Even as the last spectators left the stands, cups and banners in hand, the loud echo of a long tournament day trailing after them, the small group had withdrawn to a quieter corner of the arena, where the tournament's roar arrived only as a distant murmur. Viktoria dropped onto a stone bench, stretched her legs out, and exhaled deeply, as if only now consciously letting go of the whole day's tension. "So," she began, a tired but satisfied smile on her face, "I'd say that was a good day."
"A good day with a few mistakes," Nouel countered, arms crossed as so often, his gaze assessing as he sat down on the bench across from her, without closing the distance to Viktoria by even a step. "Your Evolution, for example."
Viktoria sat up, brows drawing together. "What about it?"
"You used it far too early," Nouel said, unmoved by her tone. "You can hold that form for three minutes, no more, and you wasted half of it before Katarine was even seriously threatening you. When it actually counted, you'd long since changed back and had to improvise." He let the words sit for a moment before adding, with that faintly haughty undertone one had come to expect from him: "You fight like you have infinite time. You don't."
"I still won," Viktoria shot back sharply, though without real anger in her voice—more the reflexive pride that defended itself against any criticism before accepting it.
"This time," Raiiko said calmly, without raising his voice, his gaze so detached he might have been talking about the weather rather than her nearly botched victory. He added nothing more, but the one word was enough to leave Viktoria silent for a moment.
Alvios, who had been listening quietly until now, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, evidently hoping the attention wouldn't turn to him next. It did anyway.
"And you," Raiiko said, turning his gaze to him now, "should practice your Fulmen. Actually practice it, not just when it happens to work."
"But I won, didn't I," Alvios protested, a hint of hurt in his voice he couldn't quite hide, glancing at Viktoria for support, who only gave him a shrug to let him know she wouldn't be coming to his rescue this time.
"You won because your opponent blindly shot a fireball at you that you just had to send back," Raiiko said, his voice so even that the words carried all the more weight for it. "That was luck, not skill. If your next opponent fights smarter, that won't be enough."
Alvios lowered his gaze, but didn't argue. Deep down he knew Raiiko was right, even if it hurt to hear it said so plainly. His eyes drifted briefly to his own hands, as if he could already see there how much practice still lay ahead of him.
"What would you have done in my place, then?" Viktoria asked, turned toward Nouel, her brow furrowed.
"Waited," Nouel replied without hesitation. "Katarine was in a hurry to find you. Every crown that passed worked in your favor. You should only have used your Evolution once she actually put you in real trouble, not before, out of pure impatience."
Viktoria opened her mouth for a sharp retort, then thought better of it and closed it again, a rare sight that even Alvios noted with raised eyebrows. "Maybe you're right," she muttered finally, more through gritted teeth than reconciled, but it was more of a concession than Nouel seemed to have expected from her.
"We have three river-cycles," Nouel said finally, his voice a little softer, almost like a peace offering. "Let's use them."
Viktoria crossed her arms, shot him a sideways look, but a small smile crept onto her face. "You're starting to sound like Raiiko."
"There are worse things than sounding smart," Nouel replied dryly, and even Raiiko, who had sat unmoved until then, let out a snort that came remarkably close to a laugh.
The tavern where they'd rented rooms for the duration of the tournament sat on a quiet lane not far from the arena, a lopsided but cozy building with creaking floorboards and the steady scent of frying drifting from the kitchen. The innkeeper, a rotund man with a fondness for loud stories, greeted them as every evening with a hearty slap on Alvios's shoulder and the same question as always, whether there was anything to celebrate today. This time Alvios only nodded wearily and dropped onto the nearest bench, while Viktoria had already secured herself a bowl of steaming stew before the others had even sat down at the table.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet accord, each caught up in their own thoughts—Viktoria, who kept glancing distractedly at her own fingers, as if she might find the answer to Nouel's criticism there, Alvios, turning Raiiko's words over in his mind while barely touching his food, and Nouel, who stayed silent most of the time yet took in everything around him precisely, as was his way. Only Raiiko seemed untouched by all of it, calmly eating his soup and exchanging a few quiet words with the innkeeper now and then, as if the day had been no different from any other before it. Before the usual training grounds at the edge of the city filled with their voices the next morning, the night passed quietly, almost too quietly for a city in the middle of one of the greatest tournaments in its history.
