The moment continued to stretch. Finn looked in Omri’s direction, and could just about make out the features on his tether’s face through the haze. He looked at Ellsworth. His cousin’s brow was furrowed, his mouth slightly ajar. Finn’s eyes were still burning. He tasted dirt. He coughed and fought to close his mouth, to crease his eyes.

The men in the pits had vanished from view. The veil of sand hung thick, the faintest outlines of the pit only discernible by the arc of the dimmed green-gold flames.

There were sounds of unease where the crowd stood, unseen and unseeing. The only indication that there was a battle being waged was the occasional crash of a hammer, the desperate clang of daggers in response, and the screams. The shrill screams of one man. A heavy, booming laughter in response.

“What’s happening? Can anyone see?”

As quickly as it had begun, the sand began to settle, sinking to the ground as a sheet of silk might ride the wind. The wine cup in Finn’s hand was filled with sludge. Everybody in the Apex seemed coated in a fine layer of filth. No one seemed to care. They all waited anxiously as the scene in the pits revealed itself. There was a sudden flash of light as the flames that burned around the pit caught and reflected off a shiny object lying in the sand. A dagger. Its twin lay a few paces away, buried except for the hilt. Their master stood further away still, his golden gown now the color of mud.

A large silhouette was behind him. Dekker had finally abandoned his shield and was gripping his hammer with both hands—one at the hilt and the other just below the head. He had swung it over Ser Capulet, locking his weapon across the Illd’Orian’s sternum, pulling him tight into a crushing embrace. Capulet’s open palms were up at his side, empty, groping at nothing. His eyes were wide.

There was a pause.

“Yes!” Ellsworth cried. The arena erupted. Everybody leaped to their feet. Even Finn stood. There were screams of joy all around him. He turned and looked at the Illd’Orians in the Apex. Lord Yoquin looked amused, Lucien enraged. He pointed this out to Ellsworth, who squealed in glee. “What did I tell you, little lord?” Ellsworth cried, shaking Finn by the shoulders. “My money is safe on Dekker! He is the spirit of Aonenbridge incarnate! If only your brother was here to see us victorious. We’ll tell him together when we get him back!”

Finn couldn’t help it. He broke into a wide grin. His chest was roaring. The mention of Zendar did not deaden his spirits. Even Ellsworth’s final statement suddenly seemed an inevitability. How could they not get him back? Impossible was nothing. They had just pushed against the limits of what was possible, pushed and broken through. This could be repeated.

There was something intoxicating about victory after certain defeat, something contagious about hope.

Intoxicating, contagious, and dangerous.

Eyes shining like diamonds, Dekker yanked his foe bodily into the line of sight of the Apex. Ser Capulet’s feet swung lamely through the air as he was pulled, a limp puppet at the hands of a puppeteer. His expression was unreadable.

“I claim victory!” Dekker shouted. “I claim victory!” he roared a second time, in response to the answering tumult of the crowd. His tether, Finn saw, was still kneeling, supported by a hand. The other was still clutched at his side. He raised himself higher, eyes brimming at his master’s triumph.

There was another noticeable pause in the arena. Dekker’s words hung in the air.

“They await you, Lord Yoquin,” Lucien said, through gritted teeth. Ellsworth chuckled.

It was true. Though many eyes were still fixed on the men in the pits, most had turned and followed Dekker’s gaze towards the Apex. Lord Yoquin paused, then rose to his feet and approached the balustrade. He raised his hands again, but there was no need for his [silence]. Other than a few electrified whispers which had rippled through the air at his approach, the crowd had silenced themselves, waiting.

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“An impressive display!” Yoquin said. “It is always a delight to witness a [Gladiator] who lives up to his name, and esteem, as much as the Sandstorm does. The [Sandstorm] technique is an old one, a classic, and difficult to defend against. Very impressive, indeed. However, I would remind you all that a [Sand Grade] bout can only be declared ended—the flame subsequently extinguished—when one or more of the seven conditions are met. We are thus not yet at an end of proceedings. If it is Dekker’s desire to claim victory while still allowing for both men to walk out of the arena alive, it will need to be consented by his opponent, in the form of an official yield.”

