The morning light spilled through the windows of the Gilded Hearth, casting golden patterns across the polished wooden floor. The café hummed with its familiar morning rhythms – the soft clinking of brews being prepped, the gentle murmur of conversation, the occasional bell chime as the door swung open to welcome more patrons.

  Tavalor sat in his usual window seat. A mug of blue Calming Brew steaming gently before him. Its blue hues shifted like ocean currents as he stirred it absently, his attention divided between the warmth of the drink and the newspaper spread out on the table.

  Little Shadow, sat on top of Soot, Brennan’s cat in front of the hearth. Soot, had given up on playing with Little Shadow and chose to ignore his provocations.

  The front page of the Vallenport Chronicle had an unusual headline that caught his eye:

  CHITARI SIGHTED OFF NORTHERN COAST

  Ancient Enemy Returns After Centuries of Absence

  Tavalor frowned. The Chitari, so those were the insect like creatures form yesterday.

  He couldn’t recall the name from any of Old Tavalor’s memories either. Another strange gap.

  If they were ancient enemies, how come they hadn’t appeared in Old Tavalor’s memories?

  Brenna walked over and placed a starfruit muffin next to his brew: 'Your Muffin, Lord Tavalor,' Brenna said.

  She observed the frown on his face. 'You seem troubled this morning.'

  Tavalor looked up at her: 'Have you heard of the Chitari?' he asked, gesturing to the headline.

  Brenna's usually cheerful expression darkened. 'Only in some old stories, I remember my grandmother told me when I was a child. Terrible things, if even half the tales are true.'

  She moved on. Serving other customers. Tavalor sat there contemplating them. Where did they come from?

  With the mystery still on his mind, he decided that a visit to a bookstore was in order. If anybody had any information on this, it would be Jorik.

  ***

  The bell jingled as he entered Aurum Tomes, the scent of old parchment and leather bindings greeting him like an old friend. The shop appeared empty at first glance, shelves of ancient books stretching into shadowy corners.

  'Back again?' came a raspy voice from somewhere among the stacks. Jorik emerged, pipe clenched between his teeth, eyes twinkling with that same knowing light. 'Somehow I knew you'd return today.'

  'I need information,' Tavalor said, skipping pleasantries. 'About the Chitari.'

  Jorik's eyebrows rose slightly, the only indication of his surprise. 'Now that's a name I haven't heard spoken aloud in decades.' He gestured for Tavalor to follow him deeper into the shop, weaving through narrow aisles until they reached a section of particularly ancient-looking tomes.

  'The Chitari,' Jorik began, pulling down a dusty volume bound in what appeared to be Chitari scales, 'aren't simply another race or species. They're something... other.'

  He laid the book on a small reading table and opened it carefully. The pages were brittle with age, covered in illustrations that seemed to shift and writhe if viewed too directly.

  'During the Age of Dragons, when magic flowed freely and boundaries between worlds were more... permeable, the Chitari found their way to our realm.' Jorik's finger traced an illustration depicting insectoid creatures with multiple limbs and segmented bodies. 'Some scholars believe they were fleeing something in their own world. Others think they were scouts for a greater invasion.'

  Tavalor studied the illustrations with growing interest. The Chitari appeared to be a hybrid of insect and crustacean, with chitinous exoskeletons and multiple appendages ending in razor-sharp pincers or barbed hooks. Their heads bore compound eyes that seemed to catch the light even within the illustration.

  'They established hives along the northern coast,' Jorik continued, turning pages to reveal maps marked with strange, spiral patterns. 'Underwater mostly, burrowing into cliffs and building structures that defied known architectural principles. They weren't simply animals – they possessed intelligence and a form of technology based on biological manipulation.'

  'Why haven't I heard of them before?' Tavalor asked.

  Jorik gave him a searching look. 'Because they were believed extinct. In the late Dragon Age, when their numbers and boldness grew, they began raiding coastal settlements, taking people for... purposes unknown.' He paused, seemingly reluctant to elaborate. 'It took a coalition of all major powers – dragons, elves, even the early human kingdoms – to drive them back.'

