he crowd’s laughter rolled like thunder, chants breaking into chuckles as Ludger stubbornly dragged Viola’s limp body across the sand. Her trail carved a crooked line toward the waiting room, her protests drowned beneath the arena’s amusement.

Lord Torvares shot to his feet in the noble stands, his face red with a cocktail of pride and outrage.

“Magnificent!” he bellowed, voice booming over the din. “They fight like lions, they crush their foes—and now they humiliate them with laughter! The Torvares name will never be forgotten after this day!”

He threw his arms wide, hat tumbling from his head again, his booming laughter carrying just as loud as the crowd’s. A few nobles nearby flinched at his volume; others frowned behind their fans, clearly debating whether this spectacle was strength or buffoonery.

Meanwhile, down by the rail, Arslan’s party had their own reaction. Selene actually doubled over, smacking her thigh as her usually hard-edged composure cracked. “That—ha! Gods above, that’s one way to make an exit!”

Aleia leaned against the railing, grinning ear to ear. “Look at him—doesn’t even blink. Just dragging her like a sack of boar meat. That’s Arslan’s son, no doubt.”

Harold laughed so hard his axe slipped against the rail with a metallic clang. “Hah! I’ll be telling this story in taverns for years! ‘The day Torvares siblings conquered the ring and left the arena like drunks on festival night!’”

Even Cor, normally the calmest of the group, had a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. “Practical, if not elegant.”

Arslan himself? He was roaring with laughter, clapping his hands so hard the sound carried almost as loud as his father-in-law’s shouts. “That’s my boy! That’s my girl! Hahaha! Elaine’s going to kill me when she hears about this!”

Ludger didn’t look up once, dragging Viola inch by inch while she kicked weakly at the sand and muttered curses under her breath. He kept his face flat, his voice calm, like this was the most ordinary task in the world.

The laughter only swelled louder for it.

Only once the waiting room door closed behind them, cutting off the roar of the arena, did Ludger finally let his guard drop. Viola had flopped against the wall, still grinning faintly even as her chest rose and fell in heavy pulls. His own shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat, the cut burning beneath the armguard.

A faint glow stirred under his palm. Warmth, steady and clean, spread through torn flesh and bruised muscle. The searing pain dulled, bone knitting, skin sealing until only a raw stiffness remained.

Then he turned to Viola. She didn’t protest, just leaned her head back and let him press his hand to her mangled forearm. Her breath caught when the magic took hold, the swelling melting down, bone stitching itself into place with a dull ache. After a few heartbeats, she flexed her fingers, wincing but able to move.

Two casts each. That was all it took. The exhaustion still weighed on their limbs, but its grip loosened. The haze in their heads lifted, and the stabbing pain in their bodies dulled to something they could manage.

But it wasn’t perfect. Healing magic sped the body forward, forced it past damage, but it didn’t erase what had already been endured. It wasn’t time turning backward—it was just time running faster. Their wounds might not cripple them now, but the traces remained: sore muscles, tender bones, the kind of deep ache that made even small movements twitch with pain.

Viola flexed her arm again, winced, then smirked. “Still hurts like hell.”

Ludger leaned back against the wall, pressing a hand lightly to his shoulder. “Better than letting the vultures see.”

She huffed, closing her eyes. “Yeah… you’re right.”

For a moment, silence settled between them—just the muffled roar of the next match beyond the walls.

When Ludger and Viola finally stepped out of the waiting room, the noise of the arena still chased them down the stone halls. The air smelled of dust and sweat, of oil and steel. Arslan and his party were waiting near the archway, grins still plastered on their faces from the spectacle.

Selene gave them a sharp once-over, eyes narrowing. “You’re walking straight, but not clean. Don’t think I can’t see it. Your shoulder’s stiff, Ludger. And you—” she jabbed a finger at Viola “—your forearm’s trembling every other step.”

Viola snorted, flexing her hand despite the ache. “Still better than losing.”

“Barely,” Cor said, though his tone was more clinical than scolding. “You’re both carrying traces. Healing magic or not, your bodies will remember those hits for a while. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Harold chuckled, slapping his axe against his back. “Bah, traces or not, you gave ‘em a show no one will forget! That drag act? Hah! I’ll be laughing about that till I die.”

Aleia leaned in with a smirk. “And the crowd will too. You two just went from promising heirs to folk heroes.”

Viola’s grin faltered for the first time since her victory. She looked around, frowning. “Where’s Grandfather? Shouldn’t he be waiting here to shout in our ears?”

Arslan barked a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hah! Knowing him? He’s probably off making fun of the parents of that boy you broke years ago—first the nose, now their pride. He’s got plenty of material.”

