King. A mercenary captain named Atlas has vouched for him. He claims they fought together in the Iron Hills for a time, nearly twenty years ago. The dwarf’s history is dull, but consistent."

  Rega gave a small, dissatisfied grumble, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "Twenty years is a long time for a friendship to hold such weight."

  "Did you suspect the dwarf of being the green à??born?" Zuri asked from the other side, her tone carefully neutral.

  "It was a thought," Rega admitted, his gaze drifting back to the preparation tunnel where the fighters waited. "Small stature, hidden face, sudden appearance in the late rounds... it fit the profile of someone trying to hide."

  Rega paused, looking deep in thought, calculating variables that only he could see.

  "Perhaps he was never in the tournament," Kenya suggested, offering an alternative. "Or maybe he was already knocked out in the early melees. Many unnamed fighters fell before the quarterfinals."

  Rega laughed, a short, sharp bark of sound. "I doubt that. Power like that doesn’t just fall unnoticed." His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a brooding seriousness. "But maybe I put too much faith into the narrative. I banked on the Boy coming to save his master before he was slaughtered."

  He gestured vaguely at the bloody sand where the shapeshifter had died.

  "Do you think he saw through the Shapeshifter?" Rega mused aloud. "Do you think he knew it wasn't the Sword Master?"

  "It is possible," Zuri said. "Or perhaps he is simply too afraid to act openly."

  "Afraid." Rega seemed to find the word genuinely interesting. "Yes. He is hiding. He has been hiding this whole time, behind that face, that name, that ridiculous disguise." He smiled again.

  He leaned forward, eyes drifting to the tunnel entrance where the final preparations were underway.

  "The fight will draw him out. When Silas gets serious, we will see what he does. Whether he steps into the light willingly—" Rega picked up his wine again, "—or whether the light finds him regardless."

  Kenya's looked to the arena. "So you still believe it could be dwarf. And if the vetting holds? If he truly is only a dwarf?"

  "Then he is a dwarf who will die a spectacular death. And that makes him useful either way." He rose from his chair, smoothing his robes. "After today, I will have Silas's body. Njiru will use his body to build me a General that requires no food, no rest, and no mercy. That alone makes this tournament a success."

  He glanced one last time at the arena

  "But I am not wrong about the dwarf."

  The air in the fighter's perch was thick, not just with the heat of the midday sun, but with the cloying, metallic scent of fresh blood. Below them, on the shimmering arena sand, attendants moved with grim efficiency. They were raking the sand, tossing fresh dirt over the wide, dark stains, and carefully gathering the few scattered remains of what the Gorgon-lion hadn't consumed of the shapeshifter.

  The sight was a grotesque, silent testament to the King’s depravity.

  Leonotis stared down at the cleanup, his jaw rigid. He could still see the brief, flickering image of Gethii’s face before the end. He turned to Low, who was testing the fit of her dwarf helmet for the tenth time.

  "Low, listen to me," Leonotis said, his voice low and strained. "Maybe you should withdraw."

  Low froze, the helmet half-raised. "What?"

  "Maybe you should withdraw now," he repeated, the urgency overriding his caution. "We saw what Silas did in the earlier rounds. We saw what Rega wants. We already have our plan for Gethii. We know he’s still in the Royal Dungeons somewhere. We don't need this fight."

  Jacqueline, leaning against the cool stone wall with her arms crossed, nodded in agreement. "Leonotis is right. The entire point of coming to this tournament was to save Gethii before he was killed by the Gorgon-lion. That's over with. The King was never going to kill him in the arena. Now, you're risking serious injury or worse. You will give Silas a chance to take some of your à??, which is foolish. You have to be at full strength tonight."

  Zombiel's quiet voice rumbled. "Please stay safe."

  Low slowly lowered the helmet, holding it in both hands. She looked at the three of them—Leonotis, terrified; Jacqueline, pragmatic; and Zombiel, protective. She sighed.

  "I can't just forfeit," Low said, shaking her head. "My entire disguise would unravel if I did."

