Her body had shaped the stone beneath her into a more comfortable arrangement, but her heart ached as she lay there. In a very concrete way, Azriel hated the tournament island. No matter where she was, if she ever looked up, that dead spot hovered above her. Once she had seen it, it was impossible not to have that disfigurement become the resting place of her gaze.

Yet even with its continued presence, no one, least of all Randidly Ghosthound, seemed to want to acknowledge it. Which was why Azriel took up the mantle.

For the first time in her life, she found herself conflicted. She pushed herself up out of the cracked ground of the training area; the squabbling Tatiana and Alana had long since left the area and left her in peace. Azriel looked down at her bloody knuckles. She wrenched her knee to pop the joint back into place and simply breathed for a bit. She kept her eyes closed, so she didn’t have to look up at the sky. After her body had taken a few minutes to heal, she shakily got to her feet.

She found the shattered remnants of her spear scattered across the far side of the sparring area. The pieces glittered in the buzzing lights of the arena. She pulled another cheaply made weapon from her interspatial ring and gripped it, grounding herself in the physical sensation of her hand tightening around the weapon.

“It was not supposed to be like this,” Azriel muttered to herself. Some of the crimson light in her eyes dimmed. “At this rate, all of my suffering will have been for nothing. That emptiness will remain there…”

Her spine straightened at that comment. It was an unacceptable outcome. She was Azriel Blanche, and she would accomplish her goal, no matter the cost. She settled into a combat stance and began to slowly move through training forms. For now she ignored her doubts, instead focusing on the concrete.

Yet even if her body was busy, her mind drifted back.

Azriel acknowledged that her upbringing on Tellus was unusual. In retrospect, she had been created to be the perfect receptacle for the abilities of another. Her natural talent and inclination to adjust to counter an opponent meant that it was very easy to use superior combat techniques to guide her growth in predictable directions. She had been exemplary at adapting and growing. Her pride had been planted in that garden and beautifully flowered for her entire life.

And now-

“Now they are so far beyond me.” Azriel paused in her forms and looked at her hands. Her joints ached and her muscles felt like they had been mixed with hardening concrete. Blood still stained her knuckles and huddled underneath her nails. She paused and limped to the wash facilities, to clean up a bit.

Several years ago, she had chosen a Path to power that didn’t involve violence. Her spear had been hung up on the wall. She then immersed herself in the life of a betrothed to the heir of the Armgrast Empire. The transition had been marginally fraught; It continually irked her that so many saw in her not herself, but a reflection of the man she would marry. However, Azriel was confident that she could change that outlook soon.

She was both right and wrong. Some cutting political and social moves had made the entirety of the Armgrast Empire and the entire world tread casually around her. Some no longer dared meet her gaze. Yet Azriel couldn’t help but notice that it was the framing that changed; they never looked at her directly. She never stood on her own legs. She simply became the gorgeous, ruthless new arm of Armgrast.

An enemy to be feared, part of a vicious family.

She couldn’t deny that part of the reason she had followed this impulse to turn her attention to Randidly was the impending arrival of her marriage date. Somehow, the problems emerging in his image seemed easier to grapple with than her own.

“I look at my soon-to-be-husband and love him,” Azriel stood in front of the mirror. Her face was studiously blank as she liberally applied soap to her hands and worked it up to a thick lather. She eradicated all traces of blood and dirt with all the effectiveness she hadn’t managed to display in her fights against Alana. “Yet there are some things that I cannot bring myself to say to him. To them, the shadowy family standing behind him. Me, Azriel Blanche, a woman who prides herself on being direct, cannot speak to the man I care for the most. At this point, I am as emotionally inept as the Ghosthound himself.”

Azriel had a brief and striking pulse to slam her fist against the mirror and leave the reflective surface broken. She shook her head decisively; it would be a foolish move after she had just washed her hands. Although she didn’t mind the idea of causing more damage that Alana would need to pay for…

She pivoted on her heel and walked back into the large open training hall.

However, Azriel knew she had a reason for being unable to talk with her fiance. He had always lived as a prince, a part of the Armgrast Family, and simply believed it was natural to be a part of something larger than himself. The few times that Azriel had very directly articulated her problems with the aftereffects of their engagement, he looked at her with bewilderment; he couldn’t see her perspective, as someone who had grown up with such a dense network of connections around him.

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To him, this was natural.

Those discussions had been the most miserable, and eventually inebriated, of Azriel’s new life. It felt even worse when she noticed his relief as she dropped the issue, as though the fact that she didn’t talk about it meant that it had stopped bothering her.