  He turned to another page, showing a massive battle scene. Flights of dragons soared above armies of elves and humans, all converging on what appeared to be underwater structures barely visible beneath waves filled with strange shapes.

  'The war lasted decades. The Chitari fought unlike any known enemy – they seemed to share a hive mind, adapting strategies instantly across all their forces. They could reshape their own bodies for different environments, grow organic weapons, even incorporate aspects of captured species into themselves.'

  Tavalor's eyes narrowed. 'And yet they were defeated?'

  'Not defeated,' Jorik corrected. 'Contained. The coalition managed to drive them into the deepest trenches of the northern oceans, sealing them with arcane barriers. The knowledge of how those barriers were created was lost in the chaos that followed the withdrawal of the dragons and the restructuring of magic.'

  Jorik closed the book, his expression grave. 'If the Chitari have indeed returned, it raises troubling questions. How did they break the ancient seals? Why now, after all this time? And most importantly – what do they want?'

  Could it have been my fault? Did I let them loose when I melted Miragos?

  Tavalor leaned back processing this information.

  A race powerful to require the combined might of the dragons and other forces was a cause on concern, for the rest of the world. but was it a concern for him?

  He shrugged. So long as they didn't bother him he wouldn't bother them.

  It had nothing to do with him. He had established his quiet life in Vallenport, and despite occasional interruptions, he had managed to maintain a semblance of normalcy. The Chitari were someone else's problem.

  Still, they're so cool. An evil race... curiosity nagged at him. A race that had fought dragons, that had required Old Tavalor's kind to contain them – they were worth learning more about.

  Maybe it was time to expand his knowledge of this world beyond Vallenport's canals.

  'Thanks Jorik,' said Taylor, buying that book and a few other books about ancient threats.

  As he left the shop, his mind was already formulating a plan. He would send out his [Dragon's Eyes], those magical viewing portals that allowed him to observe distant locations.

  Anyone else in his position might want to rule this world, to gather power and followers, to build a harem, and army and servants.

  But Tavalor simply wanted to understand – and then return to his comfortable reading chair with a good book and a warm drink.

  He was a tourist after all. That was the ultimate goal. Chill, take in some sights.

  ***

  Back at the manor, Tavalor settled in his study, surrounded by the books he'd purchased from Jorik. Little Shadow lounged nearby, its form rippling with curiosity as it watched him prepare for the ritual.

  'We're going to do some spying,' Tavalor explained, though he wasn't entirely sure how much the shadow creature understood. 'I want to see more of this world without actually having to travel.'

  Little Shadow chirped in what seemed like agreement, floating closer to observe.

  Tavalor closed his eyes, focusing his magic. [Dragon's Eyes] was a spell of his own creation – a fusion of [Dragon's Sight] and [Watcher's Eye] that allowed him to create remote viewing portals.

  Instead of visualizing it in his mind, he created a floating screen in front of him. With a gesture, he opened the first one – a shimmering disc of energy that hovered in the air before them.

  Within its surface, an image formed: the northern coast, where the Chitari had reportedly been sighted. The view showed rough, rocky shores battered by grey waves, mist clinging to jagged cliffs.

  'Let's see what's happening,' Tavalor murmured, directing the eye to dive beneath the waves.

  Since the Chitari were underwater creatures, then sending the eyes underwater was obvious.

  The underwater world came into focus – forests of swaying kelp, schools of silvery fish darting through the gloom, and then... something else.

  Structures that seemed both organic and engineered, spiralling formations that resembled enormous shells yet were clearly artificial. They clung to the undersea cliffs, pulsing with a faint bioluminescence.

  Tavalor opened more eyes, sending them to different locations around the world. One showed the vast deserts of the Southern Continent, where nomadic tribes followed ancient migration paths beneath twin suns. Another revealed the crystalline cities of the Western Elven territories, where buildings seemed to grow rather than be constructed.