  "No one expects a surprise finalist to beat Silas," Leonotis argued. "They'll write it off as smart caution."

  "They won't," Low countered. "They'll write it off as cowardice. Grom Stonehand wouldn't forfeit before trying. He's supposed to be a brute, a fearless brawler. If I step out now, they'll know something is fundamentally wrong with Grom. It creates a hole in the facade that Rega will notice."

  Low looked at them, her expression unyielding. "I need to fight."

  Leonotis threw his hands up in exasperation. "Are you even listening to yourself? You sound completely insane!"

  "What? Just because you saw a shapeshifter get eaten alive, all of a sudden you're worried?" Low said, adjusting the axe sheath on her back. A fierce, almost wild grin touched her lips. "Leonotis, just a couple hours ago you were giving me advice—fast, chaotic, and no big moves—I might even win."

  "That's not funny, Low!" Leonotis bit out.

  "I'm not laughing," she shot back. "Look at them." She nodded towards the stands, where the crowd, having seen the spectacle of the shapeshifter's gruesome death, was already ravenous for the final match. "These people are bloodthirsty deviants. They won't let us leave without at least some show, or they'll turn on me. And if they turn on me now, before Gethii is safe, everything breaks."

  Low met Leonotis's gaze, her eyes clear and serious, making a sacred promise. "I will fight smart. And I swear to you, if it gets hairy—if Silas gets too close to landing a real blow or draining too much à??—I will yield. Before anything serious happens, I will give up. But I have to give them a fight first."

  She slapped the heavy helmet onto her head, the faceplate clanging shut with a dull finality. The eyes behind the disguise were resolute.

  "I go out, I put on a performance. Then we meet back here when the sun sets, and we go save your family."

  Low stood ready, encased in the armor of Grom Stonehand. She adjusted the massive axe, its polished head gleaming in the midday sun.

  "Remember," Leonotis murmured, "Fast. Chaotic. Don't stop moving. Don't let him absorb anything major."

  "I got it," Low replied, tapping the axe head against her shoulder in a slow, steady rhythm. She glanced at the King's gallery. Rega was smiling, a cruel, satisfied curve of his lips, sipping wine. He expected a quick, brutal end. Low intended to disappoint him.

  The Jabara’s voice bellowed, drawing out the final introduction: "Presenting the Destroyer of Champions… Silas!"

  A figure of contained power strode onto the sand. Silas wore simple, dark leather armor, almost dismissive of the arena's ceremony. But around him, the air subtly shimmered; not heat, but a creeping visual distortion that spoke of the volatile power he wielded. His à?? pulsed around him like black heat haze.

  Silas met Low’s gaze with eyes that were almost bored. He raised a hand in a lazy, arrogant salute to the King, then let his gaze sweep over the packed stands. The crowd, in their anticipation, seemed to hold its collective breath.

  Finally, the herald turned to Low: "And his challenger… Grom Stonehand!"

  The cheer for Grom was hearty but lacked the reverence and fear reserved for Silas. They saw Grom as a brute, a surprise winner, but ultimately fodder for the final match.

  Low lowered her stance, axe held wide. Leonotis's whispered advice was an unbreakable chain in her mind: Quick pressure. No big swings. Don’t let him rest.

  The starting horn blasted.

  The initial exchange shocked everyone.

  Silas, expecting a sluggish, wide swing common to dwarf warriors, simply held his ground, his hands ready to absorb and deflect. But Low did not swing wide. With a suddenness that defied the sheer tonnage of her armor, she darted in. It was a move born of werebear speed, not dwarven strength.

  The great axe did not come down in a sweeping arc; it chopped rapidly, three small, vicious blows aimed at the joints—the knee, the elbow, the side of the head.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  Silas was forced to bring his forearms up defensively, the ringing metal echoing through the arena. He slid back a step, then two. For the first time in the entire tournament, the Destroyer of Champions was on his back foot.

  Leonotis grabbed his seat. "Just like that, Low… keep moving. Don’t give him a single chance to rest. Quick strikes only—no big swings!"

