The dueling pit was a circle of pressurized air and silence. Grace could feel the vibration of the city’s power grid beneath her boots, a low hum that seemed to sync with the frantic rhythm of her pulse. Julian didn't look like he was in a fight. He stood with his silvered foil held low, his posture perfect, his expression one of bored amusement.

  "The problem with you Height ypes," he said, his voice amplified by the pit’s acoustics, "is that you think struggle is a substitute for skill. You think because you survived a fire, you’re forged. You’re not forged. You’re just burnt."

  He moved before the sentence was finished. He was a blur of silver and white. The foil hissed through the air, a precision instrument aimed at Grace’s lead shoulder. Grace pivoted, the air of the blade’s passage cold against her neck. She swung her training sword—a heavy, utilitarian piece of steel—but Julian wasn't there. He danced back, his feet barely touching the floor.

  "Too slow," Julian mocked.

  He lunged again, a series of rapid-fire stabs that forced Grace into a desperate parry. The metal clashed—shring, shring, shring—a melodic, terrifying sound. Julian was using a 'Flow-Point' technique, a high-city style designed to drain an opponent’s stamina through a thousand small cuts. A thin line of red opened on Grace’s forearm, then another on her cheek.

  In the stands, Mable’s grip on the railing tightened until her knuckles turned white. Caleb was silent, his eyes tracking Julian’s footwork, his mind already searching for the flaw in the noble’s geometry.

  Grace felt the sting on her face, and something shifted. It wasn't anger—it was a cold, clarifying focus. The buzzing in her blood, usually a background hum, suddenly surged. The world seemed to slow. She could see the micro-movements in Julian’s wrist, the way his weight shifted to his left heel before every lunge.

  "Is that all?" Grace asked, her voice a low, jagged rasp.

  Julian’s smirk faltered. He stepped in for a finishing strike, aiming for the center of her chest. Grace didn't parry. She stepped into his guard, her shoulder slamming into his chest with the force of a falling tree. Julian gasped, his breath hitching, and for a split second, the polished facade broke.

  Grace didn't give him the space to recover. She became a whirlwind of raw, unrefined power. Her strikes weren't elegant; they were relentless. She drove him back toward the edge of the pit, her blade hitting his with such force that sparks—white and angry—danced off the steel.

  Julian tried to disengage, but Grace stayed in his shadow. She hooked his lead foot, threw her weight into a horizontal slash, and watched as his silver foil spun out of his hand, clattering across the Floor. She stopped her blade an inch from his throat.

  "You're right," Grace whispered, her eyes dark and reflecting the arena lights. "I am burnt, She looked him in the eye, and warned. Next time I see you near the lady, this lapdog will bite your throat out.

  Julian almost fainted, the barrier hissed open. Grace stepped out of the pit, her hand still tingling with a static charge. She wiped the blood from her cheek, her grin returning, though it felt sharper than before. Julian remained on the ground, staring at his empty hand in a state of shattered disbelief.

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  The 150 winners were ushered to the right side of the platform, a group defined by heavy breathing and bleeding knuckles. On the left, the 150 losers stood in a graveyard of silence.

  The Archons didn't stay on their thrones. Bedrock, the Earth Attacker, descended from his pillar, his heavy plate armor clanking against the stone. Beside him, Crystal moved like a drifting inkblot, her presence cooling the air as she passed. They walked through the ranks of the defeated, their eyes clinical and unforgiving.

  "Selection is not just about the final blow," Bedrock’s voice boomed, vibrating through the floor. "It is about the intent behind the loss."

  NightShade stopped in front of a boy whose arm was in a makeshift sling, but whose eyes were still fixed on his opponent with a lethal, calculating hunger. She tapped his shoulder. One. Bedrock stopped by a girl who had been beaten by a superior noble but had Lumaged to shatter her opponent's shield before falling. Two.

  Fifty names were called. Fifty losers who had shown the "grit" the Knights required. BloomLight, the Healer, lingered near the transition line. Her gaze settled on Mable for a long moment—not with pity, but with a deep, analytical curiosity that made Mable shift her weight. BloomLight just smiled, but the interest in her green eyes was unmistakable.

  The trio was reunited as the two hundred finalists were formed into a single block. Caleb checked Grace’s shoulder, his fingers light as he inspected the cut Julian had landed.

  "It’s bleeding," Caleb noted, his brow furrowed. "That’s... fast. Even for you."

  "Adrenaline," Grace said, though she felt the strange heat still humming under her skin. She looked up at the observation decks.

  Mable stepped forward, her movements sharp with a frustration she wasn't trying to hide. Before Grace could even ask what was wrong, Mable pressed a cooling healing patch onto the scrape on Grace’s cheek. Her eyes were dark and swimming with a quiet fury that left Grace blinking in confusion.

  Grace opened her mouth to speak, but Mable was faster. She popped a fast-relief candy between Grace’s lips, effectively silencing her.

  Mable didn't pull away immediately. She lingered there, her gaze boring into Grace’s. "There was no need to be that reckless, was there?" she asked, her voice low and tight.

  Grace tried to mumble a defense through the candy, but looking into Mable’s eyes—wide with a mix of fear and fierce protectiveness—she felt her stubbornness melt. She swallowed, offering a small, sheepish smile. "I'll be more careful next time," she promised softly.

  Mable held her gaze for a second longer before finally letting out a sharp exhale and stepping back. Grateful for the change in tension, Grace turned toward Caleb, clearing her throat. "What’s next, Caleb? My map-reading says we're running out of floor."

  "The final round," Torrent announced from his water throne, "is not a test of strength. It is a test of reach."

  The floor beneath the two hundred candidates began to groan. Massive, rectangular pillars erupted from the ground, but they didn't stop at shoulder height. They surged upward, some ten feet, some fifty, creating a jagged, vertical mountain of stone that reached toward the glowing "Crown" platform suspended in the center of the stadium.

  The air was suddenly thick with the smell of pulverized rock and ancient dust, making the candidates cough as they scrambled for a grip. These pillars weren't stable—they were grinding against each other, vibrating with enough force to shake the Luma-gear right off a knight's belt.

  "One hundred slots remain," Torrent’s voice echoed. "The first hundred to touch the Crown are the Nominees. The rest are dismissed."