Once the lots were drawn and the brackets announced, the Vice Principal dismissed the surviving squads. Silver light swallowed each team once more, pulling them back to their assigned chambers.

Aston's group reappeared in their own sanctum, the pale stone walls glowing with restorative runes. Waiting attendants—academy healers and alchemical aides—stepped forward without a word.

Selene guided her dove to the healer's hands, allowing the beast's weary feathers to be brushed with soothing essence. Brennar let his construct crawl onto a padded dais, its runes dimming while engineers inspected its joints. Marcellus leaned back as an aide pressed a glowing salve against his shoulder, his beast lying nearby with thick bandages of essence wrapping its flank. Ivy sat cross-legged, her beast already half-asleep, sigils gently replenished by alchemical vapors curling around them.

Even Gray, prickly as ever, endured the healer's inspection with only a few swipes of his tail, while Mirage allowed its wings to be treated with a rare frost balm that polished their crystalline sheen.

It was not rest so much as reset—the academy ensuring every survivor stood at their peak for what came next.

When the work was done, the attendants withdrew, leaving the chamber in silence. Moments later, a voice resounded in the chamber that came from the announcer: "Semifinalists for the Singles Arena, please proceed to the arena for your bracket determination.".

One by one, Aston's teammates stood.

"We'll be ready. Good luck, Aston," Marcellus said simply, his tone like iron.

Ivy smiled faintly. "See you at the gate tomorrow. We'll rest and prepare for tomorrow."

Brennar gave a low whistle. "Don't get soft without us, eh?"

Selene inclined her head, dove cooing softly. "Until tomorrow."

Then, in flashes of light, they departed—returning to their own dormitories for the night.

Aston lingered a moment, brushing Gray's fur as Mirage circled once overhead. The announcement repeated, pulling his attention. With a quiet breath, he turned and retraced his steps toward the arena gates.

The noise struck him before he even entered. Cheers thundered through the stands as the surviving singles semifinalists—four of them—were called back into the spotlight. Aston stepped into the light with Gray at his shoulder, Mirage trailing silently above.

The crowd's roar struck him immediately. Only four remained—Aston Rhyner, Tristan Graves, Genevieve Ortega, and Vincent Fairbanks—and the weight of the moment pressed on the air like a storm about to break.

The Vice Principal stood at the center, his beast looming silently at his side. Four glowing orbs spun into being above his hand. His voice rang out, sharp and steady:

"Semifinalists. Step forward and draw your lots. One shall face two, three shall face four. These are your final brackets."

Tristan strode forward first, arrogance radiating from every step. He seized an orb, flames dancing briefly across its surface. The number burned bright. Two.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Whoever drew one would face him in the semifinals.

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Vincent Fairbanks followed, the Trade Division representative calm but calculating. His orb pulsed, then shone. Three.

That left Aston and Genevieve. They exchanged a brief glance—acknowledgment, nothing more—before stepping forward together. Aston reached out, Gray flicking his tail against his neck, Mirage gliding lower as if to steady him. His orb spun, flared, and locked. Four.

Genevieve's sphere lit almost at the same instant. One.

The brackets were sealed.

Semifinal One: Genevieve Ortega versus Tristan Graves. Semifinal Two: Vincent Fairbanks versus Aston Rhyner

The crowd erupted, cheers and gasps blending into thunder. Bets were shouted, predictions hurled like sparks, but all Aston heard was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Tristan's smirk cut across the arena as their eyes locked. His voice carried even without shouting, a venomous promise shaped by his lips alone: You won't leave standing.

Aston's jaw set, his hand brushing Gray's fur, Mirage's wings brushing his shoulder. He didn't look away.

The Vice Principal raised his hand, quieting the arena.

"Return to your quarters. Tomorrow, the semifinals begin."

—

When he exited the arena, Aston was brought back to familiar voices.

Rowan was leaning against the wall, Verdy curled like moss around his shoulders. "Finally! Thought they'd never let you out."

Kai was nearby, pale but smiling, Shelldon parked loyally at his feet.

Seria stood a little apart, her Prismatic Butterfly perched in her hair, wings faintly glowing. Lyra sat on the step beside her, Chill sprawled protectively at her feet, its frosted breath curling into the air.

Aston stopped, taking them all in. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed—just five friends meeting after class.

But then Seria sighed softly. "Our teams didn't make it through."

Lyra's fingers brushed over Chill's fur, her face drawn but calm. "One mistake was all it took. When one of us fell… the rest were gone. Early for me. Last bout for her."

Rowan gave a low whistle, scratching the back of his neck. "Guess that's how brutal it is—no room for second chances." He forced a grin, though his eyes softened when he looked at Lyra. "Still, you lasted longer than most."

Kai adjusted his glasses, speaking in his quiet, measured way. "The format was designed to cut out anyone who falters, no matter how briefly. Don't take it as weakness. Take it as proof that the rules are merciless."

Seria's gaze shifted back to Aston, her expression firm but tinged with worry. "Which is why you need to keep your focus. Tomorrow's battles won't be easier just because you survived the rumble."

"Yeah," Rowan added with a smirk, trying to lift the mood.

For a moment, silence settled over them—not heavy, but warm. The kind that comes when words weren't needed to say what was understood.

Then Lyra pushed herself up, brushing dust from her skirt. "Enough talking. You boys need to rest." Her lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. "Tomorrow, all eyes are on you."

Seria nodded in agreement, her butterfly's wings pulsing faintly. "She's right. Get some sleep. No sense burning yourself out before you've even begun."

Rowan raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, we'll behave. Can't argue with the ladies."

Kai inclined his head. "They're right. Preparation includes rest."

Aston looked at them all once more before turning toward his dormitory. The night stretched ahead, and with it, the weight of tomorrow.

But for now, their words lingered—a quiet reminder that he wasn't alone, even if he was the one who had to keep moving forward.

—

But Aston did not return directly to his room. Instead, once the dormitories had quieted and curfew shadows blanketed the academy, he slipped away through a hidden path—past the whispering wards, down the concealed stair, into the cold stone beneath Dawn Crest.

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