CHAPTER 43: FINAL ROUND

The dawning realization bloomed behind her eyes like a slow, dreadful sunrise.

Below, the medics had surrounded the Stranger, begging him to go with them to the Flame Menders. He must have taken a good amount of damage at least, that’s what they thought.

But he stood like a statue carved from shadow, their pleas bouncing off him uselessly. One even reached for his arm; he turned, just slightly, and the man froze, the words dying on his tongue.

He didn’t say no. He just... walked away.

And oh, how the nobles went mad for him.

They clawed at their attendants, sent servants racing through the halls and corridors, shouting for names, for records, for rumors. Coins changed hands faster than breath, bribes thrown like confetti. Everyone wanted a piece of the mystery, that unclaimed ghost in black armor.

But he was like smoke.

He moved through the chaos like it had been built for him, slipping between people before they realized he was even there, vanishing into pockets of shadow and torchlight. The servants came back breathless and empty-handed, clutching only the ghost of where he’d been.

And then... like lightning tearing through calm... news came back the royal box.

The Ice Emperor was no where to be found.

The words cut through Eris like a whisper carried by the wind. Her head turned sharply, eyes finding the arena below,

Where the Stranger had been standing moments before.

Gone.

Her pulse drummed beneath her skin. She said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But there, in the gleam of her gaze, something clicked.

Not realization, not yet... but the terrible outline of it.

A connection she wasn’t ready to name.

PART II — The Anticipation

By the time the third round began, Solmire had turned wild again.

They were known across all realm for their spirit of festivities after all.

Every tavern, balcony, and tower was alive with noise; the people of the Eternal Flame knew history was about to be written again.

When Jorel of House Aetherion stepped into the arena, the ground itself seemed to quake in approval.

Gone was the quiet, cautious grappler of the earlier rounds, he was reborn with flame once again, blood mended, spirit burning bright as molten steel. His armor gleamed like sunrise, and his name rose from the crowd in waves:

"JOREL! JOREL! JOREL!"

He threw his arms wide, soaking in their worship, every chant like the hero they’d been waiting for.

The Herald, almost breathless from the noise, raised his trumpet high and shouted, "THE FINAL ROUND! THE CHAMPION OF AETHERION—JOREL, SON OF THE FLAME—VERSUS—"

A pause.

The crowd hushed, expectant.

"—THE KNIGHTLY GHOST!"

The words hung there.

No movement from the hero’s gate.

No footsteps. No glint of black steel.

Just the sound of wind slithering through the braziers.

A ripple of confusion spread through the crowd. At first, it was a murmur, then a low growl.

"Where is he?"

"Did he flee?"

"Coward!"

The noise curdled into outrage. The nobles shouted over one another, their wagers flashing in trembling hands. Commoners spat in the sand.

The chant of "JOREL! JOREL!" turned into jeering at the phantom who had dared to vanish before the grand finale.

In the Royal Pavilion, Eris leaned forward, her expression unreadable. Caelen had joined her now, his eyes darting between the empty gate and her motionless profile.

And Jorel... poor, proud Jorel... stood in the center of the arena, chest heaving. He had looked forward to this moment, of facing the mysterious black knight before all of Solmire.

And now there was no one to fight.

He sank to one knee, disbelief carving through his face.

The Herald started to speak again, voice shaky. "It would seem the ghost has—"

A voice cut through the noise, low and steady.

"I’m here."

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

It rolled through the arena like thunder, soft but undeniable.

Heads snapped around.

And there he was.

Not from the gates, not from the shadows of the stands, but behind the Herald himself.

Standing calm as ever, his black armor gleaming faintly red from the reflection of the braziers.

The Herald yelped and stumbled away; the crowd detonated.

Cheers, screams, laughter, disbelief, an explosion of noise that shook the banners hanging from the towers.

Eris’s lips parted in a small, involuntary breath.

Caelen went still. Just like Eris, his suspicion rose.

Could it really be?

But if true indeed, then what was the reason.

Given the history they had together as friends. Soren as Caelen knew, could be as calm as ice and yet still wild and unpredictable when he wanted to be.

The thought gnawed at him like a hungry beast.

His eyes shifted towards Eris who’s burning gaze remained locked on the ghost.

And likewise, the Stranger tilted his head toward the Queen’s box, just barely, as if acknowledging something only the two of them understood.

The fire roared higher.

The people howled.

And the final round of the Eternal Flame began.

God, you could feel it before it even began. The hush before the storm, the tension coiled so tight the air itself might’ve snapped if someone so much as breathed too loud. The sun painted everything in shades of gold and blood, and there they stood, fifteen paces apart, two silhouettes carved out of myth.

Jorel looked like a painting come to life.

Twin swords gleaming in the glow, shoulders squared, his stance perfect, the left blade extended, steady as a promise, the right drawn back, coiled and hungry. His chest rose and fell, not from fear, but from control, the kind of rhythm that belongs to warriors who know they’ve trained their entire lives for one single moment.

Across from him stood the Stranger.

Still. Effortless.

One sword, tip down, the picture of arrogance and precision all at once. He didn’t posture, didn’t flex, didn’t blink. His weight was balanced like the world itself had bent around him. You could sense it—if he moved, it’d be faster than thought.

Three seconds. Five. Ten.

Nothing.

The crowd’s silence was louder than any roar, thousands holding their breath, a kingdom perched on the edge of a blade. And then, Jorel’s back foot shifted. Just an inch.

It began.