  A fourth eye explored the frozen wastelands of the north, while a fifth wandered the bustling markets of the Eastern Empire, where magic and technology blended seamlessly.

  To his surprise, Little Shadow became transfixed by the displays, floating from one to another with apparent fascination. The shadow creature began to mimic writing motions, as if taking notes on what it was seeing.

  'You want to help?' Tavalor asked, amused.

  Little Shadow bobbed in what seemed like enthusiastic agreement.

  'Alright then,' Tavalor said, creating a small tendril of magic that coalesced into a ghostly quill and parchment. 'Have at it.'

  To his astonishment, Little Shadow grasped the quill with an extension of its shadowy form and began to make actual notes – not in any language Tavalor recognized, but clearly organized and deliberate.

  Hours passed as they explored the world through the Dragon's Eyes. Tavalor found himself particularly drawn to the underwater Chitari structures. There was something both alien and familiar about their design – a mathematical precision that reminded him of the Watchers' work, yet with an organic fluidity that was entirely different.

  He watched as Chitari moved through these structures – multi-limbed beings with iridescent exoskeletons and compound eyes that seemed to capture and reflect light in hypnotic patterns. They communicated through rapid clicks and vibrations, and worked with a synchronicity that suggested a shared consciousness.

  One eye captured what appeared to be a Chitari birthing chamber – a vast, pulsating space where eggs hung in clusters from the ceiling while attendants tended to them with careful, ritualistic movements. Another showed what might have been a council chamber, where larger Chitari with more elaborate carapaces seemed to deliberate around a pool of glowing liquid.

  'Fascinating,' Tavalor murmured. 'They're rebuilding their civilization.'

  Little Shadow chirped questioningly, pointing to one of the eyes that showed a Chitari working on what appeared to be a weapon – a living construct that grew and reshaped itself under the creature's manipulations.

  'Yes, that's concerning,' Tavalor agreed. 'But ultimately, not our problem for now.'

  He closed the eyes one by one, leaving only the view of Vallenport's peaceful canals. 'This is our home, Little Shadow. Let the rest of the world handle its own troubles.'

  Little Shadow seemed to droop slightly, clearly disappointed that the show was over.

  Tavalor chuckled. 'Don't worry. We'll check in again soon. For now, let's take a break.'

  And with that, he settled back in his favourite chair, opened one of Jorik's books, and let the concerns of ancient returning enemies fade from his mind – at least for now.

  ***

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  The following weeks passed in pleasant normalcy. Tavalor maintained his routine – breakfast at the Gilded Hearth, occasional visits to the Ember's Edge for dinner, and plenty of reading in between.

  Little Shadow had taken to controlling the Dragon's Eyes on its own, using them as miniature livestreams to observe different parts of the world while taking its incomprehensible notes.

  Emberfist continued her training in the garden, her control over her fiery magic growing more precise with each passing day. Her fists and magic began to resemble Tavalor day after day. More ancient.

  Luneth came and went mysteriously as always, occasionally bringing interesting trinkets or information from her shadowy network of contacts.

  Life had settled into a comfortable rhythm when the unexpected happened.

  Tavalor was in his study reading when a crash from downstairs startled him.

  He rushed down to Luneth’s room.

  Her room had changed. The bed had been removed and her room now was an alchemists lab. Full of tables, glass instruments and a large alchemy furnace in the center of the room.

  He found Luneth collapsed on the floor ofnear the entrance of her room, her slender form convulsing slightly, a small vial rolling away from her outstretched hand.

  'Luneth!' he called, kneeling beside her. Her skin was clammy, her breathing shallow, her silver eyes rolled back showing only whites.

  Using [Dragon Sight], he examined her magical pathways. What he saw alarmed him – the internal magic circles that regulated her power had stopped spinning, frozen in place as if caught in ice. The stillness was spreading outward from her core, threatening to shut down her entire magical system.