  A gasp went through the crowd. King Rega leaned forward, intrigued by the display. He had his eye on the dwarf. It really didn't matter much to him who won.

  Low pressed her advantage, a frenzied whirlwind of steel and metal. She wasn't fighting like Grom Stonehand; she was fighting like Low, chaotic and utterly unpredictable. She used the axe not just to strike, but to block Silas’s vision, kicking sand at his feet, and keeping her center of gravity low. Every strike was designed to make him move, to spend energy, to deny him the focus needed for a large absorption or counter.

  Silas’s bored expression vanished. His eyes narrowed, and the black haze of his Void à?? flared in annoyance. He began to adapt.

  When the axe head glanced off his shoulder armor, he didn't recoil. He subtly allowed the blade to brush against the surface for a fraction of a second. He pulled a thin, minute trace of Low’s natural à??—her kinetic energy, her stamina—into his own pool of Void.

  Low felt a momentary lag in her response time, a slight heaviness in her left leg. She ignored it, pivoting into a complex series of rapid strikes that forced Silas to retreat further.

  He retaliated with a terrifying display of his power. He did not physically touch her. Instead, using the tiny traces of her essence he had skimmed, he focused the Void telekinetically.

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  The haft of her axe suddenly bent with an audible crack. Low nearly dropped the weapon as a localized pressure field snapped the wood. She adjusted her grip instantly, but her momentum was broken.

  "Tsk, tsk," Silas muttered, his voice cold. "Predictable, brute."

  He struck again with stolen force. Low’s left wrist suddenly twisted outward, bending her arm in a completely wrong direction. A searing spike of pain shot up her elbow. It was the physical damage of the impact returned, magnified, and focused entirely on her tendons.

  Low bit back a cry, switching the damaged axe to her right hand and continuing the attack. The pain was irrelevant; she was still standing, still moving, still forcing him to spend energy.

  She noticed a subtle change in his energy signature. Every skimming move cost him a brief moment of focus, and the overall black haze around him was flickering, unstable. He was relying on small, constant expenditures, and she was overwhelming his recovery rate.

  Don’t let him rest.

  Low roared—a sound that was half werebear, half the crude bellows of the dwarven disguise—and leaped forward. She brought the damaged axe down in a controlled, diagonal slice that forced Silas into a backward roll. She followed him, closing the distance instantly, forcing him to keep his arms up to shield himself.

  Silas thrust his palm forward, and Low’s arm twisted violently against her will. He was turning her own natural à?? against her, attempting to snap the bone from the inside. But the cursed werebear à?? within her recoiled; it refused to let an intruder break its vessel. A primal surge flooded Low’s muscles, and with a roar of exertion, she ripped herself free from Silas’s invisible grip.

  For a moment, just a flicker, she saw a shadow of panic in Silas’s eyes. A thin bead of sweat traced down his temple, his breathing coming in short, controlled bursts that betrayed the toll of constant adaptation. She had him. She was winning. If she could maintain this chaotic, relentless pace, she would drain him dry and break the control he had over the Void.

  She raised the axe for a heavy chop, aiming not to strike him, but to bury the blade into the sand next to his head and shower him with blinding debris.

  And then, Silas stopped moving entirely.

  He stood up straight, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The flickering black haze around him intensified, sinking deep into the sand at his feet. It looked like the shadow of a colossal, unseen tree rooting itself into the arena floor.

  Silas did not meet her eyes. His lips barely moved as he uttered a single, low phrase, resonant and alien—a call to the true source of his power, a contract made with the very corruption that fueled him.

  "?kàn àkúk?," he breathed.

  A surge of Void erupted around his feet.

  The arena sand instantly darkened, turning pitch black, the grains spiraling into a rising whirl of distortion. The pressure in the air vibrated like thin metal stretched taut. The roar of the crowd, so deafening moments ago, was instantly muffled, as if a colossal cloth had been thrown over the Colosseum.

