Vencian heard the fight before he saw it. The clang of blade on blade, grunts of effort, the scrape of boots on stone.

He rounded the final corner and saw the platform. Rapheldor fought two attackers at once, staff weaving between them with unpractised precision.

Amron Montaro. Vencian recognized him from the sharp features, the Montaro bearing. But Vencian's target was not him but the support with him.

The attacker hadn't seen Vencian yet. His attention was fixed on Rapheldor, waiting for an opening to exploit.

Vencian came in from his blind side, silent through the stone haze, and drove the end of his staff into the fighter's ribs. The strike folded him, sent him sprawling across the platform before he understood he'd been hit. His last gage-ring cracked against the floor.

Rapheldor blinked once, startled at how fast it happened.

"Vencian? When did you—"

But Vencian was already moving again, not sparing the fallen man a glance as he closed on Amron.

Vencian's staff swept low, hooking behind Amron's ankle. Amron stumbled, caught off guard. He spun, blade coming up, but Vencian was already inside his guard. The staff's other end jabbed toward Amron's gage-ring.

Amron twisted, taking the blow on his bracer instead of the ring. The impact jarred both of them. Amron backpedaled, eyes narrowing.

"Vicorra."

"Montaro."

Amron's turned toward Vencian's approach, blade low, confidence worn like armour. Rapheldor shifted beside Vencian, breath rough from the earlier scramble.

Montaro's eyes flicked between them. "Two against one?"

Rapheldor steadied his grip. "You started the math."

Montaro stepped in first. His swings came sharp through the air, wide arcs meant to drive them apart. Rapheldor caught the first cut on his staff. Vencian slid in under the second, striking for Montaro's knee. Montaro twisted away, boots scraping across stone.

He answered with a feint toward Vencian and a real attack at Rapheldor. Rapheldor read the angle too late. Vencian knocked the blade aside with a clipped motion, staff jolting in Rapheldor's hands as their timing crossed clean for once.

Rapheldor pushed forward. Vencian mirrored the advance. Montaro gave ground, irritation rising through the slow tightening of his jaw.

Another exchange snapped across the platform. Rapheldor's staff skimmed Montaro's wrist. Vencian's follow-up hit caught Montaro's stance off-balance. The defender shifted back, footing strained.

For a moment, Rapheldor felt the rhythm tilt their way, the pressure tangible.

Vencian's staff had reach, but Amron's blade was faster in close quarters. They tested each other, searching for weaknesses. Amron aimed for the rings. Vencian aimed for control, trying to force Amron off balance.

For a brief moment his eyes looked toward Quenya and caught her signal. "New attacker group forming near marker three. Five moving together."

Five attackers. The remaining force, now regrouping. If they hit marker three as a unified mass, it would fall quickly.

Looks like Perenth has reached his panic mode.

Though it wasn't panic alone; it was doctrine. When half your force fell, you stopped scattering and struck hard where resistance seemed thinnest. From Pereneth's angle, the third marker—still unmanned—was the only rational objective.

"Sixth elimination, defender! Harrick of defense!"

Vencian couldn't be in two places at once. He had to choose: finish this fight or respond to the new threat.

Amron saw the flicker of distraction and attacked. His blade came in fast, aiming for Vencian's staff arm. Vencian shifted, redirecting the strike, but Amron pressed harder.

Vencian gave ground deliberately, leading them away from the platform stairs. Rapheldor and Varon were holding their position. If Vencian could keep these two occupied, the marker remained secure.

But marker three was about to fall.

Vencian tapped his staff once during a spin, a brief contact with stone that sent a signal: All units, marker three priority.

The problem was simple. Five attackers hitting one marker simultaneously meant they'd claim it. With three markers on the field, if attackers held all three at once, the match ended.

The defenders couldn't let that happen.

"Tor and Detar moving toward marker three," Quenya reported. "Attackers arriving in twenty seconds."

Twenty seconds. Not enough time for Tor and Detar to set a proper defense.

Unless Vencian could buy them more.

He angled his staff toward Amron, then glanced at Rapheldor. "Can I leave him to you?"

Rapheldor swallowed once, pulse loud in his ears. "Go. I'll hold him."

Vencian gave a short nod and stepped back from the clash, already turning toward the next corridor as Montaro shifted to follow.

Rapheldor cut Montaro off, staff braced. "Eyes on me."

Montaro's grip tightened. Rapheldor felt the weight of it, the quiet thrill of standing his ground as Vencian vanished into the maze.

Amron shouted something behind him, but Vencian was already gone, sprinting through the corridor toward marker three.

He ran faster than prudent, trusting his footing, gambling that the path he'd chosen was clear. The maze twisted, corridors branching and rejoining. He followed the mental map he'd built through sound and Quenya's guidance.

The third marker appeared ahead. Blue banner, raised platform, currently undefended. The five attackers hadn't arrived yet.

Vencian climbed the platform and planted his staff. He took position at the center, staff held ready.

Seconds passed. Then the attackers appeared.

Five of them, led by Pereneth Varethion. They saw Vencian standing alone and smiled.

"Just you?" Pereneth called. "They sent one defender to hold against five?"

Vencian said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the staff, watching their positions.

They spread out, preparing to rush the platform from multiple angles. Smart. No single defender could block every approach simultaneously.

But Vencian didn't need to block them all. He just needed to delay them until Tor and Detar arrived.