  'What have you done?' he muttered, picking up the vial. It contained residue of a shimmering silver liquid – some kind of refinement pill, he guessed, meant to enhance magical capabilities. But something had gone terribly wrong.

  Tavalor placed a hand on Luneth's forehead, channelling a careful stream of draconic magic to restart her stalled circles. The foreign energy met resistance at first, her body's natural defences fighting the intrusion. He persisted, adjusting the flow until it matched the frequency of her own magic.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, the circles began to turn again. First one, then another, until the entire network was spinning once more – too fast at first, then settling into a more natural rhythm.

  Luneth gasped, her eyes flying open as she jerked upright. 'What—' she began, then doubled over, clutching her stomach. 'Oh gods!'

  Without warning, she began to hiccup – but each hiccup produced a tiny burst of light that floated upward before popping like a bubble. The effect would have been comical if not for her obvious distress.

  'Side effect,' Tavalor explained, helping her to a chair. 'Your magic is resetting itself. What exactly did you take?'

  Between luminous hiccups, Luneth explained. The pill was a rare refinement elixir from the Southern Continent, meant to help breakthrough magical plateaus. 'I've been... stuck,' she admitted. 'Thought it would... help.'

  Over the next month, the consequences of Luneth's magical mishap manifested in increasingly bizarre ways. For three days, she spoke backwards, forcing Tavalor to transcribe and reverse her sentences to understand her. For a week after that, she left footprints of flowers wherever she walked, regardless of the surface.

  On the twelfth day, she woke to find her shadow had become independent, mimicking her actions with a slight delay and occasionally performing different gestures entirely, much to Little Shadow's apparent amusement.

  The nineteenth day brought perhaps the most embarrassing effect – Luneth's thoughts became briefly audible to those around her, revealing her unfiltered opinions about everything from Emberfist's cooking ('tastes like a fire elementalist's failed experiment') to Tavalor's reading habits ('who needs seventeen books about maritime navigation?').

  By the time the effects finally began to fade, Luneth had sworn off refinement pills entirely. 'Not worth it,' she declared, as the last lingering consequence – a faint musical tone that accompanied her every movement – finally dissipated. 'I'll advance the hard way, thank you very much.'

  Throughout all of this, Little Shadow had developed a peculiar relationship with Emberfist – or rather, a deliberate lack of one. Whenever Emberfist entered a room, Little Shadow would pointedly turn away or fade partially into nearby shadows. If she addressed it directly, it would pretend not to notice, floating away to busy itself with something else.

  'Your pet hates me,' Emberfist complained one evening, glaring at Little Shadow as it deliberately ignored her greeting.

  'It doesn't hate you,' Tavalor replied, watching the shadow creature float to the opposite side of the room. 'It's just... selective about its friendships.'

  'Selective?' Emberfist scoffed. 'It's rude is what it is.'

  Little Shadow appeared to preen at this assessment, puffing up slightly before returning to its study of one of Tavalor's magical tomes.

  Despite these small dramas, life in Vallenport continued pleasantly. The Chitari sightings faded from the headlines, replaced by more local concerns – chief among them, the approaching Arcane Revel. Held every decade during ley line alignments; it included mage tournaments, spellcraft demonstrations, and rituals.

  ***

  The central square of Vallenport had been transformed. Four massive platforms had been erected at compass points, each surrounded by tiered seating that rose like wooden waves around the combat areas.

  Colourful banners fluttered from every available surface, bearing the crests of participating families, guilds, and independent competitors.

  Tavalor found himself swept along by the excited crowd. He hadn't planned to attend the tournament, but Emberfist had entered as a competitor, and curiosity had gotten the better of him.

  Besides, Little Shadow had been insistent, tugging at his sleeve and chirping excitedly when the tournament was mentioned.

  They secured seats with a good view of the eastern stage, where the preliminaries were already underway. The announcer's magically amplified voice boomed over the crowd:

  'Next match! Grimvale the Undying versus Pip the Unremarkable!'

