The energy in the arena had yet to fade, a subtle buzz lingering in the air even after Caelan and Seryn descended from the dueling platform. Applause still echoed faintly in the background, fading into murmurs as the two heirs stepped off the stage side by side.
Seryn brushed a strand of silver hair behind her ear, her shoulder lightly grazed from the earlier clash. "I didn't think I'd lose," she said with a casual breath, though her pride was only slightly bruised.
Caelan smirked, golden irises flickering with mischief. "You'll get used to it."
Seryn chuckled and gave him a sideways glance. "Careful. That confidence is almost charming."
He raised an eyebrow. "Almost?"
"Almost," she echoed, a coy smile playing at her lips.
Their casual exchange was broken by a voice from the high seats above.
"Remarkable," muttered Malrik Cromwell, adjusting his long black robe as his midnight-dark eyes followed Caelan's form.
"He handled himself better than most seasoned duelists," said Velian Stormbrite. "That blood magic control, his elemental fusion… very few at his level can manage that."
Theron Virelith allowed himself a proud grin. "He's my son. He's supposed to be extraordinary."
A ripple of laughter and approval moved through the other clan heads.
As the arena was refreshed by the mana stabilizers, the proctor called out: "Next contenders! Lysander Avalon and Dorn Shieldbane—step forth!"
Two figures moved toward the stage, the arena tilting into focus again.
Lysander Avalon moved with the calm poise of nobility. He wore a tailored emerald and gold robe, his blonde hair neatly trimmed, green eyes sharp as twin blades. Strapped to his waist was a long spear, its shaft inlaid with runes that flickered faintly with wind magic.
On the opposite side, Dorn Shieldbane approached with measured, thundering steps. The Shield Clan's ceremonial gray-and-silver armor clung to his muscular frame, heavy but elegant. His brown hair was cropped short, silver eyes gleaming like polished steel. Two large items materialized in his hands from his storage ring: a heavy warhammer and a tower shield engraved with the Shield Clan symbol—a mountain flanked by twin spears.
Watching from the side, Caelan crossed his arms and muttered under his breath, "Why do they all have storage rings? Father hasn't even given me one yet… I'm still lugging my swords around like a merchant hawking wares."
Seryn laughed lightly beside him. "You just beat me in front of a hundred nobles, and that's what you're worried about?"
"It's a matter of principle," Caelan replied dryly.
Then, shifting to a more curious tone, he turned to her. "So… what do you think? Who's got the edge in this one?"
Seryn folded her arms, eyes fixed on the two about to battle. "Lysander's got precision. His wind affinity allows for mobility and control. But Dorn…"
She gestured toward the towering heir now slamming his hammer into the ground as a test. "He's a wall. Earth, Metal, and Gravity. Once he digs in, it's like trying to uproot a mountain. If Lysander can't keep his distance, he's done."
Caelan hummed in agreement, studying the tension building between the two on stage.
On the platform, Lysander twirled his spear and pointed its tip forward. "Try not to break the arena, Dorn."
Dorn smirked. "Try not to fly off it."
The two locked gazes—one calculating, the other immovable.
Back in the clan head pavilion, the conversation mirrored the curiosity of the crowd.
"Dorn's techniques are based on complete lockdown," said Garruk Shieldbane, voice deep and proud. "His defensive formations are passed down from the Earth Scripture itself. That Avalon boy will wear himself out trying to break through."
"But Lysander isn't just fast," said King Ardan Avalon with a calm smile. "He's precise. He'll find a weak spot. He always does."
"Unless the hammer finds him first," murmured Malrik.
The proctor raised a hand again. "Begin!"
The platform shimmered as enchantments activated, forming a protective dome for the spectators.
Lysander crouched low, wind curling around his feet. Dorn planted his feet like a boulder unmoving. The spear spun, the hammer gleamed, and the first echoes of their clash rang out across the arena.
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