Momo awoke hazily and slowly, her head pounding. As things came into focus, she saw the faces of four attentive medics watching over her; her fingers wrapped around the soft cotton mat beneath her. She was in the same medical tent as before, only now it appeared that she was the patient.

“She’s awake,” the White Mage sighed, relief obvious in her voice. “Good. Culver, you can talk to her now. But keep your voice down. She’s still recovering.”

He’s alive. Momo immediately raised her neck upwards, but was stopped by a pulsating pain throughout her entire body. It felt as if she had fallen down a cliffside and gotten razed over by an avalanche. In fewer words – she was not going anywhere fast.

Momo felt a hand on her back, softly guiding her upwards.

“Let me help you,” Culver said, his eyebrows drilled in concentration as he aided her to a sitting position. “There. Be careful, you shouldn’t make such sudden movements. Not without a lot of stretching.”

The boy smiled softly at her. Seeing him from closer up now, Momo could glimpse the many scars that littered his face – a jagged, long one across the bridge of his nose; two under his eyes. Despite his rugged appearance, his features were soft, placid. The kind of face that you’d want to spill your secrets to.

“You’re alive,” Momo said, mouth falling open.

“Yes I am,” he said, a small smile appearing on his face. “All thanks to you, I hear.”

“Well, I don’t know about that…” Momo trailed off, blinking in disbelief. I actually saved him?

That meant her hypothesis had been correct. She could do more than just siphon souls.

She could replenish them.

She wanted more than anything to talk to Valerica.

“I owe you my life,” he said, bowing his head. The whole display felt a little ridiculous to Momo, who had never been responsible for even giving someone a bandaid when they scratched their knee. “I never thought Magelegs would go as far as killing me, but I guess I didn’t really know him at all. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be six feet under.”

At the mention of Trent’s last name, the memories flooded back to her. “That little murderous idiot,” Momo said breathlessly, recounting the events in her head. “I can’t believe he went that far. We can’t just let him keep doing this –”

“He’s gone,” Culver said, placating her with a hand.

Momo froze.

“Gone?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Trust me, the first thing I tried to do after I woke up was go after him, but he’s long gone. Since the match was considered a draw, he wasn’t allowed to progress to the Expert league. He couldn’t take it – the guy totally lost it. Started throwing things, destroying the bleachers. Ms. Wraith wouldn’t talk to him either, so he fled town and hasn’t come back.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Culver said, whistling. “A few of the university blokes told me they saw him run off with this lady. She had this strange armor. Weird hat. Seems like he’s just gonna get himself in worse trouble. Can’t say I pity him. He can fuck off and die, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I – yeah,” Momo mumbled.

I wouldn’t go that far, Momo thought. But I don’t exactly blame this kid for feeling that way.

“Culver, language,” the White Mage reminded him sternly.

“Right, sorry,” Culver said, biting his lip. “Don’t mean to get all riled up. You need to rest. But if there’s anything I can do for you, you can find me at the school. Like I said, I owe you.”

—

By the time she was able to stand up again, the Expert league had nearly come to a close. It was clear she wasn’t going to be able to compete, save some Mother Teresa-esque miracle. Making use of a pair of loaned crutches, she limped herself like an injured snail over to the bleachers, joining Grimli and his eighteenth bucket of stress-snacks.

“My liege! It is good to see you walking again,” he said, bowing his head and making ample room for her on the seats. “I would have visited you in the tents, but they barred me out like I was some kind of common mongrel. I think they hate dwarves, those medics. I tried singing you some healing ballads, but they wouldn’t allow it.”

I would discriminate against his lyrics, too, Momo thought with a grimace. Still, his sentiment was sweet. She gave him a soft smile and stole a handful of his candies.

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“Sumire isn’t going to be happy,” Momo said after a moment, sighing defeatedly. “I’m going to lose out on so many potential supporters.”

“She’d be less happy to see you come home in a body bag, your highness.”

Momo frowned.

“How many rounds are left anyway?”

“Just the one,” Grimli said. “It’s between a boy named Desmond, third best student in the academy–behind dear Culver and sordid Trent–and this masked outsider. The outsider lass isn’t much of a dancer, but she keeps ending her rounds so quickly that she barely needs to move at all. She throws daggers, you see.”

“Sounds scary.”

“Deadly scary. I get the heebiejeebies just looking at her.”

“Where is she?”

Grimli pointed a finger just below the Judges Panel, where the platform cast a looming shadow over a woman in white mask; she leaned casually on the side of the school building, her foot propped up on the side like a middle school truant. She was speaking unintelligibly into a golden bracelet on her wrist.

Momo’s throat tightened. Slythorn.

“It’s her again,” Momo said, rushing upwards in her seat. The Mana exhaustion hit her almost immediately, nearly leveling her back down. “That Knight of the Sun from before. The one that was acting all weird at the chicken event.”

“Oy,” Grimli remarked, eyes bulging. “Now that you say that, she does look mighty familiar. Didn’t recognize her without her silly hat on. She looks a lot scarier without that bouncy tentacle contraption.”