  A ripple of laughter spread through the audience at the second name. Tavalor leaned forward with interest as the competitors took the stage.

  Grimvale was exactly what one would expect – a hulking warrior clad in black plate armour adorned with skull motifs, a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back. He acknowledged the crowd's cheers with a raised fist, his face hidden behind a fearsome helmet.

  In contrast, Pip the Unremarkable seemed... well, unremarkable. He was of average height and build, wearing simple brown leathers with minimal armour. His weapon of choice appeared to be a plain shortsword, and his brown hair fell in an untidy mop over ordinary features. He smiled nervously at the crowd, which responded with scattered boos and jeers.

  'Go home, wastrel!'

  'Who let this nobody in?'

  'This'll be over in seconds!'

  Pip winced at the hostility but took his position opposite Grimvale. The contrast between them couldn't have been more stark – a legendary warrior against what appeared to be a farmhand with delusions of grandeur.

  The announcer raised his hand. 'Fighters ready? Begin!'

  Grimvale drew his massive sword with surprising speed, the blade humming with dark energy as he charged forward with a roar. Pip, looking terrified, barely managed to draw his own weapon in time.

  What happened next stunned the audience into silence.

  Instead of being cleaved in two, Pip sidestepped with unexpected grace, his movement so subtle it almost seemed like Grimvale had simply missed. The dark warrior's momentum carried him forward, off-balance for just a moment – which Pip exploited with a quick tap of his sword against his opponent's back, a point-scoring hit in tournament rules.

  'First point to Pip the Unremarkable!' the announcer called, disbelief evident in his voice.

  Grimvale whirled, fury radiating from his posture. He attacked again, his blade cutting complex patterns through the air. Again, Pip evaded – not with flashy acrobatics, but with efficient, minimal movements that consistently put him just beyond his opponent's reach.

  As the match progressed, a pattern emerged. Grimvale, growing increasingly frustrated, expended more energy with each attack, while Pip remained defensive, scoring occasional precise hits when openings presented themselves.

  By the tenth minute, Grimvale was breathing heavily, his attacks becoming wilder. Pip, still looking utterly terrified, nevertheless maintained his composure, methodically accumulating points.

  When the final bell rang, the score was clear: Pip the Unremarkable had won by a significant margin.

  The crowd sat in stunned silence before erupting in a mixture of cheers, boos, and confused murmuring. Grimvale stormed off the stage, flinging his helmet to the ground in rage.

  Pip stood awkwardly in the centre, looking as surprised by his victory as everyone else. He bowed hastily to the audience before scurrying off the stage.

  Tavalor leaned back, intrigued. 'Well, that was unexpected.'

  Little Shadow chirped in agreement, making a gesture that somehow conveyed both surprise and appreciation.

  'Next match on the western stage!' came the announcement. 'Ser Valorian the Magnificent versus Emberfist!'

  The crowd shifted its attention to the western platform. Tavalor and Little Shadow made their way through the throng to secure a better vantage point.

  Emberfist stood on one side of the stage, her posture relaxed but alert, her fiery gauntlets inactive for now. Across from her, Ser Valorian preened for the crowd – a tall, handsome man in gleaming armour adorned with magical runes. His golden hair caught the sunlight as he brandished an ornate sword.

  'The lovely lady shall fall before true skill!' he proclaimed, eliciting cheers from his supporters.

  Whispers rippled through the audience:

  'He's at the peak of [B-Class], you know.'

  'She doesn't stand a chance.'

  'Such a shame – she's quite attractive.'

  'Poor girl will be humiliated.'

  Emberfist merely smiled, a predatory smile that should have warned her opponent. But Ser Valorian, caught up in his own grandeur, missed the danger signs.

  When the signal came, Emberfist didn't wait. She launched forward with a straightforward punch, her gauntlet flaring to life with concentrated flame. The move was simple, direct – and devastatingly fast.

