The tournament had been a grind.

Three rounds in four days. Ashen Dawn had faced opponents from across Verland—each one different, each one pushing them in new ways. The first match had been easy, almost insultingly so. The second had required actual strategy, the third had tested their endurance.

But they had won. All of them.

Cora had become a crowd favorite, her phasing ability drawing gasps and cheers every time she slipped through an attack that should have landed. Mason’s controlled flames had earned nods from the veteran hunters in the stands. Sera’s precision shots had silenced more than one overconfident opponent. And Derek—Derek had surprised everyone, including himself. His ghosts had turned the tide in the third match, freezing a charging brute in his tracks while Cora delivered the finishing blow.

Lucian had fought, when needed. A quick disarm here. A precise counter there. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would draw the Council’s attention. His team had carried the weight, and he had let them.

The Silver Falcons had also advanced, as expected. They moved through their matches like a blade through silk—efficient, elegant, untouchable. Dorian had barely broken a sweat. His team had perfected their coordination over years of training, and it showed.

The semifinals were tomorrow. Ashen Dawn versus Iron Vanguard. Silver Falcons versus Thornwick Academy.

The winners would face each other in the finals.

The common room was quiet.

Not the comfortable quiet of a lazy afternoon—the tense quiet of a team wound too tight. Derek sat on the couch, his staff across his lap, staring at the wall. Sera was on the floor, her phone abandoned, her eyes distant. Mason stood by the window, his gauntlets off for once, his hands flexing open and closed.

Cora paced.

"We’ve watched their footage," she said. "Twelve matches. Their patterns are clear. They rely on their heavy hitters to break through defenses while their flankers pick off stragglers."

"Sera and I can handle the flankers," Mason said.

"While Derek and I hold the center?" Cora shook her head. "No. Their heavy hitters are too strong for a two-person line."

Lucian sat in the corner, his arms crossed, listening. He’d been quiet all evening, letting them talk, letting them plan. He’d already run the scenarios a hundred times.

"Iron Vanguard’s weakness is their coordination," he said.

Everyone looked at him.

"They train as individuals," he continued. "Heavy hitters, flankers, support. But they don’t train as a unit. If we break their rhythm—make them hesitate, make them second-guess—they’ll fall apart."

Cora stopped pacing. "How do we break their rhythm?"

"Hit them first. Hard. Before they can form their lines." Lucian unfolded his arms. "Mason, you take the left heavy. Cora, you phase through the right heavy and disorient him. Derek, your ghosts disrupt the flankers. Sera, you cover Derek and pick off anyone who breaks through."

Derek swallowed. "That’s... aggressive."

"It’s necessary."

Sera picked up her phone, then put it down. "What about you?"

"I’ll be where I’m needed."

Cora frowned. "That’s vague."

"That’s the plan."

The room fell silent again. Not tense, this time. Focused.

Derek stood, his staff steady in his hand. "Okay. Let’s do it."

---

The night was clear, the stars sharp and cold.

Lucian stood on the dorm roof, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the sky. The tournament, the pendant, Valentine—all of it faded in the quiet. Up here, there was just the wind and the moonlight and the distant hum of the city.

The door creaked behind him.

Cora stepped onto the roof, her jacket pulled tight against the cold. She walked to the edge, stood beside him, and looked up.

"You’re going to freeze," she said.

"I’ve been colder."

"Farm boy."

"Reincarnator."

She snorted. "Fair."

They stood in silence for a while, watching the stars. The moon was half-full, pale and distant, like a coin someone had forgotten to pick up.

"I’ve been thinking," Cora said.

"About what?"

"About your father."

Lucian’s expression didn’t change. "What about him?"

"What if he’s something terrible? One of those Old Bloods Derek found in the library. Or something worse." She turned to look at him. "What will you do?"

Lucian was quiet for a long moment. The wind moved through his hair, cold and sharp.

"Then I’ll deal with it," he said. "I’m not him."

"You don’t know that."

"I know I’m not." He looked at her. "I’ve spent my whole life being told who I should be. A farm boy. A lost heir. A weapon. But I’m the one who decides what I become. Not my blood. Not my father."

Cora held his gaze. Then she nodded.

"Okay."

She leaned against him. Not heavily—just enough to feel her warmth through his jacket.

They watched the stars.

The city hummed below.

And somewhere in the dark, the future waited.

---

The morning came too fast.

Alistair woke them before dawn, his voice sharp through the intercom. "Semifinals in two hours. Get moving."

The team assembled in the common room, bleary-eyed but focused. They ate in silence—protein bars, water, nothing heavy. Checked their weapons. Stretched.

Lucian stood apart, watching them.

Cora was calm now, the nervous energy replaced by cold focus. Mason’s hands were steady. Sera’s crossbow was loaded, her eyes sharp. Derek’s staff hummed with spectral energy, his ghosts hovering at his shoulders.

They were ready.

"Let’s go," Lucian said.

They walked to the arena.

The stands were already filling, the roar of the crowd building like a wave. Banners waved. Chants echoed. The other teams watched from the sidelines—the Silver Falcons in their silver and blue, Dorian’s smile sharp as a blade.

Ashen Dawn stepped onto the arena floor.

Iron Vanguard waited on the opposite side.

The referee raised her hand.

"Begin."

And the semifinals began.

A/N

Thank you for reading this far, it has not been easy but as look as I can keep you entertained, then it is my pleasure.

Support me with gifts, Golden tickets and power stones, I will really appreciate.

Thank you once again.