  Low stumbled back, her eyes widening behind the mask. This was not the quick, precise application of Void he had been using. This was raw, unchecked power.

  The blackness coiled and rose, swirling rapidly, a column of absolute distortion erupting from the sand. The air crackled with negative energy. The sky itself seemed to warp above the ring, becoming a sickly, churning gray above the rising black column.

  Silas's voice echoed, resonant and multiplied, coming from deep within the terrifying, swirling distortion, yet sounding perfectly calm:

  "Enough playing."

  The column of swirling, blackened à?? surged outward, a curtain of pure corruption. In an instant, the entire arena vanished behind the vortex of blackness, blocking Silas and Low from view.

  The world had not merely gone dark; it had ceased to exist.

  One moment, Low was standing in the center of the Sunstone Arena, surrounded by the deafening roar of forty thousand souls, the heat of the sun beating down on her dwarven helm, and the smell of dust and iron filling her nose. The next, the universe had contracted to a suffocating sphere of absolute nothingness.

  The darkness was not the absence of light; it was a physical substance. It pressed against the steel of her armor like deep water, heavy and cold. The sound of the crowd was gone, severed so instantly it left a ringing phantom silence in her ears. There was no wind. No sun. Just the rhythmic, wet thrumming of the black sand beneath her boots, which now pulsed like the membrane of a gargantuan, dying heart.

  Low gripped her axe, her knuckles white beneath her gauntlets. She spun in a tight circle, trying to find a horizon, a wall, anything to anchor herself. There was nothing. The Void dome Silas had summoned—?kàn àkúk?—had swallowed them whole.

  She was alone.

  "Did you think," a voice echoed, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, "that a few quick strikes to the knees would be enough?"

  Low whipped around, raising her shield. The voice sounded distorted, as if spoken through water.

  "Show yourself!" she bellowed, her voice sounding thin and muffled in the heavy air. "Coward!"

  "I am not hiding, little dwarf," the voice purred, closer now. "I am everywhere."

  The air to her left rippled. Low didn't hesitate. Following Leonotis’s desperate advice, she exploded into motion. Fast. Chaotic. She pivoted on her heel, driving the axe head horizontally through the distortion in a blur of speed that should have cleaved a man in two.

  Her blade met nothing but smoke.

  But before she could retract the weapon, a force like a battering ram slammed into her side.

  CRACK.

  Low was launched sideways, skidding across the blackened sand. Her ribs screamed in protest, and she tasted copper in her mouth. She scrambled to her feet, gasping. The armor of Grom Stonehand was thick plate, enchanted and reinforced, yet the blow had dented it as if it were tin.

  Silas stood ten paces away. He looked different.

  The simple leather armor he wore was now veins with pulsating lines of violet light. The creeping visual distortion that had previously surrounded him was gone, absorbed into his skin. He stood taller, his posture not just confident, but sovereign. He flexed his hands, and the black air around his fingers warped, responding to his slightest twitch.

  He hadn't just absorbed her kinetic energy from the earlier skirmish. He was feeding on the dome itself.

  "You fight with the desperation of a trapped animal," Silas observed, tilting his head. "It’s charming, in a way. But ultimately futile."

  Low spat blood onto the black sand. "I'm just getting warmed up."

  "Are you?" Silas took a step forward. He didn't walk; he glided, the distance between them vanishing in a blink.

  Low reacted on instinct, throwing herself backward as a lash of condensed Void energy whipped the space where her head had been a fraction of a second prior. The air crackled with the smell of rot.

  She couldn't keep her distance. She had to close the gap, but on her terms.

  Don't let him rest. Keep him off balance.

  Low roared, a guttural sound that vibrated in her chest, and charged. She zigzagged, feinting left, then driving hard right. She dropped low, sliding across the sand to strike at his legs, then popped up to smash the pommel of her axe toward his jaw.

  But Silas was no longer reacting. He was anticipating.

  He caught the haft of her axe with one hand.

