Navila's fingers tightened around the hilt as she lunged, driving her blade upward in a deadly diagonal arc.
Avian met her strike head-on—CLING!—his sword ringing like church bells in the hush that fell over the arena.
They traded blows in a blur of steel and sweat.
Navila's heartbeat thundered in her ears as she pressed her advantage, each slash faster and heavier than the last. Her arms burned; her strikes wavered in precision, but their force only grew.
Avian stepped back, breathing steady.
He read her fatigue in the slump of her shoulders and the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Smiling to himself, he planted his foot with volcanic resolve, locked his grip… and drove his sword vertically into hers.
CRACK!
The arena trembled at the sound—sharp as glass splintering underfoot—and the crowd erupted, a single living roar of metal and flesh.
Sensing her blade give way, Navila staggered, desperation searing through her veins.
Avian pressed the assault: slash after thunderous slash—CLING… CLING…—until her sword finally succumbed, bursting apart in a shower of glittering shards.
He pivoted on his heel, angling his blade forty-five degrees, and thrust with every ounce of strength. Navila's eyes widened as steel met chest, hurling her into the air. She crashed to the dirt with a hollow THUD, dust rising around her like mournful spirits.
Gasping, she pulled herself to her knees, body trembling—but Avian didn't relent. He charged, muscles coiled for one final, climactic blow…
A whisper drifted even to the distant announcer: "…no…ough…engh…"
"ENOUGH!" Avian's voice cut through the chaos. He halted inches from her chest, blade quivering in the air.
A hush fell.
Then the announcer sprinted into the circle, helmet askew, voice cracking over the crowd's din: "The winner of this round is… AVIAN!"
Arms raised, Avian accepted the cheers as Navila sank fully to her knees, chest heaving, sweat and blood mingling on the sand. The first match of the day had ended—her defeat absolute, his triumph undeniable.
…
Luna leaned against the balustrade, her cheek flushed, eyes lifted, a glimmer dancing in them.
"...Wow."
Guests near her cast sidelong glances, lips curling in quiet scorn.
She backed away, returning to her chair and sitting down, still caught in the memory of the fight's peaks. She loved every moment of it.
"Oh…"
A tight pang struck her lower abdomen.
Rising slowly, she made her way to the doors. Her steps were quiet against the carpet as she approached the guards stationed nearby.
They crossed their spears before her, barring the path. One spoke, firm and steady "No... No one leaves until the tournament ends. Higher-ups orders."
Luna looked up at them, eyes wide, cheeks still tinged with red, her arms drawn slightly in front of her.
"I need to use the toilet. Can't you let me go? I'll come right back."
"Miss, we can not let you go."
"Then one of you can come with me," Luna said, fidgeting. "Please—I really can't wait."
The guards exchanged a look, then turned back to her.
"That... we can't do either. There are too many important people here, miss. We're under strict orders."
Luna stepped a little closer, pecking the right guard lightly on the arm.
"I really need to go, please. What could possibly happen on Academy grounds?"
The left guard sighed dramatically.
"She's a Lockheart… refusing her might draw attention," he muttered to the other guard.
"All right… Miss, go—but come back quickly."
He stepped aside, opening the door.
The right guard looked at him, confused, as he moved his spear out of the way.
"I'm not responsible if anything happens."
Luna blinked at him. Once. Twice. Then just stared—so obvious it might as well have been written on her face "What are you even talking about?"
"Alright, miss. Go through," he muttered.
As she passed them, the guards caught a faint scent—sweet, like lilies. Odd. The tournament grounds reeked of sweat and steel.
Luna slipped through the door as it shut quietly behind her.
…
The bathroom was quiet—eerily quiet.
White walls gleamed like bone, and the porcelain floor whispered under Luna's steps as she moved to the marble sink.
She turned the silver handle. Water gushed forth, cold and clear.
Luna let it run over her fingers, watching the droplets catch the light like tiny stars.
"Wow… this is pretty," she murmured, almost to herself.
"I need to tell this to Father—this would look perfect in our bath wing."
She flicked her hands dry with a practiced shake, then grabbed a towel and dabbed them off.
Turning on her heel, she made for the exit.
"I can't wait to see Aria fight," she grinned, her voice low with excitement.
"I've seen Nyx in action, but Aria? I'm so hyped, though."
Her footsteps echoed softly:
Step… step… step…
She neared the door. Her hand reached for the brass handle, fingers closing around the cold metal.
She paused.
Something… off. A prickling at the back of her neck.
She pushed the door open slowly—quietly—peeking into the empty corridor beyond.
Safe.
She exhaled a small breath and stepped out.
The moment her foot touched the hallway, the silence thickened.
A hand clamped her mouth.
Leather.
A damp cloth.
Acrid sweetness hit her nose—sharp and sickening.
"Mmmph—!"
Her limbs flailed, but her strength slipped through her fingers like sand.
Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision.
"No… not now… not here—!"
And … Nothing.
…
The door creaked open.
The guards turned as Luna stepped through, her expression calm. Too calm. Her eyes didn't move—not to them, not to the door. Just forward.
"Welcome back, miss," one of them said. "See? Nothing happened."
She nodded. Once. Precisely. A beat too slow.
As she passed, they caught a strange scent—something floral and faintly rotten, a bit confused they were.
She returned to her seat and sat, movements mechanical, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes fixed on the arena—not with joy or awe. Just stillness. Like a doll left too long in the sun.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
The tournament continued.
But Luna… didn't.