"Is that how matches are usually held?" Amara asked, her gaze fixed on the arena as the jagged landscape smoothed itself out, returning to its default state with the slow grind of reshaping stone and retracting platforms.
"If so, that wasn't too bad," she added.
Crow let out an irritated grunt as he slung his long, bone-crafted sniper over his shoulder. It shimmered green before bursting into flame, disintegrating mid-air and vanishing in a flurry of smoke. "No. It wasn't like this the last time I was here," he muttered, brushing soot from his coat sleeve. "But then again, that was three decades ago. Probably changed."
While he'd barely given the match more than a glance, Amara had watched intently, her arms folded and expression unreadable.
"By the way, do you have a sister or something?" Crow asked suddenly, scratching at his ghost-white hair with a distracted hand.
Amara didn't take her eyes off the arena. "No. I do not. My family's all dead. Why do you ask?"
"Just saw someone who looked like you, that's all." Crow said, brushing off the thought. But his mind lingered on the image—an aristocratic-looking blonde woman seated beside another woman dressed in a butler's uniform. The resemblance between the aristocratic and Amara had been uncanny.
*They look so similar,* he thought.
Amara scoffed. "So what, you're saying all blonde women look the same to you?" She turned slightly, a sharp look in her eye. "Just shut up and keep your commentary to yourself."
Crow's jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side. *You started it!*
In one of the VIP stands, "That match was… acceptable," said Samwell Mathers, his tone flat and unimpressed.
Beside him, young Matthew lit up. "Right, Father? That knight used his thunder affinity in combination with enhancement magic. The way he created shockwaves and earthquakes—it was clever, wasn't it?"
Samwell barely glanced down at his son. "It was acceptable, Matthew. Nothing more. Do not be awed by such trivial magics."
Matthew's shoulders fell as he sank back into his seat, his enthusiasm quietly deflating. "Yes, Father…"
In another VIP stand.
"That was a delightful match, wasn't it, my Emperor?" Tianteng asked, her tone light, respectful. "Sir Bryanard was quite impressive, I must say."
The Emperor's fingers tapped his armrest idly. "I was more intrigued by the bounty hunter," he replied. "His ammunition and use of misdirection... far more entertaining than the knight's raw combat superiority."
Tianteng nodded along in measured agreement. "Hmm, it is as you say, my Emperor. If it were a matter of pure entertainment, Amos Sears clearly stole the show. A shame we won't be seeing him compete further."
In yet another VIP stand, "That was an impressive bout," remarked Zara, leaning over the railing slightly, watching the arena clear.
"I have eyes. You don't need to point out the obvious," muttered Prince Mark, not even bothering to look at her.
Zara sighed, closed her eyes, and stepped back while Prince Mark continued, "Both fighters were strong in their own ways… but this match was predictable. There was no way for the Gambler to win. I doubt anyone was foolish enough to think otherwise."
In the stands, a familiar man groaned loudly, dragging his hands down his face. His friend clapped him on the back with a grin.
"There, there, Jefferey. You just aren't good at making bets. Now, give me my coin."
The man let out a long, pained sigh as he pulled out his coin pouch, which was becoming lighter with each passing day of the tournament. "I will Drift! Here—take it!" he barked, shoving the bag into his friend's eager hands. (They have names!?)
"Alright everyone~ That was a fun fight, but it's time for the second match of the day!" Quincy called, her voice ringing clearly as she soared above the arena. Her wide owl wings beat steadily, the mottled feathers catching the light as she banked into a slow circle overhead. "A fight I'm sure the ladies are quite excited for~"
She wasn't wrong. A ripple of anticipation stirred through the female spectators. Cheers rose—eager, thrilled—though not all shared in the excitement.
"Why would we be excited?" Clara asked, her brow furrowing as she tilted her head. "It's not like Xain's fighting again, is he?"
Elsa, sitting beside her, exhaled through her nose and rested a hand on her hip. "Because Sir Calvinel is popular with women, Clara."
That only seemed to confuse Clara further. She turned with a questioning look that clearly said why?
Meanwhile, Quincy spiraled down from the sky in a graceful arc, slowing as she approached the center of the arena, hovering just above the ground. With a wide gesture, she threw her arms out toward the towering arena walls.
The ground rumbled. The walls on either side of the arena responded to her gesture.
"On one side," Quincy cried, her voice echoing across the coliseum, "we have the reigning champion of several tournaments across Aetheria! A fighter seeking to etch his name into the annals of history—it's Hittag Olbos, the Champion!"
From the west wall, Hittag emerged with the heavy thud of steel-shod boots striking stone. Towering and imposing, he moved with deliberate weight, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping branches as he muttered under his breath, "I will win."
"On the other side!" Quincy announced, spinning in midair with a flourish, "we have a knight already carving out a legend of his own! Newly anointed, yet already adored—a heartthrob who's stolen more than a few hearts—it's Sir Calvinel Snow, the Victorious!"
The eastern gate slid open, and Calvinel stepped out to an immediate chorus of shrieks and applause from the women in the audience. He moved with confidence, head held high, his polished silver plate glinting beneath the sun. He took a bow with a flourish of his gauntlet, flashing a dazzling smile.
"Thank you, thank you," he said smoothly, before raising his head and locking eyes on Hittag. The smile faded into a self-assured smirk.
Quincy clapped her hands. The arena rumbled.
The stone floor rippled outward in every direction. Sections sank, others rose. Cracks formed, only to fill with lush green moss as the environment shifted. Slabs of granite morphed into smooth terraces, and rolling platforms of pale rock emerged, forming gentle slopes and stepped plateaus. Clusters of short stone pillars erupted in scattered formations, their surfaces veined with natural quartz and lichen. Pools of crystal-clear water formed in shallow depressions. It was serene—almost peaceful—but open enough that every seat in the stands still had an unobstructed view of the combat zone. Elevated ridges and broad flatlands created a battlefield that favored both mobility and sightlines.
Quincy raised one hand high into the air.
"Alright!" she shouted. Then, with a sharp sweep downward, she brought her hand slicing through the air—"BEGIN!"