Kalem closed his journal and tucked it away inside his coat. The artificial mountain, now partially bathed in the dim glow of the setting sun, stood as a silent observer to his calculations.
He had enough information. Now, it was time to act.
The Battlefield Shifts
Far from Kalem's position, the second round continued in full force.
Jhaeros knelt beside the remains of a slain dire bear, his hands stained with its blood. He carved a sharp fang from its maw, fastening it to his belt as Velka prowled the perimeter, ears perked.
The Ilvaar wasn't here for sport. He had already taken down several creatures, but he wasn't hunting for kills—he was tracking Nara.
She had disappeared after being hit with that hallucinogen, and while her rage had carried her far, Jhaeros knew the tournament wasn't the only danger in this arena.
His sharp ears twitched. Footsteps.
He rose to his feet, expression unreadable as a group of four approached. Their movements were too organized for mere opportunists. Their clothes bore distinct insignias—noble houses.
The tallest, a broad-shouldered youth with a jagged scar running across his jaw, smirked. "No hard feelings, Ilvaar."
Jhaeros said nothing, but Velka let out a low, warning growl.
"Nothing personal," another added, shifting his grip on a spear. "But you're a problem. We can't have you making it to the next round."
Jhaeros exhaled slowly. Politics. Even in an open battlefield, noble grudges festered.
His people had no standing in human aristocracy, yet they had long been targeted in tournaments like these. An Ilvaar reaching the final rounds? A beastkin proving superior to a noble? Some found it unacceptable.
They spread their formation, weapons raised.
Velka's growl deepened, hackles rising.
Jhaeros reached for his daggers.
This would be quick.
The Huntress and Her Prey
On the other side of the battlefield, Nara was still on a rampage.
The hallucinogen had burned away after a few minutes, but the reckless fury hadn't faded.
She had found the elf responsible.
And she was hunting him.
The elf, his robes scorched and torn, sprinted through the dense undergrowth of the jungle biome. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had miscalculated.
The drug had worked—but not in the way he intended.
Instead of disabling her, it had sent her into a blind rage, making her even more dangerous.
Now, he was the prey.
A tree exploded behind him, splinters flying in all directions. Flames licked at his heels.
He forced himself forward, lungs burning—only to stumble into a thicket of vines.
His foot snagged. He hit the ground hard, panic seizing his chest.
Then he heard it.
The sound of footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
A shadow loomed over him.
Nara stood there, eyes burning with molten fury, the glow of her unrestrained fire magic reflecting off her bronze skin.
"Wait—!" he began.
Her fist crashed down.
The Silent Observer
Above the battlefield, the noble stands were abuzz with discussion.
Watching from the grand balcony, Lyra maintained a composed expression.
But her fingers gripped the armrest tightly.
She had seen what happened to Nara. She had caught glimpses of Jhaeros surrounded. And now, Kalem was making his way toward the peak, seemingly unfazed by everything around him.
There was too much attention on them.
Whispers floated through the stands.
"That Ilvaar is still alive?"
"Of course, the beastkin are stubborn."
"The orc girl… what is she doing? That fire magic isn't natural. Is she even controlling it?"
"That boy, Kalem. He hasn't fought much, yet he's still here. Something isn't right."
Lyra kept her face neutral.
She couldn't show concern. Not here.
Instead, she exhaled softly, her gaze returning to the arena.
Whatever happened next…
They would have to endure.