  Ser Valorian barely managed to dodge, his eyes widening as he felt the heat sear past his cheek. The audience gasped at the near miss.

  'Such aggression!' Valorian called, attempting to maintain his composure. 'But grace always triumphs over brute force!'

  He counterattacked with an elaborate series of sword manoeuvrers, the blade leaving glowing trails in the air. Emberfist evaded each strike with efficient movements, her attention never wavering from her opponent.

  Another punch forced Valorian to retreat, then another, and another. Step by step, he was driven toward the edge of the stage. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, his confident smile replaced by a look of growing concern.

  When Valorian attempted a desperate counterattack, Emberfist was ready. Their attacks met in mid-air – his magically enhanced sword against her flame-wreathed fist. For a brief moment, they were locked in stalemate.

  Then the sword began to glow red from the heat of her gauntlet. Valorian yelped, releasing his weapon just as the metal began to melt. He stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the platform's edge.

  What followed was less a fight and more a systematic dismantling. For three minutes, Emberfist pressed her advantage relentlessly, each punch precisely calculated, each movement serving a purpose.

  Valorian, for all his boasting, found himself overwhelmed by an opponent who simply outclassed him in every way.

  Finally, with his armour scorched and his pride in tatters, Ser Valorian the Magnificent raised a hand in surrender. 'I yield!' he gasped, dropping to one knee.

  The crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and shocked exclamations. Another upset! An unknown competitor defeating one of the tournament favourites!

  Emberfist acknowledged the audience with a small bow before walking off the stage, her expression neutral. Only Tavalor caught the satisfied gleam in her eye as she passed.

  ***

  Back at the manor that evening, Tavalor found himself curious about the day's unexpected victors. He sat in his study, a glass of elderfire whisky in hand, contemplating the matches he'd witnessed.

  'Little Shadow,' he called, 'could you find some information on our tournament underdogs?'

  The shadow creature, which had been examining a magical amulet on a nearby shelf, perked up at the request. It had recently demonstrated an uncanny ability to gather information from around the city, using sources Tavalor could only guess at.

  Within an hour, Little Shadow returned with several scrolls, apparently borrowed (or stolen) from the Adventurers' Guild archives. Tavalor unrolled the first, which contained details about Ser Valorian.

  As expected, the man's record was impressive – dozens of tournament victories, several successful quests, and a reputation as one of Vallenport's rising stars. His defeat at Emberfist's hands would certainly damage his standing.

  The second scroll, containing information about Pip the Unremarkable, proved far more interesting.

  Pip, it seemed, had an extraordinary backstory hidden behind his ordinary appearance. Orphaned at a young age, he had been taken in by an ageing master of an obscure martial technique. For three years, he had trained without showing any progress, enduring the ridicule of his fellow students. Then, over the next five years, he had slowly, methodically mastered the foundations of the technique.

  When his master died, Pip had been forced to leave the remote mountain school. He had wandered for years, taking odd jobs and occasionally participating in minor competitions – always performing just well enough to survive, never drawing attention to himself.

  The pattern was so familiar that Tavalor couldn't help but laugh. 'He's the protagonist of a cultivation novel,' he mused, recalling the stories he'd read in his previous life. 'The underestimated hero who gradually reveals his true strength.'

  In such stories, the protagonist would typically face increasing challenges, overcome impossible odds, accumulate rare techniques and treasures, and eventually ascend to become the most powerful being in existence.

  Tavalor considered the implications. If Pip followed the typical narrative arc, he would soon attract the attention of a powerful sect or organization. Then would come the betrayal, persecution, near-death experiences, miraculous recoveries, and eventual triumph. It was all so predictable.

  For a moment, Tavalor entertained a dark thought – should he eliminate Pip now, before the young man's inevitable rise to power threatened the peace of Vallenport? With his abilities, it would be a simple matter.

  He shook his head, dismissing the idea. 'I'm thinking too much like a villain,' he muttered, finishing his whisky. Pip's journey had nothing to do with him. As long as the young man's adventures didn't disrupt Tavalor's quiet life, there was no reason to interfere.

