The forest was silent.
Too silent.
The only sounds were the ragged breaths of the remaining nobles and the low, guttural hissing of the Steelhide Basilisk.
House Darroth's heir lay unconscious, his leg torn open where Velka had dragged him down.
House Eshgard's combat mage was collapsed against a tree, blood seeping through his hands as he clutched his shoulder.
The other two had barely managed to retreat, and now they stood, panting, trying to regain their composure as the Basilisk prowled between the fallen.
"Damn that Ilvaar!" one of them spat, forcing himself to stand.
But neither of them could focus on their hatred now—because the real threat was still in front of them.
The Basilisk had not left.
And unlike Jhaeros, it had no interest in running.
A Desperate Gamble
House Velnis' heir, a lean, dark-haired man named Kieran, wiped the blood from his lips.
His entire body ached from the Basilisk's charge, but he forced himself to think.
They were trained nobles. Combat-ready. Prepared for almost anything.
But this?
A fully grown Steelhide Basilisk was not something they had been expecting.
"Arden, can you still cast?" he asked, glancing at his last standing ally.
Arden, the Eshgard mage, grimaced.
"My right arm is gone. My left—" He clenched his fingers. "Maybe two more spells. No more than that."
Kieran's gaze flickered to the Basilisk.
It was watching them.
Waiting.
If it lunged, they wouldn't have time to counterattack.
They needed a distraction.
A Risky Plan
Kieran took a deep breath.
"Throw fire," he said.
Arden frowned. "Fire won't kill it. Its scales—"
"We don't need to kill it," Kieran interrupted. "We need to blind it."
Arden's eyes widened in understanding.
The Basilisk's armor was nearly impenetrable—but its eyes were a weakness.
The moment it was blinded, they'd run.
Arden nodded.
He raised his left hand, ignoring the pain lancing through his arm. A faint glow flickered at his fingertips.
The Basilisk tensed.
It knew.
The Escape
Flames erupted.
A controlled explosion—not aimed at the Basilisk's body, but at the ground.
The burst of fire sent embers and smoke billowing into the air, covering the battlefield in a dense, choking haze.
Kieran didn't hesitate.
"MOVE!"
They sprinted.
Behind them, the Basilisk shrieked.
Its furious roar echoed through the forest as it swiped wildly, its massive tail cracking trees in half.
Kieran didn't look back.
He just ran.
The Noble Stand
From the elevated stands, the watching nobles murmured amongst themselves.
Lord Darroth's face was like stone as he watched his son's unconscious body being dragged away by academy officials.
Lady Eshgard tapped her fan against the armrest of her chair, her gaze narrowing.
"That Ilvaar boy," she muttered, half to herself.
"He embarrassed them," another noble whispered.
"It was a mistake to let their kind into this tournament," someone else scoffed.
Lyra listened in silence, her expression unreadable.
She felt a strange mix of emotions—amusement at Jhaeros' tactics, concern for the nobles' growing resentment, and something else she couldn't quite name.
But she knew one thing.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Elsewhere in the Arena
Jhaeros perched high in a tree, Velka beside him, licking blood from her fur.
He let out a soft chuckle.
They had gotten out clean.
But this tournament?
It was getting more dangerous by the second.
And he had no doubt that next time, the nobles wouldn't just be hunting him.
They'd be coming for all of them.