The Pavilion surged with motion and sound.
Across its layered floors, lanes pulsed with mana-light as performances collided with force. Steel rang against stone. Music rose and twisted under pressure. Every arena held its own contained storm of pride, skill, and desperation.
From the outer walkways, spectators shifted to follow the action, some craning for better views, others abandoning one lane as another flared brighter. Among them stood Brandy, indistinct in the crowd, her presence marked only by her size and the faint chime of the bell at her neck whenever she shifted her weight.
From her vantage point, most lanes were active.
Except one.
Near the far side of the Pavilion floor, a single arena remained sealed and luminous, its barrier fully formed but its interior conspicuously empty. No performers stood within. No attendants lingered nearby. The stone floor inside was untouched, unmarred by spellwork or footfall, as though the match meant to take place there had been delayed or erased.
Elsewhere, Lane Three drew mounting attention.
Darkness pressed inward, thick and oppressive, laced with arcs of lightning that snapped and crackled through the rain-soaked air. The fist fighter within staggered visibly now, his advance completely halted. The necrotic field clung to him, draining strength with every breath, lightning striking close enough to force him back again and again until his footing failed.
Nearby, the court cantor struggled to maintain her performance.
Rain streamed over her hands and instrument alike. Her breath faltered. The once-proud melody fractured under the weight of the storm, fingers stiffening as the enchanted rainfall sapped her strength. Wind magic failed her in uneven bursts, no longer answering cleanly to her intent.
The water barrier surrounding Noelle churned steadily, impenetrable, keeping the fighter from reaching her at all. From within it, her music continued, unbroken and clear despite the chaos beyond its surface.
Then the song changed.
A new presence filled the lane, carrying outward through the barrier in softened echoes. The effect was immediate.
The fist fighter collapsed first, his body finally giving in as he fell unconscious against the stone. Moments later, the cantor’s flute slipped from her grasp. She swayed, tried to recover, and then fell as well, rain washing over her still form.
Silence followed.
The lane’s barrier dimmed, its hum lowering as the arena registered the conclusion of the bout. The storm eased. The shadows thinned. What remained was the aftermath of overwhelming force.
A clear chime rang through the Pavilion.
“Lane Three,” an attendant announced, voice amplified and formal, “concluded. Victory to Stormcrest, Edwin, and Nishi, Noelle.”
Applause rose unevenly. Some spectators clapped in admiration. Others watched in uneasy quiet as attendants moved in to secure the fallen contestants. On the judges’ dais, styluses scratched across crystal slates. Lady Avelyne did not look away from the lane as the results were recorded.
As the victors were ushered clear of the arena, the Pavilion’s attention began to disperse again, drawn toward the remaining lanes still in progress.
All but one. The little Mana pup that had been waiting outside the lane before was whining and staring down the long main hall way.
N3v3rM0r3
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