The five minutes between rounds felt like an hour.

Cora leaned against the barrier, her chest still heaving, her ears ringing from Jace’s sonic blast. Mason was flexing his fingers, the gauntlets cooling slowly. Sera reloaded her crossbow with hands that didn’t shake anymore. Derek stood apart, his ghosts hovering close, Dr. Blackwood whispering something Lucian couldn’t hear.

They were battered. They were tired.

But they were still standing.

Dorian stood across the arena, his blade resting on his shoulder, his smile back in place. Lena melted in and out of the shadows at his side. Jace was rolling his shoulders, already recovered. Vera cracked her neck. Mira adjusted her barrier focus.

Five against five again.

Lucian raised his hand. "Timeout."

The referee nodded. The clock stopped.

Cora looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Changing the plan."

He gathered them in a huddle, low and tight. The crowd’s roar faded to a hum. The arena lights felt too bright.

"Here’s what’s going to happen," Lucian said. "Mason, you and Derek break their formation. Don’t try to win—just make them move. Push them out of their rhythm."

Mason nodded. Derek swallowed but nodded too.

"Cora, you’re on Dorian. Don’t let him breathe. Don’t try to out-speed him—just stay in his face. Make him work for every inch."

Cora’s grin was sharp. "I can do that."

"Sera, you pick off the supports. Jace first. Then Mira. Don’t let them set up again."

Sera loaded a bolt. "Jace is mine."

Lucian looked at each of them. His voice was quiet, almost calm.

"And I’ll handle the rest."

Nobody argued.

---

The whistle blew.

Round two.

Silver Falcons came out fast—same formation, same confidence. Dorian blurred forward, afterimages splitting left and right. Lena vanished into shadow. Jace raised his hands, pressure building. Vera charged. Mira’s barrier snapped into place.

But Ashen Dawn didn’t meet them head-on.

Mason stepped to the left, drawing Vera after him. Derek’s ghosts swept right, forcing Lena to dodge instead of strike. Cora phased through Dorian’s first afterimage and appeared in front of the real one, her blade already swinging.

Dorian parried, surprised. "You’re—"

"I’m annoying," Cora said, and struck again.

Sera’s crossbow barked. The bolt wasn’t aimed at Jace—it was aimed at the barrier’s seam. Mira flinched, adjusting. The barrier flickered.

That was all Lucian needed.

He moved.

Not fast—not the blinding speed he’d shown in Greyhollow. Just precise. Efficient. His blades came out, twin curves of star-steel, and he crossed the arena floor in a straight line that didn’t seem to care about the chaos around him.

Lena saw him coming. She tried to melt into shadow.

He was faster.

His left blade cut the shadow-line, disrupting her retreat. His right blade pressed against her throat before she could reform.

"You’re out," he said.

Lena raised her hands. "Yield."

One.

Jace turned, sonic pressure building in his palms. He’d seen Lucian coming, had time to aim, had time to fire.

Lucian wasn’t there.

He’d dropped low, slid under the sonic wave, and rose with his blade already at Jace’s chest.

"You’re out," he said again.

Jace’s eyes went wide. "Yield."

Two.

The crowd was silent.

Not the quiet of boredom—the quiet of shock. They’d watched Lucian fight in earlier rounds. He’d been good. Solid. A capable support for his team.

This was different.

This wasn’t a rookie holding back.

This was a predator deciding to hunt.

Dorian’s smile was gone.

He disengaged from Cora, his afterimages flickering wildly. "Regroup!"

Too late.

Mason had Vera pinned against the barrier, his gauntlets glowing, her enhanced strength not enough to push him back. Derek’s ghosts surrounded Mira, their cold hands freezing her barrier from the outside in. Sera’s crossbow was aimed at her chest.

"Yield," Mason said.

Vera looked at Dorian. He wasn’t coming.

"Yield," she said.

Three.

Mira’s barrier cracked. "Yield," she whispered.

Four.

Dorian stood alone.

Lucian walked toward him.

Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. His blades were low, his breathing even. The crowd held its breath.

Dorian attacked.

He was fast—faster than anyone Lucian had faced. His afterimages split and multiplied, a dozen copies lunging from every angle. His blade was a blur, each strike aimed at a different target, each feint designed to confuse.

Lucian didn’t chase the copies. Didn’t try to track the real one.

He closed his eyes.

Dorian’s afterimages didn’t have weight. Didn’t displace air. Didn’t leave the faintest shadow where they moved.

The real one did.

Lucian’s left blade came up, caught Dorian’s strike mid-swing. His right blade swept low, forcing Dorian to jump. He stepped inside the guard, turned, and pressed his blade flat against Dorian’s throat.

The afterimages vanished.

Dorian stood frozen, Lucian’s blade at his neck, his own sword raised but useless.

"Yield," Lucian said.

Dorian’s jaw tightened. His eyes burned. His hand trembled on his sword.

For a moment, Lucian thought he’d refuse. Thought he’d try something desperate, something stupid.

Then Dorian’s shoulders dropped.

"I yield."

The arena exploded.

Cora pumped her fist. Mason let out a breath. Sera lowered her crossbow. Derek fell to his knees, his ghosts cheering in silent, spectral joy.

Lucian stepped back, sheathed his blades, and offered Dorian a hand.

Dorian stared at it. Then at Lucian’s face.

"Where were you hiding that?"

"I wasn’t hiding," Lucian said. "You were to blind to see it, calling it rookie luck."

Dorian took his hand. Pulled himself up.

"Next year," he said.

"Next year," Lucian agreed.

The referee raised her arm. "Winner—Ashen Dawn!"

The crowd’s roar became a wave. Banners waved. Voices chanted.

Cora tackled Lucian from behind, nearly knocking him over. "We did it!"

"You did it," he said.

"We did it. Don’t argue."

Mason smiled—rare, genuine. Sera slung her crossbow and shook her head. "I can’t believe we actually won."

Derek was still on his knees, staring at his hands. Dr. Blackwood materialized beside him.

"You’re crying," the ghost said.

"I’m not crying."

"Your face is wet."

"It’s sweat."

"It’s tears."

"Shut up."

Dr. Blackwood almost smiled.

Alistair watched from the edge of the arena, arms crossed, face unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were bright.

Lucian looked up at the stands. Saw Margie, he smiled at her, but she just turned her face away. Saw Margaret, her face calm, but her hand pressed to her chest.

Saw the Silver Falcons walking off the arena, heads high, already planning for next year.

He looked at his team. At Cora’s grin. At Mason’s quiet pride. At Sera’s exhausted smirk. At Derek’s trembling hands.

They’d done it.

Not because of him.

Because of all of them.

The trophy was heavy, cool against his palms. Cora grabbed one side, lifted it with him. The team gathered around, hands on the metal, on each other’s shoulders.

The crowd cheered.

And Lucian, for the first time in a long time, let himself smile.