Vayra stepped out into the center of the arena. She’d restored a chunk of her mana before entering, but it only brought her up to about halfway full, even consciously drawing the substance in. That’d have to be enough for the first round.

She held her hand up, shielding her eyes from the sunlight-made projection of Karmion above the arena. People still poured into the audience stands, and the crowds seethed. High above, Karmion hovered, a black speck in the sky observing everything.

And on the opposite side of the arena, Myrrir marched out to face her. He was going to purposely lose?

What if this was just a ruse to get her to lower her guard, then suddenly, he’d let out a burst of techniques and defeat her?

Or worse, what if everyone saw him surrender without a fight, and accused her of rigging the matches? That wouldn’t project strength for Velaydia, and she’d might be disqualified, well before she intended to.

She tightened her fists and engaged a rapid, combat-focussed cycling pattern.

‘Keep your head on straight,’ Phasoné reminded her. ‘You just need to win, no matter how that looks. But don’t let your impulses get away from you. If Myrrir surrenders, you have to let him, otherwise you will look bad and unmerciful.’

“I understand,” she whispered, then approached the center line. For good measure, she conjured her scythe.

There were no introductions this time. By now, if the audience didn’t know who the contestants were, that was their own fault. The projections above shifted to display Myrrir and Vayra.

She stared at him. She locked her gaze with his and didn’t pull away. His face was unreadable, statuesque, and he didn’t hint whether he was going to give in or not.

By all accounts, he was going to attack. It was the right stance, everything.

‘He knows as well as you do that he can’t just lay down and let you win,’ Phasoné said. ‘Everyone would see. He has to put on a good show.’

Vayra narrowed her eyes, and so did Myrrir, as if he was trying to read her expression as well.

Partially, she wished she had a mental link with him, but she also dreaded to see the inside of his mind.

The projection of them zoomed out, showing a less detailed, smaller depiction of the pair. No one would notice their lips moving, now, were they to speak. Vayra half begged him to say something first, but he didn’t open his mouth, let alone speak to her.

Before she could try to ask him his intentions, the trumpet blast sounded, signalling the start of the fight. She sprang forward, not willing to take a risk, and slashed at him with her scythe. He ripped his jade sword from its sheath and blocked her strike, then twisted around and bound their weapons together.

They faced each other, heads only a few inches away. “Did you meet Ameena?” Myrrir hissed. “Did she tell you?”

“She did,” Vayra whispered back. “I’m not sure if I believe you.”

“If it will make you trust me, I’ll throw aside my sword right now.”

“No!” Vayra hissed. “If you do that, they’ll know you gave up, and it’ll reflect poorly on us both.”

“Then—”

“Fight your hardest,” she said, “and I will win. I can. I need to. If I can’t overcome you on my own merit, then I can’t overcome anyone.” She stared intensely at him. “If you want to prove you’ve changed, then surrender when I give you a chance, when you’re properly defeated, and don’t try anything tricky afterward.”

“Very well. Give it everything you have.”

“Are you…concerned?”

“If I die, I will have deserved it.”

She squinted, then spun her scythe to the side, freeing herself from Myrrir’s grasp and backing away. His sword bit through the ground, the superheated gemstone melting the sand and leaving a glowing gash.

Vayra needed to end this fast. A drawn-out confrontation would drain her mana, then she’d lose immediately.

She layered all her abilities, all except the Mediator Form—using that wouldn’t prove anything—and darted in. Myrrir hadn’t fought her with her Astral Shroud active before, and she wanted to see how well her internal Warding allowed her to pass through objects.

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But he’d seen her fight before, and clearly, he’d been paying attention. He countered her speed by leading his sword swipes and placing his weapon into her path rather than trying to fight her directly. She swatted his sword out of the way a few times, and ignored a few swipes with her internal Warding, but when he brought his gunpowder into play, he negated her slippery nature.

A strand of gunpowder wrapped around her arm, black beads swirling, and she tried to pass straight through it. It would’ve worked, but Myrrir tracked her with it, and eventually, even with her internal Warding, it stuck and held.

He slammed her to the ground, negating any speed she’d built up, but she blasted through it with a Starlight Palm, scattering the gunpowder beads across the ground and freeing herself.

She kicked up to her feet and closed the distance. Myrrir was, in many ways, just better. He had so many more years of experience, and even if they were both recent Admirals, at nearly the exact same power level, he had a leg up in sheer skill.