Steadying herself on the railing, Momo moved towards the stairway. “She must have the same plan as we do. Win the competition, convert the fans,” Momo breathed in slowly, using all her willpower to keep herself upright. “We can’t let her do that. It’d set us back way farther than just not playing.”

“I’m sorry to say lassie, but I’m not sure they’ll just let you intervene,” Grimli said, worrying his brow as she limped down the bleachers, carefully stepping around the many grandmotherly Eldergoats occupying the seats. “They called your name while you were knocked out, and they were very explicit about what happens if you miss your turn.”

“Who cares,” Momo said, wincing as she got to the bottom – now staring face to face with the crowds. “I’m the one who set up Devola with this whole school in the first place. I think it's time to cash in on that favor.”

—

“Absolutely not,” Devola said, her hair flying upwards in indignation. “And I refuse to delay the final round any further. The fans are getting quite impatient.”

“They’ll be fine,” Momo said, her voice coming out a lot smaller than intended. She had been so full of conviction when she started her journey towards the Judges’ Panel, but by the time she managed her way to the top, her body had nearly decomposed. She was bent over like a hunchback squirrel. “You don’t get it, Devola. That woman is part of Kyros’s army. She’s an Excalibur. She shouldn’t even be fighting in this league.”

On the stage, Slythorn was slicing her blades across each other, creating a nails-on-chalkboard scratchingly metallic sound. Half the audience had their ears covered. So did the referee, who looked tiredly towards Devola.

She threw a finger back at him. One more moment, she mouthed.

The Necrodancer set her cup of juice down, sighed, and beckoned Momo to a more discreet corner of the Judges’ Booth.

“If I’m being honest, Kyros-schmyros the last thing I care about right now,” she said, her voice lowered considerably. “I hear that Trent has run off. I’m – I’m worried sick about him.”

Momo felt a lump of pity lodge itself in her stomach. Creased, wrinkly lines ran under the woman's eyes; her stature was heavy like Sisyphus. She hadn’t seen Devola this drained since the Dawn.

Back then, the only thing that had reinvigorated her spirit was the chance to tutor Trent. It had been like giving an abandoned lighthouse a boat to guide.

“But Culver told me you refused to talk to him,” Momo said, prodding slightly.

“Of course I did,” she scoffed, but her voice was thick and watery as she spoke. “He nearly killed my second best student. I had instructed the students very specifically – their aim in this contest was to practice and better themselves – not to go all ego-maniac and destroy their competition. The Deathly part of Dance Recital excites and draws crowds, but that does not mean we need to pursue it. Tension is what counts in an event like this, not finality.”

She pulled something out of her pocket. It was a crumpled poster. She handed it to Momo.

It read Join the Holy Resistance – Become Powerful Beyond Your Imagination. Under that attention-grabbing headline were a few examples of such power, like Reach Expert Level in Three Days or Less, and Make Your Enemies Cower Before You.

Momo wrinkled her nose. It read like a weight-loss advertisement you’d find in a tabloid magazine. She was surprised it didn’t include a free trial for some magical, performance-enhancing beans.

“I found this in Trent’s room. It was the only thing left of his belongings,” Devola said, her throat bobbing up and down. "He even took Cerberus, the poor mutt."

Momo studied the parchment, flipping it around to check for secret messages in the margins. “You think he fell for this?”

“I’d hope he’s smarter than that,” she said, pursing her lips. “But given that he just tried to assassinate his classmate, I’m having my doubts. He is a teenager, after all.”

Growing antsy, the referee called out to Devola from the audience.

“Are we ready yet, boss?”

Devola paused, a shadow crossing her face. She sighed and grabbed the wand-phone.

“A slight change of plans,” she said, her voice echoing into the crowds and across the hilltops. “Whoever wins this round will face one more foe –”

Devola covered the device and turned to Momo, eyebrows furrowed.

“What do you go by now? Valerica was always calling you so many cute nicknames."

“Momo is just fine, Queen Momo if you feel like it might build some anticipation –”

“Ah yes. Our semi-finalist will face the new un-democratically-elected tyrant of our nation, unbeloved necromancer, and waif-like winner of her hearts, Queen Momo the Ripper,” Devola said, her curls flourishing in the air like a ginger medusa. “May the Queen’s feet be swift, and her dagger-dodging instincts be swifter.”

Momo gawked at her, her eyes nearly emptying their sockets.

Devola would be a terrible PR rep.

“Seriously? You didn’t have to call me a tyrant,” Momo muttered. She could practically feel her approval numbers dropping. “And it wasn’t like Jarva was democratically elected either.”

“Trust me dear, the most successful political campaigns start with a redemption arc,” Devola grinned. “It is much easier to start a villain than end as one."

She tapped her chin as if another, more relevant thought had just struck her.

"This all does require that you win, of course.”

Momo buried her head in her hands. Devola laughed, gave her a reassuring hip bump, and leaned into the mic.

"Let the Semi-Final Match begin!"