"You heard him," Maruun told the mixed-race group. "If the cloud chooses you, offer a non-vital piece, take the touch without fatal damage, and keep moving." He hoped that even if the reward was lost, their lives would not be.

Just after the warning, another cry rose across the arena. "Let me go, you damn cloud! I already surrendered!"

The Practitioner from the mixed-race group ran as if the sand were dragging at his feet. The air around him pulsed. The white cloud flickered in and out of sight, warping the light each time it appeared.

Finally catching its target, the cloud brushed his hand.

"Aghh." His skin bubbled. The palm slackened and sloughed like wax held too close to a flame.

The corruption crept up his forearm in a wet shimmer, the cloud devouring flesh as it climbed. He faltered, and the moment he realized there was no outrunning it, his legs locked. Cold fear clamped onto his spine and refused to let go.

Just as he resigned himself to death, with no way left to escape, a sudden grip seized the collar of his tunic and wrenched him backward.

The world snapped by in a smear of gold and blue. He tumbled, slid, and came to a jarring halt on sun-bright sand, his breath heaving as the pain caught up.

For a heartbeat, he only stared at the ruin of his hand, the flesh glistening and warped, before the shock drained enough for thought to return.

"I… survived?" His voice was thin, and he lifted his gaze, searching for the one who had pulled him back from death's door.

Adyr stood a few paces away, steady like a Doctore commanding gladiators. His hair hung in disarray, and his dark eyes followed the cloud as it unraveled into fading threads.

Relief swept through the mixed-race line like a long-held breath released. As they watched the scene unfold, their backs straightened, the tension in their chests eased, and the weight of fear lifted. If Adyr could pull one of them back from the brink of death, he would surely do the same for the rest—and that simple truth steadied their hearts more than any command ever could.

The trial did not pause. The cloud turned its hunger on Lunari and Gorathim alike. Each time it lunged, someone offered a piece of themselves and slipped free.

The swift and fortunate lost no more than a finger, while the slower—or those without the means to escape—surrendered an entire arm. The sand darkened with drops that hissed and steamed as they fell, then cooled into a crust of ugly black. For a time, at least, no lives were taken.

Thalira refused to surrender a single life from her kin. She moved like a blade skimming water, carving open space for her people, dragging them clear with a hand at the shoulder, or striking with her rapier to disperse the cloud, forcing it to vanish for a heartbeat and giving the others time to escape.

Brakhtar answered in his own way, using his telekinesis to snatch Gorathim back the instant the cloud touched them, dragging their bodies clear with the slightest force and limiting the cost to no more than a finger.

Adyr kept moving too, all while observing. He focused on the rhythm rather than the panic. The cloud did not strike at random; it drifted like a patient hunter, appearing where eyes grew careless or footing wavered, choosing the Practitioner who had just exhaled, the one whose gaze strayed sideways, and the one reaching down for a fallen weapon.

It has a mind, he realized, and the thought solidified into certainty: it is always choosing the weakest.

The cloud has never gone after Thalira so far. It avoided Brakhtar as well. It ignored Adyr entirely, even when he stole prey from its reach.

Instead, it slid toward exposed ribs, loose guards, and wandering focus. When a Lunari supporter turned to cast a buff on an ally in need, it materialized at her back. When a Gorathim bent to lift a wounded comrade, it bloomed at his knee. Every time, it sought the gap like a seasoned hunter toying with its prey.

Thalira and Brakhtar seemed to recognize the pattern as well. They began patrolling the spaces where focus faltered, arriving a half step before the cloud—dragging bodies clear, shoving shoulders aside, and snapping quick commands that were little more than a glance or a tilt of the chin.

For Adyr, it was easier—his Gaze remained active at all times, letting him know which target the cloud would choose next. Still, he maintained the impression of merely observing and calculating the pattern, using it as a guise while saving more lives among the mixed-race group.

The cloud's dissolving hiss carried across the arena, but its harvest slowed. With each rescue, the air in the coliseum grew steadier, as if the panic itself were retreating from them.

When the number of those still keeping their bodies intact fell sharply, Adyr called out. "Maruun, Rhadak, the rest of you—stay behind me."

Only seven from the mixed-race group remained, including Adyr. The cloud had not yet chosen them as its prey, and at his command, they hesitated for only a heartbeat before moving quickly to take cover at his back.

"I'll try something. Do everything you can to avoid the cloud's touch."

Adyr drew both swords, his expression utterly devoid of emotion. Yet deep in his eyes, there was a flicker of something darker, something sinister prowling beneath the surface.

Not long after, the cloud finished its work, dissolving a Lunari's hand and disqualifying her. Then, without pause, it shifted its focus toward the mixed-race survivors, materializing behind a Practitioner who had only just taken her place near Adyr.

"It's here!" She shouted—not in panic, but to warn the others—as she twisted her body to avoid the rush.

But before the cloud could close in, a black blade tore through the air. In an instant, Adyr's sword split the mass cleanly in two, stopping its advance cold.

"Thank you." The practitioner's voice was quick, almost breathless, as she looked at Adyr standing firm with both blades drawn. She did not lower her guard, though.

The cloud had never abandoned its target without taking something—at the very least a body part, if not a life. Her eyes scanned the air, certain it would reappear and strike again.

But what happened next shocked her—and everyone else.

"What…?" The word slipped out, echoed by the silence of her companions.

For the first time, the cloud broke its pattern. It left its chosen prey untouched, shifting away without claiming her life or even a fragment of her flesh. In an instant, it reformed behind a Gorathim on the far side of the arena.

"Aghh!" The warrior cried out as the cloud enveloped him. He had no chance to resist. In the pause of confusion, the entity consumed him completely, leaving nothing but his melting remains seeping into the golden sand.

"How…?" Brakhtar's face twisted as he watched his kin dissolve before his eyes.

His small, hard gaze then turned to Adyr, suspicion and disbelief mingling in his stare. Something Adyr had done had forced the cloud to retreat—and Brakhtar was desperate to know what.

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