Raiiko and Alvios trained there with a persistence that impressed even the other trainees on the grounds. Again and again Raiiko had him repeat the same motion, the arc of the lightning from shoulder to fingertip, drilling into him to speak the trigger clearly and without hesitation. "Fulmen mitte," Alvios murmured for the umpteenth time, and with every attempt the bolt shooting from his hand grew a little more precise, a little less shaky. Once, when the bolt shot far past the training target and set a neighboring hay bale on fire instead, Alvios burst into embarrassed laughter, while Raiiko fetched a bucket of water with stoic calm, without a single word of reproach. "Again," he said unfailingly, every time Alvios thought he was finally done, until the sun hung low and even Raiiko's unshakable patience gave way to quiet satisfaction.
Not far off, Viktoria trained under Nouel's watchful eye, who helped her with terse instructions to deploy her Evolution more deliberately—when it was worth it, when it wasn't, how to ration the three minutes like a weapon instead of squandering them. "Again," he said, as she stood on all fours for the umpteenth time, her senses sharpened but her mind clear, "but this time you hold it back until I tell you." Viktoria growled something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like a curse, but obeyed. They argued more than once—over timing, over stance, once even over whether a certain motion was necessary at all, which ended in a short but heated exchange the surrounding trainees watched with amused looks—but with every argument Viktoria seemed to understand a little more, even if she would never admit it as long as Nouel was watching. By the end of the day, as the sun was already vanishing behind the city's rooftops, she held her Evolution for the first time exactly as long as Nouel had demanded, not one crown longer, not one shorter, and the small, satisfied nod he gave her for it was worth more than she wanted to admit.
On the second day of the pause, while the morning sun still hung low over the rooftops and the streets knew little more than a few early merchants and sleepy cats, Nouel and Alvios decided to head out early to scout where the city's better armor smiths were located, before returning later with the others to actually buy something. Viktoria still lay deep asleep in her room at this early hour, blanket pulled up over her nose, and Raiiko had already vanished before sunrise, for reasons he'd shared with no one and that no one demanded of him that morning either—they had learned to respect his silence without questioning it.
The two of them strolled through the still half-empty lanes, past stalls just setting out their wares, past a baker whose scent of fresh bread nearly convinced Alvios to interrupt their scouting for an early breakfast, when Nouel abruptly stopped, head tilted slightly to the side.
"What is it?" Alvios asked, immediately noticing the sudden tension in Nouel's posture.
"Footsteps. Too many, too quiet," Nouel said curtly, hand already at Ventura's grip. "Behind us, and in the alley ahead."
No sooner had he said it than figures broke free from the shadows of the surrounding houses—four orcs, crudely armored, with rusty blades and the hungry grin of those who had already picked out their prey beforehand. The narrow alley they stood in offered barely any escape: high walls on both sides, a single overloaded fish cart half-blocking the way forward, and behind them the two orcs cutting off their retreat. "Two little tournament heroes, all alone," one of them growled, apparently the leader, casually resting his axe over his shoulder. "This'll be an easy morning."
Alvios instinctively took half a step back, his heart already racing, while Nouel had already nocked an arrow, his movements calm, almost bored, as if he'd expected exactly this. "Four against two," he said quietly to Alvios, without taking his eyes off the orcs. "Manageable."
"How can you be this calm right now?" Alvios whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Because panic has never put an arrow on target," Nouel replied curtly, and that one sentence was enough to at least steady Alvios's trembling hands a little.
"Manageable?" Alvios repeated, but before he could say more, the first orc had already charged, his blade flashing in the slanted light of the rising sun. Nouel released the arrow almost before the motion had even begun—Vinculum Terrae struck the attacker in the shoulder, and roots of pure Aether shot up from the pavement to bind his leg, so that he stumbled mid-charge and went down full length.
The other three didn't hesitate long, apparently unfazed by their comrade's fall. Two charged at Nouel, blades flashing in the weak morning light, while the third swung a wide arc around the pair to approach Alvios from the side, evidently assuming the younger one was the easier target. Alvios raised his hands, his fingers trembling slightly, but this time he gritted his teeth and spoke clearly and firmly: "Fulmen mitte." The bolt that shot from his fingertips struck the charging orc square in the chest, sending him staggering back with a startled cry before he slumped, dazed, against a house wall—not a lethal hit, but enough to take him out of the fight for the moment.