The image made Viola laugh, then wince, clutching her ribs with her good arm. Ludger only rolled his eyes.

“Great,” he muttered. “If he drinks before dinner, the whole city will hear about it.”

Selene crossed her arms. “He already made sure the city did. Now it’s just the nobles’ turn.”

Ludger’s lips pressed into a thin line. Attention. Allies or enemies—it always came in the same package.

By the time they left the arena, the sun was still high in the sky, burning through the pale haze over the capital. The noise of the tournament followed them only partway down the streets—chants of Torvares still echoing faintly in alleys and marketplaces—but the deeper they went toward the family estate, the quieter it became.

Servants opened the gates wide at their arrival, bowing quickly before hurrying to take cloaks and weapons. The old stone manor smelled of polished wood and simmering stew, a welcome shift from dust, sweat, and blood.

Lord Torvares was nowhere in sight—likely still terrorizing the noble families of their defeated opponents with his booming laughter—but the rest of them were content with silence. Even Arslan, usually the loudest, only stretched his arms overhead and muttered, “Beds first, food second. Or maybe both at once.”

They were led straight to their quarters to wash and change, and then gathered again in the long dining hall. The table groaned under roasted meat, bread, and steaming bowls of vegetables. Viola sat slumped in her chair, wolfing down mouthfuls like she hadn’t eaten in days, while Ludger took his time, careful with his right shoulder.

Aleia raised her cup, smirking. “Drink while you can. Tomorrow will squeeze you dry.”

Selene’s eyes flicked toward the siblings, her tone clipped but not unkind. “If all goes well, you’ll have three matches back to back. Rest isn’t just suggested—it’s mandatory. Push yourselves past the limit, and you won’t crawl out of bed, let alone into the ring.”

Cor nodded in agreement. “Your bodies will remember today’s wounds. Don’t count on healing to erase the strain completely. Consider it a memory of the body.”

Viola wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking despite her half-lidded eyes. “Three matches tomorrow just means three victories.”

Ludger didn’t bother to look up from his plate. “And three chances to collapse if you don’t shut up and rest.”

Harold roared with laughter, nearly spilling his drink. “Hah! That’s the Torvares spirit! Pride and sarcasm on the same plate.”

Dinner carried on with bursts of laughter and the occasional sharp reminder from Selene or Cor to eat more, drink water, and keep quiet. By the time the plates were cleared, exhaustion had settled like a heavy blanket across the group.

It was still early afternoon, with hours of daylight left—but every one of them knew the truth: tomorrow would demand everything they had.

After the servants cleared away the dishes and the room began to thin with yawns and excuses for rest, Arslan leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his drink. His eyes flicked toward Ludger, who was methodically pulling a piece of bread apart instead of eating it.

“So,” Arslan said, voice low enough not to disturb Viola, who was already half-asleep with her cheek pressed to the table, “any bright strategies for tomorrow? Three matches is a lot of ground to cover.”

Ludger didn’t look up. He pinched off another piece of bread and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly before answering.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I could plan for pace, for conserving strength, maybe even for baiting opponents into overextending… but there might not be a point.”

Arslan raised a brow. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” Ludger said, glancing at his sister’s sleeping form, “Viola’s probably going to ignore any plan I make. Again.”

That earned a laugh from Aleia down the table, sharp and amused. “He’s not wrong.”

Selene snorted, arms crossed. “If you can’t rein her in now, tomorrow will be worse. Nobles will be watching, and she’s going to want to crush anyone who dares to stand out.”

Cor adjusted his glasses, eyeing Ludger with interest. “Still, even if she ignores the plan, having one matters. A backup. A counterweight.”

Ludger shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s better to just be ready to clean up the mess after she charges in. That’s been working so far.”

Arslan chuckled, resting his chin in his hand. “Hah. Spoken like a true Torvares. Always prepared for chaos, never trusting the reins to hold.”

Across the table, Harold slapped his mug down and bellowed, “And yet somehow, it works!”

Viola stirred faintly, muttered something about “fair and square” in her sleep, and flopped her head to the other side of the table.

Ludger stared at her for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. “Exactly my point.”

Arslan chuckled at Ludger’s sarcasm, but this time the laughter faded faster than usual. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice dropping low enough that only Ludger could hear over the chatter of the others.

“You know,” Arslan said, a rare weight in his tone, “the fights only get harder tomorrow. Today’s opponents were good—but tomorrow you’ll face heirs with training, connections, real pressure behind them. If you keep holding back the way you’ve been, you might find yourself pinned.”

Ludger finally looked up, meeting his father’s eyes. “Holding back keeps me safe. The less they know, the better.”