When really, she had just wanted to stop bothering him-

“I have a fight to think about,” Azriel told herself. She felt the dead spot in the sky smirking down at her. Still, this fact was true, so she forced herself to focus. For all her own selfish motivations, Randidly needed some assistance. Right now, Azriel seemed to be the only person not so impressed by his accomplishments to actually look at him.

Her body continued to train. She practiced and refind her methods, struggling to find ways to invalidate the sheer power that Alana Donal could mobilize with her Skills. It was a daunting task. When Azriel had at least felt like she was making progress on that front, she paused and meditated for several hours, trying to predict the last two Revelations based on rumors she had heard from reliable sources.

Even her revealed capabilities are so significant. Can I truly win?

Fear swirled up from the base of Azriel’s heart on a broader issue; what if her prodigious talent had waned during her break from combat? Or perhaps even worse, what if the type of person who had made it this far in the tournament had talent to rival hers? And they hadn’t spent several years pursuing a different type of power, one that now tasted sour as she grasped for martial might?

Eventually, dawn arrived and washed away all these thoughts. Azriel opened her eyes and went through a few more last-minute preparations. Even with sunlight, the sky remained as sickeningly inert in that ominous portion. Her instincts shifted to overdrive. Yet even her prodigious mind couldn’t find a satisfactory solution to the problem of Alana Donal. She needed time.

A Dungeon. Azriel’s eyes flickered. Resolved to win at any cost, she straightened and left the training area to head to a Dungeon she had already identified on a small, uninhabited island nearby. She had deliberated identified this location due to the powerful time dilution. Once within, she threw herself into brutal training, specifically designed to counter Alana Donal.

She stayed in the Dungeon for three months, until she felt more confident that her capabilities could rival the powerful spearwoman from Expira. Azriel departed the Dungeon with a clear mind. Outside, she checked the position of the sun and nodded with satisfaction; only a few hours had passed, she was not yet late.

She arrived to the Tournament Island, already hearing the bubble of noise coming from the tournament arena. She walked into the participants’ entrance, ignoring the shouts of ‘I love you, Azriel’ from several enthusiastic local males. Her mind was entirely consumed with the methodical deconstruction of Alana Donal’s combat style. Azriel wished she had another day until their match. She another two insights into Alana’s fighting that she could use for more spars-

But using more than one is premised on the fact I would lose. Azriel’s eyes blazed crimson. And from now on, I will not lose. I cannot fail.

Her nerves hummed with tension as she walked out the thin tunnel and onto the arena. She stood with her head raised, even in the face of the thick smog of shouts and cheers the crowd rolled against her.

But Azriel was completely taken by surprise by the surge in the air she felt as Alana Donal appeared. The woman walked calmly but appeared to drag all the noise and exultation of the crowd around her. Her armored form seemed to warp the spread of sound, creating dangerous ridges in existence that had every noise slushing down to surround her. And as she arrived-

The air hummed with pressure. Azriel’s pupils dilated. Even after her time in the Dungeon, she felt that fear surge back, with double its previous force.

What if she wasn’t enough?

Azriel turned away from the approaching form of Alana Donal and scanned the crowd to distract herself. When, coincidentally, her gaze landed on a furred visage sitting in the stand and staring straight at her, she briefly froze. Then she frowned at him.

The Prince of the Armgrast Empire raised an eyebrow at the display. Very quickly, Azriel flashed several hand signs toward him. This is my business. There is no need for you to be here.

The prince looked at her with none of his usual pride. Instead, he was just a man covered in fur, with the head of a lion. Yet that man smirked at her words, not even bothering to send back any hand signs.

Azriel’s hands blurred. I don’t need you to support me-

Finally, the prince raised his hands. You’ve never needed me, this I know. But I also know that even if you don’t need me, I will be here. Because I want to be a part of your life. I want to be your family.

Azriel felt relief and frustration swirling each other in her chest. But she had to push those to the side as Alana finally arrived opposite her. Azriel’s fierce pride compelled her to pivot around and glare fiercely at Alana. In front of her betrothed, she refused to back down.

Alana tilted her head to the side. Her words were filled with genuine curiosity. “Are your preparations going to be enough?”

“They will have to be,” Azriel responded. Alana chuckled coldly and raised her spear. Azriel produced one of the thin needles she had generated and spun it in the air. The deadly tips glittered in the air.

The Ghosthound watched them both, his gaze heavy. “Let the round of sixteen… begin.”