The first orc, whom Nouel's Vinculum Terrae had bound, was by now fighting his way free of the roots wrapped around his leg with an angry growl, yanking at them, cursing loudly as they only tightened around his ankle the more he struggled, until the first fibers tore—but the brief delay was enough to keep him out of the immediate fight for now. Nouel, surrounded by the two remaining attackers, dodged with a quick backward leap, drawing Ventura in the same motion and sending a triple arrow their way. Triplex Sagitta split mid-flight into three separate paths, each carrying its own runic purpose—the first arrow buried itself in the ground before one orc's feet, sending up a pressure wave of air that threw off his balance, while the second knocked the other's blade aside sideways with startling force, and the third, hardly more than a distraction, whizzed past his ear, making him flinch briefly.
"Stay with me," Nouel called to Alvios, moving backward to keep both opponents in view. "Don't let yourself get separated."
Alvios nodded, took a deep breath, and focused, just as Raiiko had drilled into him countless times the day before. As the third orc charged at him again, this time from the front, he raised both hands and spoke louder, more resolute: "Fulmen mitte!" Two parallel strands of lightning shot forward, crossing in front of the charging attacker and striking him with double force, sending him crashing backward to the ground, dazed, while a faint smell of scorched leather hung in the air.
The leader, who had only watched until now, cursed loudly as he saw how quickly his gang was falling apart, and now charged forward himself, swinging his axe in a wide arc with enough force to flatten Nouel to the ground on a clean hit. Nouel turned just in time to catch the blow with the shaft of his bow, a risky maneuver that made Ventura groan audibly and forced him a step backward, while with his free hand he drew a throwing knife from his belt and sent it into the leader's shoulder. The orc roared, staggering back, but didn't let go of his axe, and for a moment it looked as though he'd charge again despite the wound. Before Nouel could press the advantage, Alvios was already at his side, hand raised, his voice this time calm and clear, entirely without the tremor that had accompanied his first attempts: "Fulguris Ictus." A single, concentrated bolt struck the leader directly in the chest and ended the fight before it could really continue—the orc crumpled, his axe clattering onto the pavement beside him.
The previously bound orc, who had finally freed himself from the last remnants of roots, glanced around briefly, realized he was the only one still on his feet, tossed his blade carelessly to the ground as if it had only been in his way now, and, without another word, fled as fast as his short legs could carry him around the next corner and out of sight. Neither Nouel nor Alvios made any move to follow him—both still stood tense, breathing heavily, as the realization slowly set in that the fight was truly over.
Silence settled over the alley, broken only by the quiet groaning of the orcs lying on the ground and the distant clatter of waking market stalls, which seemed to have noticed nothing of the brief skirmish.
Nouel lowered his bow, studying the four motionless figures with a thoughtful look that didn't quite match his usual composure. "Four against two, in broad daylight, in an alley almost no one uses," he said slowly, more to himself than to Alvios. "That wasn't a coincidence."
"What do you mean?" Alvios asked, still out of breath, trying to steady his trembling hands.
"I mean," Nouel replied, gaze fixed on the unconscious leader, whose armor, he now noticed for the first time, bore cleanly worked rune engravings beneath the rust, far too refined for ordinary street thugs, "that I'm not sure we just had bad luck." He knelt beside the leader, examining the runes more closely, running a finger along the fine lines hidden beneath the rust. "This isn't street work. This is trained."
Alvios stepped closer, leaning over his shoulder to take a look himself, though he understood far less of runecraft than Nouel and the fine lines were to him little more than a pretty but meaningless pattern. "You think someone sent them? Specifically for us?"
"I don't know," Nouel admitted, something he rarely did, an admission that visibly didn't come easily to him, "but I intend to find out before we move on." He straightened, casting one last look over the four motionless figures before turning to Alvios. "Don't tell anyone about this for now, not even Viktoria. Not until I know more." Alvios nodded hesitantly, though the thought of keeping something from Viktoria of all people clearly didn't sit well with him.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word, while the city around them slowly woke to life, unaware of what had almost happened in this quiet alley.