The arena floor was cold stone beneath Vencian's boots. He flexed his fingers around the practice staff, testing its weight. Lighter than he expected. The wood was smooth, polished by countless previous matches.

Around him, his teammates moved through their own preparations. Rapheldor stood at the center, spine straight, already wearing the mantle of command like a second skin. Tor and Varon clustered near the eastern marker, voices low as they discussed angles of approach. Hamlen and Detar checked their Gage-rings, the ceremonial bronze bands gleaming on their upper arms.

Vencian touched his own rings. Two on each arm. Four points of failure. The metal was cool, thin enough to shatter under a proper strike but sturdy enough to withstand incidental contact. He'd seen matches before. Breaking them required precision, force, and the split-second vulnerability that came with close combat.

"Positions." Rapheldor's voice cut through the murmur. He gestured toward the maze that would soon erupt from the arena floor. "We hold three markers. If they occupy all three simultaneously, we lose. If the timer runs out while we still hold at least one, we win. If we break all their rings before that, we win."

Vencian already knew the rules. Everyone did. But Rapheldor was establishing rhythm, building confidence. Good leadership required repetition.

"Seven against ten." Rapheldor continued. "Numbers aren't in our favor, which means we can't afford mistakes. Tor, Varon—you're anchors on markers one and three. Hold those positions, force them to commit. Hamlen, Detar—you're interrupters. Patrol the corridors, break up their formations before they can mass. Harrick, you're the chokemaster. Find the narrowest passages and make them bleed time getting through."

Harrick nodded. He was broad-shouldered, built for blocking.

"And me?" Vencian kept his tone neutral.

"Reserve anchor." Rapheldor met his eyes. "Stay mobile, reinforce wherever the pressure hits hardest. Your job is to read the flow and plug gaps."

It was a sensible role. Orthodox, textbook defense. Vencian had no complaint about Rapheldor taking command—the man was General Herrera's son, trained from childhood in tactical thinking. Besides, Vencian preferred operating without the weight of explicit authority.

But orthodox tactics assumed orthodox opponents.

"One thing." Vencian raised his hand, not quite interrupting, just signaling. "May I?"

Rapheldor glanced at him. "Something to add, Vicorra?"

"Not a complaint," Vencian said carefully. He kept his tone neutral, conversational. "Just a thought."

The room stilled. Tor and Varon exchanged looks. Hamlen tilted his head, curious.

Rapheldor's expression didn't shift. "Go on."

"They'll know the roles," Vencian said. "Anchors, chokemasters, interrupters, reserve. Amron's no fool. His team will expect us to play it straight. Hold positions, defend corridors, wait for them to overextend."

"And?"

"And maybe we shouldn't."

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

Rapheldor studied him. No hostility, but no immediate agreement either. "You want to throw out the traditional setup."

"I want to make them second-guess themselves," Vencian replied. "Give them something they're not prepared for."

"Like what?"

Vencian met his gaze. "I've got an idea. But it only works if we commit to it completely. Half-measures will get us crushed."

Tor leaned forward. "What kind of idea?"

"The kind that makes them think they're winning," Vencian said, "right up until they're not."

Rapheldor considered that. His jaw worked slightly, thinking it through. After a moment, he exhaled and gestured for Vencian to continue.

"Let's hear it."

– – –

The attackers' preparation area buzzed with controlled energy. Ten fighters, all moving with the confidence of superior numbers. Amron Montaro stood near the edge, watching the arena floor where the maze would soon rise. His pulse was steady. His grip on the practice blade firm but relaxed.

This was meant to be routine. A historical reenactment, the Siege of Rydor Gate. Attackers always won that scenario. The defenders had been assigned the doomed side deliberately, a lesson in humility for weaker teams.

Then Pereneth appeared at his shoulder.

"Vicorra's in." Pereneth's voice was quiet but carried an edge. "Just got added to the roster. He's playing defense."

Amron's jaw tightened. He didn't turn, kept his gaze on the empty arena. "When?"

"Minutes ago. Rowen got injured during warm-ups. Vicorra volunteered."

Of course he did. Amron's fingers flexed around the blade hilt. The Montaros and Vicorras had been circling each other for generations, the animosity baked into bloodlines and land disputes and a dozen petty cruelties that accumulated into something larger. His father had orchestrated the conspiracy that nearly destroyed House Vicorra.