  Low froze. The sheer strength required to stop a charging werebear—even one disguised as a dwarf—with a single hand was impossible for a human. But Silas held the weapon immobile, his grip like a vice of cold iron.

  He looked down at her, his eyes now entirely black, devoid of whites or irises.

  "Strong," he murmured. "Much stronger than a dwarf should be. There is a density to your à??... it is rich. Wild."

  He didn't wrench the weapon away. instead, Low felt a sudden, sickening lurch in her gut. It wasn't pain, exactly. It was a sensation of hollowing. It felt as though a hook had been inserted into her navel and was dragging her insides out through her arms.

  The golden aura of her natural à?? flared visible around her, spiraling down the length of the axe and into Silas's palm.

  "No!" Low gritted her teeth and kicked out, driving her iron boot into Silas's stomach.

  It was like kicking a stone pillar. He didn't budge. But the impact broke his concentration enough for her to rip the axe free. She staggered back, her breath coming in ragged heaves. Her arms felt heavy, leaden.

  "More," Silas whispered, a look of genuine hunger crossing his face for the first time. "I want more."

  Low retreated, putting distance between them, her mind racing. The strategy was failing. The Fast and Chaotic approach relied on the enemy being overwhelmed by the volume of attacks. But Silas was faster now. He was stronger. And every time their weapons—or bodies—connected, he took a piece of her.

  A dark, seductive thought uncoiled in the back of her mind.

  Let me out.

  The voice of the beast. The curse.

  It pushed against the cage of her will, sensing the danger. The werebear knew they were being hunted. It knew that the "Grom" disguise was a hindrance, a shell of heavy metal that slowed them down. It wanted to rip off the armor, tear through the skin, and unleash the apex predator within.

  He is strong, the beast whispered in her blood. But we are stronger. We can tear his throat out before he can blink. Release me.

  Low’s heart hammered against her ribs. The temptation was overwhelming. If she transformed, she would gain mass, speed, and ferocity that Silas couldn't possibly predict. She could snap his neck like a twig. The armor would burst apart, and the twelve-foot monstrosity of fur and muscle would dominate this small, dark world.

  For a second, her hand went to the clasp of her helmet.

  No.

  The memory hit her like a bucket of ice water, sharp and paralyzing.

  She was back on Water Mountain. She remembered the pain—the breaking of bones, the reshaping of flesh—but that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the mind.

  She remembered looking at the world not as Low, but as It.

  She remembered the way the world had turned red. She remembered the terrifying, euphoric simplicity of the hunt. There was no logic. No strategy. No mercy. There was only hunger and rage.

  I can't think when I'm like that, Low realized, her hand trembling on the axe haft. I become a hammer. A blunt object.

  She looked at Silas. He was calm, calculated, a master of flow and redirection. He wasn't fighting with brute strength alone; he was fighting with finesse. He was a surgeon removing her soul piece by piece.

  If she released the werebear, she would lose her mind. She would charge him blindly. She would be all rage and no tactic. And Silas... Silas would just sidestep. He would catch the beast’s claws. He would drain the massive, overflowing ocean of the werebear's à?? until she was a husk.

  To beat him, she needed to be sharp. She needed to be Low.

  Stay down, she mentally screamed at the beast. Stay the hell down!

  "Done thinking?" Silas asked.

  He raised a hand, and the black sand beneath Low’s feet suddenly liquified. She stumbled as the ground tried to swallow her ankles.

  "You're fighting a war with yourself, aren't you?" Silas mused, walking slowly toward her as she struggled to pull her boots free from the mire. "I can feel the turbulence in your energy. Two currents, crashing against each other. It’s delicious."

  Low ripped her right leg free with a wet sucking sound, then the left. She didn't have time to catch her balance before Silas was on her.

  He didn't use a weapon. He used his hands. He struck with open palms, a martial style she didn't recognize, flowing like water. He struck her shoulder, her hip, the center of her chestplate.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Each hit didn't just bruise; it sapped.

  Low swung the axe wildly, desperate to back him off. He ducked under the blade with terrifying ease, spinning behind her. He placed a hand on the back of her helmet.

