The dream shifted.
Kyanna was now seventeen. The lion cub at her side—once small enough to curl into her arms—had grown. He stood nearly four feet at the shoulder, his golden mane beginning to thicken like a crown.
They stood before the towering gates of Epsilon's most prestigious academy. A jagged mountain loomed behind it, casting shadows over the carved halls of stone and steel. Kyanna tilted her head back, taking it in.
So this is it, she thought. The top. Even if it's just for a tournament.
The guards barely looked at her before motioning her toward the fighters' wing. Her armor clinked as she walked—rough, scarred, and pieced together from scraps and spoils. No crest adorned her chest. No enchantment glimmered on her pauldrons. Her armor had been forged by blacksmith apprentices at Zafeer Academy, hammered together with grit and smoke.
It wasn't pretty.
But it worked.
In the changing room, Arvalen sat quietly beside her, his golden eyes tracking every move as she strapped on her gear. When she finished, she ran her fingers through his mane.
"Stay close," she whispered. "We're not done yet."
She followed the usher through winding halls until they emerged into the arena.
The battlefield was obsidian—smooth and circular, carved directly from the mountain's heart. It gleamed under the harsh midday sun like a dark mirror. Tiered stone seats surrounded the ring, filled with nobles in regal armor and elegant robes. Laughter and murmurs filled the air as bets were placed.
Kyanna scanned the other fighters. Their armor sparkled. Crests marked their houses—royal lineages, noble names.
And then there was her.
Scars, not sigils, marked her plate.
From the highest tier of the arena, above the crowd and above the fighters, loomed the Royal Watchtower. A wide stone balcony framed by obsidian pillars. Carvings of roaring lions lined its edge.
There stood Leon Divertas, King of Epsilon.
He was flanked by generals, advisors, and courtiers. His cold gaze swept the arena—watching, judging. Kyanna felt it pass over her, uninterested.
The head of Epsilon Academy stepped forward.
"I would like to thank all of you for attending and participating in this tournament," he boomed. "With that, let the first battle commence. Vireon Divertas and Singal Revost, step forward. The rest of you—return to your quarters."
As the fighters filtered out, the clash of steel rang behind them.
Thirty seconds later, the announcer called again:
"Vireon Divertas has moved on to the next round."
The crowd exploded in cheers.
Kyanna didn't react. She returned to her room, sat beside Arvalen, and waited.
Her first two fights were easy. She didn't even use her power—just speed and unrelenting precision. Her katana cut through hesitation like wind through grass.
Now, she was the only woman left in the competition.
A knock on the door.
"Miss Kyanna, you're up next."
She stood. Arvalen padded silently behind her.
Her opponent waited across the arena. Walter Bloomfield—a mountain of a man, easily 6'6", his silver armor blazing in the sunlight. His greatsword looked like it could cleave a tree in half.
The announcer gave no warning. Only a nod.
Kyanna launched forward.
She was a blur—faster than any nobleman had seen. Her katana flashed.
Then—for the first time—she activated her power.
Silence.
Not just her footsteps. Not just her blade.
Everything.
The crowd, the wind, even Walter's breath—it all vanished into a vacuum of stillness.
Walter turned. As Kyanna struck him from the side, then disappeared again.
Another hit. Then another.
Walter couldn't recover.
The fight was over in seconds.
"Victory to Kyanna of Zafeer!"
The silence broke into roars.
Back in her quarters, Kyanna knelt beside Arvalen, resting a hand on his back. "You're a good boy, Arvalen," she whispered. "Told you momma could beat the bad guys."
A distant roar from the crowd shook the room.
Kyanna stood, drawn by the sound. She hadn't watched any of the matches—none interested her—but now, something pulled her forward.
She reached the tunnel's edge.
Vireon stood alone at the center of the ring, his wooden greatsword resting casually over one shoulder. His opponent lay unconscious at his feet.
A hush fell.
The final match was coming.
Whispers filled the seats as the crowd buzzed with anticipation.
"Do you really think she's strong enough to beat the king's son?"
"I hope so. I bet on her," another man chuckled.
Then—stillness.
The announcer stepped forward.
"The final fight of the tournament is about to begin. Kyanna of Zafeer… versus Prince Vireon Divertas!"
The arena erupted.
The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the obsidian floor. Heat shimmered in the air, torches casting wild reflections along the stone.
Two combatants entered the ring.
Vireon, a tower of calm, rested his greatsword across his shoulders. A shimmer pulsed around him—his Five-Foot Sense, his shield, his pride.
Across from him, Kyanna stood silent.
No crest. No glow. Only her katana, steady at her side.
She dashed forward—faster than before. She could see the shimmer of Vireon's dome. Just barely.
Can he really see everything in it? she wondered.
She dove in.
Steel met wood. His greatsword caught her katana mid-strike.
Then—his fist struck like a hammer, slamming into her ribs. She flew back across the floor, pain blooming in her side.
She exhaled, braced herself, and charged again.
This time—she vanished.
Silent. Untouchable.
Vireon swung toward her last known position. Nothing.
Again. Missed.
Kyanna blinked in and out, dashing from shadow to shadow, weaving through his defenses. Deactivate. Reactivate. Repeat.
Each move brought her closer.
Vireon roared, furious.
"Stop hiding! Come out and fight me!"
Kyanna appeared—above him. Upside down. A shadow against the sun.
Her blade arced.
It didn't strike his chest. It struck the crook of his right elbow.
Tendons snapped.
His sword dropped.
Before he could scream, her blade traced a line across his chestplate—clean, deliberate, decisive.
Vireon dropped to one knee, gripping his arm.
Blood pooled on obsidian.
Silence.
Then—thunder.
The crowd erupted as the announcer's voice boomed:
"Victory to Kyanna of Zafeer!"
She stood over him, calm as stone.
"Your power is defense," she said coldly. "But your lack of awareness was your downfall."
Kyren jolted awake, drenched in sweat.
His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The image of the obsidian arena still flickered behind his eyes. The crowd. The sword. The lion cub.
"Kyanna…" he whispered.