Vencian planted his staff at the center of the platform. Dust drifted in the faint light filtering from the ceiling vents. The five attackers spread in a fan before him, their boots crunching against stone. Pereneth stood at their center, blade drawn, calm and precise. His confidence didn't need shouting.

Vencian kept his stance compact, shoulders slightly angled, staff low. He let the quiet stretch, forcing the attackers to fill it with thought.

"Fan formation," Pereneth said. His voice carried the weight of command. "Standard encirclement. Break his guard, then converge."

Two broke left, two right, one down the middle. The orthodox pattern. Simultaneous pressure, draw the defender's guard, overwhelm.

Vencian didn't move until the first swing came. He pivoted, deflected, turned the leading attacker's blade aside and stepped through the angle. His staff hooked behind the man's wrist, and a short twist shattered a gage-ring. The attacker stumbled back, startled more by the efficiency than the pain.

The others closed in immediately. The staff became a wall of sound. Wood on bronze, a rhythm of short deflections and angled retreats. Vencian yielded ground only to reclaim it an instant later. He wasn't winning. He was controlling time.

The attackers regrouped. Vencian shifted his weight, letting the staff's end drag briefly across stone.

"Five of you," he said. "And you still need a plan?"

One of the flankers bristled. "You won't hold for long."

"I don't need long." Vencian's expression remained flat. "Just longer than you think."

Pereneth studied him, eyes narrowing. His next order came sharp. "Together. Now."

This time they rushed as one mass.

Vencian shifted higher on the platform, forcing them to fight uphill. The slope became his ally. Every step they took shortened their reach, threw off balance. But it cost him too. The staff's full swing clipped against the low ceiling. He fought with half-motion, jabs instead of sweeps.

One attacker feinted low, another drove from the side. Vencian turned, parried, but the third slipped in under his guard. The impact jarred his arm. One gage-ring cracked. He stumbled, barely regained footing. A chorus of shouts followed as they sensed blood.

Then a burst of motion from the maze's corridor. Two defenders crashed into the fray. Tor and Detar. Their sudden arrival broke the encirclement. One attacker was taken off guard, gage-ring shattered before he could react. Another traded strikes, managed to down Detar with a retaliatory blow.

Four attackers remained.

Vencian steadied his breath as Tor fought several paces away, their lines divided by the push of the melee. The platform had become chaos. Shifting bodies and ringing bronze. Tor was holding his own against one attacker, but he was pinned low, trading strength for space. Vencian's side fared worse. Two pressing him at once, driving him back toward the marker's edge.

He caught one blade on the shaft, twisted, and snapped a counterstrike into the second attacker's ribs. The blow landed, but the other's follow-up cut across his guard, nearly taking his grip. His footing skidded. The slope of the platform betrayed him, every backward step stealing reach from his staff.

And then Pereneth moved.

The rhythm of the fight changed instantly. He cut through his own men's line and closed the distance between them. His sword work was crisp, deliberate. Each strike an assertion. Vencian met him, but the weight of the blows drove cracks through his stance. His staff caught one edge, then another. The third strike hit with force that splintered the wood halfway down the shaft. The sound rang sharp through the chamber.

Vencian reeled back, left with half a weapon, momentum slipping away.

Across the slope, Tor saw it happen. His own opponent pressed hard, but the angle gave him a single window. He slammed his shoulder into the attacker's guard, throwing him aside. Without hesitation, Tor hurled his staff across the distance.

The weapon arced through the dust-choked air. Vencian caught it in motion, pivoting with the throw as Pereneth drove forward for the finishing strike. The new staff met the descending blade in a clean, echoing clash. The impact halted the swing, forcing Pereneth back a step.

Tor's opponent recovered and landed a decisive hit. His gage-ring shattered, and Tor dropped to one knee, breath ragged, before he was eliminated.

Vencian straightened, the weight of Tor's weapon in his hands, the line reformed by will alone.

Three attackers remained.

Vencian shifted stance. He used the long weapon differently now. For control rather than reach. Every thrust was a barrier. Every retreat a lure. He kept them circling, letting the higher ground and narrow approach turn their advantage against them. They couldn't surround him. They could only feed in one at a time.

The third attacker lunged. Vencian parried, stepped aside, used the shaft's length to drive him off the platform's edge. The fall wasn't fatal, but the man's gage-ring clipped stone and cracked.

Two against one now.

Pereneth breathed hard, sweat streaking down his jaw, but his eyes were still sharp. His partner flanked. Vencian adjusted, aware the next mistake would end it. Their weapons clashed again and again, sparks of bronze under torchlight. Pereneth feinted. Vencian read it late. The tip of the blade cut past his guard, slicing fabric, nearly touching the last ring.

The next exchange froze for an instant. Both drawing breath for the decisive move.

Then the moderator's voice boomed across the maze, echoing through every corridor.

"Thirteenth elimination! Attacker Amron Montaro!"

The clang of weapons faltered. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Silence pressed between them. Pereneth's blade hovered inches from Vencian's guard. Both realized what that meant. Eight of Amron's group had fallen, leaving only two attackers on the field. They couldn't possibly occupy all three markers now. The match, by the rules, was decided.

Vencian lowered his staff slowly, expression unreadable. Pereneth's eyes darted toward the empty corridors. Realization dawning that victory slipped away through rhythm rather than strength.

The moderator's voice boomed again, final and clear.

"Defense team—victory."

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