I pull the three of them into a tight huddle at the edge of the crowd.

"Here’s how it goes. Rhayne fights first. One on one. We post enough on the bet to make it expensive—nobody’s incentivized to kill her if they have to forfeit a year’s income to do it."

Veric nods. Already calculating.

"Veric’s second."

I look at his armor. The polished plate. The shield with its understated noble heraldry. The bearing, the cut, the way every part of him radiates ’prince.’

"This isn’t going to work, Veric. You look like a noble, even hiding your name."

"And what do you expect me to do about that, Sands? A prince carries a prince’s aura."

I sigh.

"Wait here. We need something."

I cross the street and slip into a narrow alley packed with small shops—tailors, leather workers, pawnbrokers, a few establishments selling things I’d rather not identify.

The streets out here aren’t built for foot traffic. The cobbles are uneven, the awnings hang low enough to brush my shoulders, and every other doorway leans into a smoke smelling vaguely of incense and wet leather.

I find what I’m looking for at the end of the alley. The shop is half armor, half costume—more event-wear than battle-grade. Display dummies in the window are dressed for masquerades and courtly evenings, every outfit calibrated for being seen rather than for surviving anything. Velvet capes, lacquered chest pieces, ornamental rapiers that wouldn’t last two seconds against real metal.

A perfumed warmth rolls out the door when I push it open.

A woman behind the counter looks up the moment the bell rings.

She is not subtle.

Her eyes start at the Horizon plate and travel down at their own pace, taking inventory. By the time she’s back at my face, she’s already smiling.

"Welcome, sir. What can I help you with today?"

"A mask. Something simple."

"For yourself? Or—" she leans forward across the counter, "—a gift?"

The neckline of her blouse is doing more conversational work than her mouth.

"Friend of mine."

"Mm. Lucky friend."

’Not at all...’

She drifts out from behind the counter, walking close enough that I have to step half a pace sideways. She runs a finger along my pauldron with the casual interest of a woman appraising a thoroughbred.

"This is gorgeous work. Rank C set, isn’t it? You don’t see craftsmanship like this on someone your age."

"And the mask?"

"Right this way."

She walks me to a small display of about thirty masks. I pick a black silk-on-leather domino. Highwayman style. Cuts across the upper face. Hides the eyes and brow. Cheap, anonymous, and perfect.

"Excellent choice. If you ever want to try the matching cape, we have a back room where I could—"

"Just the mask."

I pay and walk out before she eats me... literally. She calls something behind me, but I pretend not to hear.

[Hadal Notoriety +5]

I roll my eyes. The system has opinions about what Notoriety is, and apparently being hit on by a costume vendor counts.

I tap the comm as I jog back.

"Coming back. Got it."

I hand the mask to Veric. He looks at it. Looks at me.

"Absolutely not."

"Wear it."

"I’m not wearing this. I look like a stage thief."

"That’s the point. Without it, nobody serious will fight you. They’ll forfeit out of fear of starting a war with House Azurea. The ones who do take the bait will fight dirty—aim for kills—because killing a prince anonymously in an Oathring is the fastest political climb on the continent."

His mouth opens. Closes. The math finishes in his head.

He puts the mask on.

Rhayne giggles. Hand over her mouth.

"Veric... you actually look kind of cute."

"Don’t say things like that, Vesper. I’m trying to be intimidating."

"It’s helping the cute. Not the intimidating."

I let myself smile. Rhayne letting herself banter is a new thing.

"All right. Veric fights second. If you want to push to the death, that’s your call." I tilt my head. "Although I don’t think you have the stomach."

"Watch me."

"Sure..."

I look at Oliver.

"Third fight is yours. Solo. You pick your own rules at the table—you know your range better than I do."

Oliver nods, shifting his hammer from his shoulder to the ground.

"What about my rules?" Rhayne asks.

I hesitate. Not because of her skill. Because of what she means to me, and what losing her would do.

"Rhayne... maybe it’s best to stay out of death matches."

"No."

"Rhayne—"

"No."

She looks me straight in the eye for the first time since the dorm incident. Storm-gray, steady.

"I want to fight like the rest of you. Same rules."

I exhale. She isn’t going to budge.

"Okay. But I’m intervening if you’re in real danger."

"That’s fine."

I nod.

’Even if intervening means an Oathring penalty severe enough to crack me open for days, I can’t afford to lose her.’

"Last round is mine. I’m going solo, with no rules. Make it to the death."

I let them absorb.

"And for the fifth, it’s all four of us. Team battle. Four versus four. Same stakes"

Veric exhales hard through his nose. Oliver’s jaw sets. Rhayne adjusts her gloves.

And nobody argues.

I walk to the registration stand. The old man behind it is small, hunched, beard the color of weathered bone. His eyes carry that strange, distant focus you sometimes find in people who have watched too many fights from the wrong angle. Mystic, almost. Every signature he registers seems to write itself across a larger ledger only he can read.

"My champion wants to fight," I say. "Anything goes. Rank D or below. No rules."

"Five hundred Scales entry... each. First fight buys the bracket and the registration. After that, just the wager."

I lean toward Rhayne and explain quietly.

"This is how they trap most fighters here. People borrow the entry, then have to fight ten more matches just to clear the loan. Modern gladiators on a Scales payment plan."

Rhayne pulls her own pouch out and pays her share. The old man inscribes her name on a thin sheet of vellum, then looks up.

"Battle name?"

I look at her. She looks at me.

I smile.

"The Ballerina."

Rhayne blushes through the whole process.

The old man closes his eyes. Mumbles to himself for a few moments, communicating with whoever runs the matchmaking on the back end. After a minute, he opens his eyes again.

"You’ll fight the King Skeleton."

I just nod.

We walk toward the ring. Another fight is still wrapping up inside.

Across the arena, on the far side, our man is waiting.

He’s tall. Lean. Bare-chested under a torn vest, every inch of skin painted with bone-white tattoos shaped like a skeleton from the inside out—rib cage on the chest, vertebrae down the spine, finger bones running across his hands. His eyes are blacked out completely, sclera and all, staring like two pits punched into his face. His ears, his lips, his eyebrows, every visible cartilage is studded with metal piercings.

He sees us. Looks straight at Rhayne.

He lifts a finger and slowly, deliberately, draws it across his throat.

He’s clearly a veteran.

’This isn’t sport for him. He’s coming to kill.’

I look at Rhayne.

To my surprise, she isn’t afraid.

She’s smiling.