There was an even deeper silence now. The victory had drawn near enough for one to taste the sweetness.

Ser Capulet had a strange expression on his face.

“Customarily,” Capulet began, and his words carried, “one would be allowed the dignity to face his opponent as he yields.” His voice was a croak, his chest constricted by Dekker’s squeeze.

After a moment, Dekker asked, “You intend to yield? You swear this?”

Ser Capulet paused. “I know when I am beaten,” he said. His voice had gone silky.

There was another pause. “I am not such a fool as to let you slither free,” Dekker said. “Be warned, Capulet—it will not take much for me to splinter your spine. One wrong move, and you will crumble. My hammer will meet you in the dirt. Your skull will be crushed, and your brain will splatter before your tether has a chance to save you.” A moment passed. “But, from one [Gladiator] to another, I will allow you the customary dignity to face me, to look into my eyes so that you can acknowledge, and remember, who has beaten you.”

No, Omri’s voice came. It echoed in Finn’s mind.

What is it? Finn asked, but he felt his own growing sense of dread. The warmth in his chest had started giving way to shards of ice.

Up until the final moments of his life, Dekker remained careful. He did not loosen his grip on Ser Capulet enough for the other man to slip free. He shook the Illd’Orian, shifted his weight, turning him around slowly until the two of them came face to face. True to his word, he tightened the grip of his hammer menacingly across the other man’s spine, pulling him even closer. There came a dull crack. Ser Capulet grimaced, but the grimace was only a shade away from his hideous, wide smile.

“Now,” Dekker said. “Yield.”

There was a sickening pause. Finn felt an acidic lump rising in his throat. Nobody was saying anything. The moment to intervene had passed, gone forever.

“I know when I am beaten,” the Crimson King said. His lips parted, there was a glint. “And this is not it.”

With something otherworldly, something beastly, [chaos]-fueled, he lurched at Dekker’s face with his teeth. Just below the eye, Capulet tore at Dekker’s flesh, shook at it until it made a horrible ripping sound. Dekker howled, both in pain and surprise. There was a sudden crash, and the two men were apart. Finn caught a sharp, acrid stench resembling burned meat. Dekker’s flesh had blackened, had begun to char around the torn skin at his eye. He reached and clutched for his face. Blinded, the man continued to howl, and the grip of his hammer had become tenuous. There was no time for him to notice the slash at his wrist which knocked the hammer loose, nor the careful placement of the hand behind his head, the sharp tug downward. Capulet flourished with his other arm, and the blade up his sleeve was on Dekker’s throat.

The previous finesse of Capulet had vanished. He did not slice, he sawed. Back and forth, his blade ripped through skin as if it were shearing through rope. Dekker’s final roar became a gurgle.

Gasps and screams rang through the arena.

Dekker reached for his opponent one final time, clutched, squeezed… and loosened. He collapsed. His tether dropped a moment later, his final scream still etched as a whisper on his face. It had been too much to handle, too sudden. A tether could not die from a physical wound, but neither could he survive the death of his master.

An ominous silence hung over the arena as the dust settled around the folded heap that had been Dekker. The Crimson King, Ser Capulet, remained still, allowing the silence to extend. For a moment, the drip-drip from his blade seemed the only sound in the arena. He looked stunned at his own deeds. Stunned, or enamored. Then he swung around, the stained blade brandished triumphantly above his head. He twirled again, and kept twirling, as if trying to meet the eyes of as many in the arena as he could.

“Is this,” he cried, “truly the best of Aonenbridge?”

His teeth were bloody. His voice was high, frantic, and his face ripped open into that horrid smile. His eyes had gone truly mad.