  Besides, he was curious to see how far this 'unremarkable' fighter would go in the tournament.

  ***

  The second day of the tournament dawned clear and warm, the sky a perfect blue canvas above Vallenport's spires. The crowds had grown even larger, word of the previous day's upsets drawing spectators hoping to witness more unexpected victories.

  Tavalor arrived early, securing a prime spot near the central stage where the day's most anticipated matches would take place. Little Shadow perched on his shoulder, vibrating with excitement.

  The morning passed with a series of predictable fights, the favoured competitors largely prevailing. Then came the match everyone had been waiting for:

  'Ser Galagorn the Invincible versus Emberfist!'

  Ser Galagorn, the elder brother of the defeated Valorian, strode onto the stage with grim determination. Where his brother had been flashy and boastful, Galagorn was all business – his armour was functional rather than decorative, his sword plain but clearly well-crafted. His reputation as 'the Invincible' stemmed from an unbroken string of tournament victories spanning thirty years.

  Emberfist entered from the opposite side, her expression focused. She had tied her fiery hair back tightly, her movements economical as she took her position.

  'You humiliated my brother,' Galagorn stated, loud enough for the front rows to hear. 'I will restore our family's honour.'

  Emberfist didn't respond verbally. She simply activated her gauntlets, flames dancing around her fists.

  When the signal came, Galagorn attacked with brutal efficiency. His style was nothing like his brother's showy techniques – each strike was direct, powerful, and precisely calculated.

  Emberfist found herself on the defensive immediately, forced to dodge and block rather than press her own attack.

  For the first minute, they seemed evenly matched. Galagorn's experience showed in his patient, methodical approach, while Emberfist's raw talent kept her from being overwhelmed.

  Then the pattern began to shift. Emberfist's dodges became more fluid, her blocks more confident. She started to anticipate Galagorn's movements, positioning herself to counter rather than merely defend.

  The veteran fighter noticed the change and adjusted his strategy, increasing his tempo. But Emberfist was ready.

  When he committed to a powerful overhead strike, she stepped inside his guard, her flaming fist connecting solidly with his side.

  Galagorn grunted in pain but continued fighting. Yet the damage was done – his movements now favoured his uninjured side, creating openings that Emberfist exploited with ruthless precision.

  Two minutes into the match, the outcome was becoming clear. Ser Galagorn the Invincible was being systematically dismantled by an opponent who seemed to grow stronger with each exchange.

  With a final desperate effort, Galagorn summoned a magical shield, hoping to create space for a counterattack. Emberfist's response was simple but devastating – she poured more power into her gauntlets, the flames intensifying until they burned white-hot. When she struck the shield, it shattered like glass, the backlash sending Galagorn stumbling backward.

  Before he could recover, Emberfist closed the distance and landed a precise strike to his chest. The impact wasn't particularly hard, but the location was perfect – directly over a pressure point that temporarily disrupted his magical circulation.

  Galagorn dropped to one knee, his weapon clattering to the stage. He raised a hand in surrender.

  'Winner: Emberfist!' the announcer called, his voice betraying his astonishment.

  The crowd erupted in cheers. In just two days, Emberfist had gone from unknown competitor to tournament sensation. Whispers of 'who is she?' and 'where did she train?' rippled through the audience.

  Tavalor smiled, raising his cup in a silent toast to his fiery friend. He caught her eye as she left the stage, and she responded with a small, satisfied nod.

  Little Shadow, still perched on his shoulder, made a gesture that somehow conveyed both approval and dismissal – acknowledging Emberfist's impressive victory while maintaining its aloof attitude toward her.

  'You really should give her a chance,' Tavalor told the shadow creature. 'She's quite remarkable.'

  Little Shadow's response was to turn away dramatically, its form rippling with what could only be described as stubborn refusal.

  Tavalor chuckled. Some rivalries, it seemed, were simply meant to be.