‘You’re at a quarter of your mana,’ Phasoné chimed. ‘Do something to destroy him. Need me to lend a hand?’

“No. I’m doing this myself.”

She had to overwhelm him. His spirit was weak, damaged, and strained to its peak. She could crack it. She drew on Adair’s reflexes, then shot back into action, streaming back toward Myrrir in a beam of white light, before unleashing a chain of blows that sent him staggering back across the arena. He blocked most of them, but a few Starlight Palms ripped through, forcing him to Ward himself.

He held his sword up, about to attack, but she swiped from the side at the same time, putting as much force as she could into the strike—with a standard Bracing technique and flooding her mechanical arm with as much power as she could. The sword tumbled out of his loose grasp.

Before he could attack with gunpowder, she whirled her scythe up to his throat. “Surrender. Get yourself ready for round two. And don’t hold back.”

“Are you…alright?” he asked. “You know…in the head?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Worry about yourself. I still don’t trust you.”

He picked up his sword, then trudged off to his side of the arena. She deactivated all her techniques and walked back to her side, where a bucket of Stream water waited. Glade stood beside it. He’d…arrived, sometime during the fight. The aide stood a few paces behind, his hands folded professionally behind his back, and even further back was Ameena, who leaned on her staff and yawned.

‘If he is an ally, we don’t want to crush him and break his spirit,’ Phasoné reminded her as she walked over to them. ‘He may yet help us.’

“Maybe,” Vayra whispered. “But we need to move to the next round more than he does.”

‘And we might need him when everything falls apart.’

She shut her eyes, then inhaled. “Alright. I won’t try to push him too far. We’ll win as fast as we can.”

‘You proved that you could do it without me, without the Mediator Form. Is that evidence enough that you have improved beyond Myrrir?’

Vayra dunked her hands in the bucket of Stream water, filling her mana back up, and the aide handed her a flask of freshwater for drinking. She downed it, then passed it back to him. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” said the aide. “Are you feeling alright?”

‘Vayra, please don’t ignore me.’

“Is something wrong?” Glade scratched the back of his head.

She exhaled, then stood up. “I assume Ms. Rabbit over here filled you in on the situation?” She tilted her head toward Ameena.

“I told Glade what I told you,” Ameena said. “Myrrir approached me and asked me to—pardon the phrasing—Mediate.”

Vayra let out another tight breath, then said, “Phas, I wanted to hurt him. I was close to hacking his head off.”

“Remember the arena on Limasennor?” Glade asked. “What was it, the two tieflings, who killed our dragonfolk roommates?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You almost did the same thing. Grow beyond, Vayra.” Glade crossed his arms. “Prove how far you have come in the speed and efficiency you can defeat Myrrir, with how little thought it will take you—and with the help of Phasoné. You two are one, now. You always have been.”

Vayra hung her head, then rubbed her mechanical arm. Myrrir had made every effort to show her that he could change, and he’d been right. At the moment, they had to trust him—and that started with her.

“Alright,” she said. “You’re right. All of you—including you, Phas. I’ll get back out there and deal with Myrrir, but I won’t crack him. And…maybe then, we can let him help us. We can work with him.”

Once the half-hour break finished and she’d filled up all her mana, she returned to the center of the arena. Again, she stared at Myrrir, silent. He wore the same expression as before, indicating no sign of change.

Which, in this case, was a good thing. He wasn’t going back on his word.

As soon as the trumpet blast sounded, she layered her techniques back up, then attacked. She didn’t conjure the scythe immediately—she’d need Phasoné’s help to end this quickly.

Phasoné’s ghost emerged, and Vayra fed it mana. They both converged from opposite directions, unleashing strikes and pushing Myrrir back across the arena until they reached the moat.

He leapt overhead, Bracing his legs, then landed in a crouch behind her and Phasoné. They spun around immediately and continued pummelling him, until finally, he released his grip on his sword, and the rest of his gunpowder scattered across the sand.

Vayra drew her pistol and pointed it at Myrrir’s chest. Arcara swirled in the palm of her hand, only an exertion of will away from firing out a Reach technique and blasting a hole through Myrrir’s heart.

He raised his hands and cut off all Arcara flow in his body. “I surrender.”

Vayra’s fingers trembled, and she swallowed. Phasoné’s projection stared at her.

“You tried your hardest?” Vayra demanded.

“I did.”

She pulled the pistol away and cut off her own techniques, then tucked it back into her robe’s sash. As she walked away, Myrrir gave her a small, subtle dip of his chin.

She returned the gesture.