Arslan’s grin didn’t quite return, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Safe for now. But you can’t hide behind subtlety forever. At some point, someone’s going to hit you hard enough that you’ll need to answer. And when you do, they’ll see more than you want them to.”

Ludger frowned, silent.

Arslan leaned back, stretching, but his voice stayed steady. “I’m not saying you should put on a grand show, Ludger. I know how you think. But fighting for real—showing teeth now and then—wouldn’t be so bad. Most of the capital already thinks you’re just some sharp kid House Torvares scooped up to train. If that’s what they believe, let them. It gives you cover.”

The words hung heavier than Ludger expected. For once, Arslan wasn’t just bragging or laughing—he was telling him to stop treating every fight like a game of shadows.

“…And if they figure out I’m not just ‘some sharp kid’?” Ludger asked.

Arslan finally smiled, though softer this time, his eyes narrowing with a hint of mischief. “Then they’ll figure it out when you’re strong enough that it doesn’t matter.”

Across the table, Viola snored faintly into her sleeve, and Harold’s booming laugh covered the silence. Ludger broke eye contact first, tearing another piece of bread between his fingers.

“Easier said than done,” he muttered.

Arslan’s grin widened, back to its usual careless charm. “That’s what makes it fun.”

Ludger didn’t answer. He just tore the bread apart, letting his father’s words sink in. Across the table, Viola muttered something incoherent in her sleep, her head rolling against her folded arms.

Arslan leaned back in his chair, stretching like a man with no worries in the world. “Anyway, tomorrow will be fun. Stronger opponents, more eyes watching, more chances to make a name. What’s the point of a tournament if you don’t shake the place up?”

Selene gave him a sidelong look sharp enough to cut steel. “You’re too calm. You do realize Elaine is going to hear about all of this, don’t you?”

Arslan blinked once, then grinned. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

Aleia laughed into her cup. “She’s your wife. She will know. And it will hurt you.”

Harold bellowed with laughter, but even Cor shook his head at the remark. Ludger only sighed, leaning back in his chair with the weariness of someone who knew exactly how bad his mother’s anger could be.

The room began to empty soon after, each of them peeling off to rest while there was still daylight left. The estate fell quiet, only the sounds of servants clearing the last of the dishes echoing through the hallways.

Morning came sharp and bright. Both of them woke to the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat, a heavy breakfast laid out to prepare them for the day ahead. Viola’s arm still ached when she flexed it, and Ludger’s shoulder twinged whenever he reached too far, but both were steady enough to fight.

The capital’s bells rang out as carriages lined up outside the estate, ready to carry nobles and heirs back toward the tournament grounds.

If everything went well, the two of them would fight three times before the sun touched the horizon.

And every eye in the arena would be waiting to see if House Torvares could keep its momentum burning.

The carriage wheels rattled over cobblestones as the city blurred past, sunlight slanting in through the curtains. Viola sat across from Ludger, arms folded, chin tipped up with the kind of pride only she could carry even while wrapped in bandages.

“I’ve decided,” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of the ride. “I’ll follow your strategy today.”

Ludger blinked, halfway through adjusting the strap of his armguard. “…Since when do you follow anyone’s strategy?”

Viola smirked, closing her eyes. “Since I don’t have anyone else worth ignoring. You’re the only one who actually gets on my nerves. Better to listen than to lose.”

Harold barked a laugh from the corner, nearly spilling the flask in his hand. “She admits it! Write this down—Viola Torvares actually admitted her little brother’s smarter than her!”

Selene rolled her eyes. “Don’t exaggerate. She’s only admitting she can’t afford to charge in blind anymore.”

Aleia leaned on the window frame, watching the streets slide by. “Either way, it’s a miracle. If she listens, you two might actually look like a coordinated team out there.”

Viola cracked one eye open, staring directly at Ludger. “So? You’re not going to complain about me listening, are you?”

Ludger didn’t answer immediately. He adjusted the strap again, staring at the red and silver gleam of the metal, the faint hum of his Spiritual Core deep in his chest. Arslan’s words from last night crawled back to him: the fights will only get harder, and holding back might not be enough.

He exhaled through his nose. “…I’ll think about it.”

Viola tilted her head. “Think about what?”

“Whether I should fight harder,” he said flatly, his eyes still on the armor. “Or keep hiding behind half-measures.”

For a moment, even Viola had no comeback. The carriage rattled on, the silence filled only by the city noise outside.

Then she grinned. “Doesn’t matter which you pick. Either way, we’re winning.”

Ludger finally looked up, dry as ever. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Always,” she shot back.

Selene muttered under her breath, “God help us all.”

The carriage rolled on toward the tournament grounds, the weight of three matches waiting for them like an unseen storm.