If you’ve never been forced to sit in a row of honor beside your nation’s princess while watching a guy who could probably bench press a wyvern fight another human being for sport… congratutions. You’ve made better life decisions than I have.

  Because that was our current reality.

  The royal viewing ptform—impossibly high seats, draped in imperial banners, guarded by knights who looked like their swords were emotionally attached to decapitation—was where we found ourselves, Squad 7, now officially acting like tamed wild beasts under the princess’s supervision.

  Sylvaria Elion Wellstion herself sat on the central throne, resting her chin on her hand as she surveyed the bloodsport below with the subtle smirk of someone who knew how much power she had... and wasn't shy about flexing it.

  “Sit still,” she ordered casually, not even looking at us.

  Rielle squirmed.

  Gram was holding a bag of emergency elixirs like he was about to throw snacks into an audience pit.

  And me?

  I was trying not to look like I wanted to leap off the balcony.

  The ArenaDown in the arena, the crowd roared as Leonhart von Dresner entered.

  The man was a walking sb of war-born masculinity, all silver hair, scarred arms, and the aura of someone who thought gravity was just a suggestion.

  His opponent: Arien Thorne, Student Council’s shield specialist. Fast, durable, dangerous.

  Didn’t matter.

  Leonhart moved like thunder—no wasted motion, just explosive force.

  One swing shattered Arien’s defense. The next blow sent him skidding across the ground like a stone across a ke.

  “Efficiency,” the princess commented.

  “Overkill,” I muttered.

  “Same thing,” she said.

  Gram, now officially dragooned into field support, was already halfway to the edge of the balcony, lifting a potion like some street-side apothecary.

  “Drink this,” he shouted down to Arien.

  “That’s not safe—” a healer started.

  “Shhhh,” Gram said, dumping a sparkle-dust concoction on the poor kid's face.

  Arien jolted back up like he'd just snorted lightning.

  Meanwhile, Leonhart turned toward our balcony.

  He raised his bde toward us and smiled the smile of a man who only enjoyed two things: fighting and making decrations.

  “Squad 7,” he called. “You’re next.”

  The crowd went wild.

  Me, Being ProblematicRielle immediately stood up. “Like hell we—!”

  Eli grabbed her wrist. Calm. Clean. No words.

  Rielle blinked, realized what she was about to do, and sat down—barely.

  Then Eli looked at me and nodded.

  Great. My turn to open my mouth. Again.

  I cleared my throat, stood up, waved toward Leonhart with my most customer service expression, and said—

  “So, just to confirm… You’re proudly decring your intention to beat up a group of underaged children in front of an entire stadium?”

  A beat of silence.

  Then a couple chuckles.

  Then more.

  Then ughter, full and roaring, from pockets of the audience who got the joke.

  And then… Sylvaria ughed.

  Just once. Softly. Controlled.

  But still.

  The Princess of Wellstion actually ughed.

  Leonhart? Smiled wider.

  “You’ll be less funny when you’re on the ground.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I replied. “Still here. Still standing. Still annoying.”

  Rielle leaned over. “He’s going to kill you.”

  Eli smiled faintly. “It was funny though.”

  Gram was now trying to bance a potion bottle on his forehead. “Did I miss something?”

  Ingrid's TurnWhile Leonhart walked off like a man who’d just picked out a new chew toy, the next fight began.

  Ingrid Bjornsval, Sarnhild’s battle priestess, stepped onto the arena floor with her mace glowing and her holy aura crackling like a sermon with a side of violence.

  She faced Cassandra Vale, Student Council’s enchanter.

  Cassandra tried to lock her down with illusions and runes.

  Ingrid walked through them like someone politely returning bad customer service.

  One holy strike shattered the shield.

  The second knocked Cassandra to the ground.

  Overhead, the judges were talking excitedly, but all I could hear was the echo of Sylvaria’s amused chuckle repying in my skull like I’d accidentally won a lottery ticket made of sarcasm.

  Ingrid didn’t even say a word after the fight. Just turned, looked up at us, and nodded.

  Eli nodded back.

  That’s how sword-women say “I acknowledge you.”

  Post-Battle EnergyAs the fights wrapped up, and the crowd shifted its attention to the food stalls and betting booths again, Sylvaria rose to her feet.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, still looking out across the arena, “we begin the team duels.”

  She turned to us.

  “I expect a good show.”

  “Like… an actual show, or like... are we supposed to lose dramatically?” I asked.

  She didn’t respond.

  Which meant yes.