And now they were on opposite sides of a game.

"Changes things," Pereneth said. He sounded pleased. "This isn't just a game anymore."

Amron finally looked at him. Pereneth's expression was sharp, eager. The Chancellor's son always did love a spectacle.

"I'll take Rapheldor," Pereneth continued. "We have unfinished business. You handle Vicorra. That's ideal for you, right?"

Amron said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded once. "Yes."

Pereneth clapped his shoulder and moved off to brief the others. Amron returned his attention to the arena. High above, in the royal box, he could see his father. Duke Ignacio Montaro sat with perfect posture, face impassive as always. Next to him, Amron's older siblings watched the proceedings with varying degrees of interest.

His father's gaze was impossible to read from this distance. But Amron knew what was expected. Victory. Dominance. Proof that the Montaro name still commanded respect.

He would not disappoint.

A ripple of motion swept through the crowd. The Crown Prince was rising from his seat. Valanand Zarionel moved to the edge of the royal platform, shoulders squaring as he entered the shelf-mode. The change was subtle but unmistakable—a stillness that went deeper than mere composure, the physical threshold required before an Arkspren could channel their power.

The prince raised both hands. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the arena floor erupted.

Stone walls burst upward with grinding force, slabs rising in geometric patterns that interlocked and branched. The maze assembled itself in seconds—corridors, dead ends, narrow passages, elevated platforms. The sound was deafening, echoes crashing against the amphitheater walls as thousands of spectators leaned forward in their seats.

When the dust settled, a labyrinth filled the arena floor. Three markers stood at different points within, each one a raised platform with a colored banner. The paths between them twisted, branched, doubled back. The maze was unfamiliar to everyone—attackers and defenders alike. That was the point. Adaptability over preparation.

Amron studied the layout. Already his mind was mapping probable routes, chokepoints, vulnerable angles. Around him, his teammates did the same. Ten sharp minds working in parallel.

At the center of the arena, the moderator stepped forward. He carried a massive sand timer, the glass bulb as tall as a child. He placed it carefully on a stone pedestal, then checked both teams' positions with a critical eye.

The defenders had vanished into the maze. Amron couldn't see them anymore. Good. Let them hide. It would make the hunt more satisfying.

The moderator raised his hand. The crowd fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.

"Defenders positioned!" The moderator's voice boomed across the arena, amplified by the stone walls. "Attackers ready!"

Amron rolled his shoulders. Around him, his team settled into formation. Pereneth at the front, blade ready. Others fanning out to cover multiple approach vectors.

The moderator's hand dropped.

"Begin!"

The maze swallowed sound. Amron's boots struck stone, but the echoes came back wrong, fractured by intersecting corridors. He raised his fist. The team halted.

Ten attackers. Three markers to claim simultaneously. The math was simple.

"Standard formation," Amron said. His voice carried just far enough. "Pereneth, take four and sweep left. Find the first marker, assess the defense. I'll take five right. We converge on marker two once we map their positions."

They couldn't afford to move as one mass through a maze built to delay. Splitting doubled their mapping speed and kept the defenders guessing which side would strike first.

Pereneth nodded. "They'll run orthodox. Anchors on markers, chokemasters in the passages, interrupters trying to harry us before we mass."

"Probably." Amron studied the nearest intersection. Three paths branched away, each identical. "The reserve will be mobile. Rapheldor, most likely. He'll try to plug gaps."

It was exactly how every defensive team was trained to act. Predictable—but predictability was strength when you were outnumbered. Amron agreed. It gave him a clear blueprint for dismantling them.

"And Vicorra?"

Amron's jaw tightened. "Depends on his role. If he's an anchor, he'll hold a marker. If he's the reserve, he'll be hunting opportunities."

"Either way," Pereneth said, "we overwhelm the chokemasters first. Break through fast, don't let them set the tempo. Once we're past the chokes, the anchors can't hold alone."

It was sound logic. Orthodox defense relied on controlling space and forcing attackers into prolonged engagements. But ten attackers could afford to trade blows. Seven defenders could not.

Amron gestured forward. "Move. Call out when you find a marker."

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