  "Sleep," he whispered.

  A massive jolt of cold rushed down her spine. Low screamed, her vision graying at the edges. She flailed backward, swinging her elbow blindly. It connected with Silas’s jaw, a solid, bone-jarring hit.

  Silas stumbled back, clutching his face. For a second, he looked surprised.

  "Good," Low panted, turning to face him. Her limbs felt like they were filled with wet concrete. "I can... still hit you."

  But the cost was too high. That brief contact, his hand on her head, had drained something vital. Her focus was fracturing. The edges of the Void dome seemed to be closing in, the darkness becoming heavier.

  And the beast was panicking.

  As Low’s human will weakened from the drain, the cage door rattled. The werebear felt the host dying. It didn't care about strategy; it cared about survival.

  DANGER. DEATH. RELEASE. NOW.

  Low felt the transformation trying to force itself violently. Her skin burned. Her bones ached with the phantom pressure of shifting.

  "Stop it!" Low shouted. She wasn't talking to Silas.

  Silas wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. He looked at the blood on his finger, then smiled. "You are fighting two battles, dwarf. And you are losing both."

  He extended both hands. "Let me help you end the struggle."

  Low tried to raise her axe. Her arms shook uncontrollably. The weapon felt impossibly heavy. The tip of the axe dragged in the black sand.

  Move, she told herself. Move or die.

  She lunged, not at him, but to the side, trying to flank him again. But her legs betrayed her. The explosive speed she relied on was gone, siphoned away into Silas’s reserves. She stumbled, her movement sluggish and clumsy.

  Silas was there instantly. He swept her legs.

  It was a simple, mundane move, but with her exhaustion, it was devastating. Low hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her lungs. The impact rattled her brain inside the helmet.

  She tried to roll, to get up, but a heavy boot slammed onto her chestplate, pinning her to the earth.

  Low gasped, staring up.

  Silas stood over her, silhouetted against the swirling gray of the dome’s ceiling. He looked like a god of the underworld, framed in shadow. The violet veins in his leather armor pulsed in time with his breathing.

  "You have an immense reservoir," Silas said. He leaned down, the void blade dissolving back into a swirling mist around his hand. "Whatever you are hiding under that armor... it is powerful."

  Low struggled, her fingers clawing at his boot. "Get... off..."

  "No," Silas said simply.

  He knelt, his knee pressing down on her sternum, crushing the air out of her. He reached out and placed his palm flat against the faceplate of her helmet.

  "I’m going to drink it all," he whispered.

  Low felt the drain begin in earnest. It wasn't a skim anymore. It was a floodgate opening.

  She felt her strength vanishing like water down a drain. Her memories seemed to blur all of it becoming fuzzy and distant.

  Inside her, the werebear roared in terror, a soundless scream that echoed in her skull. The beast clawed at the walls of her mind, desperate to get out, to fight, to kill. But the drain was affecting it too. The beast’s rage turned to lethargy. The fire of the curse was being doused by the vacuum of the Void.

  I'm sorry, Low thought, her mind drifting. I'm sorry, Leonotis. I couldn't do it.

  She tried to summon one last burst of strength, one last trick. She tried to bite her tongue, to use the pain to focus. But her body refused to obey. She was a statue of flesh and iron, lying broken on the black sand.

  Silas closed his eyes, savoring the influx of power. "So much life," he murmured. "It’s intoxicating."

  Low’s vision narrowed to a pinprick. The darkness of the dome and the darkness of unconsciousness merged. She was helpless. Pinned. Drained.

  The fight was over.

  Silas slowly withdrew his hand, standing up. He looked down at her prone form, his expression one of clinical satisfaction. He didn't raise a weapon to deliver the killing blow. He didn't need to. In this domain, he was the master of reality.

  He raised a single finger, pointing it at her chest. A small, dense sphere of black energy began to gather at the tip.

  "Rest now, Grom Stonehand," Silas said softly. "You served your purpose."