The corridor back to the holds was narrower than Caelith remembered.
Not physically. Just... quieter.
The same flickering mana-lamps lit the stone halls. The same etched runes hummed beneath the floor, dull and steady. But the energy was different now — not tense, not anticipatory.
Avoidant.
As he passed the threshold into the southern hold, the silence didn't follow him — it preceded him.
A boy who had been pacing earlier suddenly sat down. Another, seated against the wall, shifted his legs aside without being asked. No one made eye contact. Not directly.
The same group who had glanced his way before Round One — subtly sizing him up, maybe even pitying him — now refused to look at him at all.
Like he was something dangerous. Something unclean.
The air around him was different, or atleast it seemed different to the onlookers who had watched his match.
Those who hadn't watched it themselves were even worse off due to the exaggerated rumors going around.
"A noble was thrown around like a rag doll."
"You would have thought he was one of the heirs."
Caelith moved without a word, walking to the same bench he'd used before. He sat, slow and deliberate, keeping his hood drawn low. The token from his second match still hung from his belt, untouched.
He listened.
Footsteps. Nervous breathing. Cloth shifting. A distant scream from another ring was quickly silenced.
'So much for being unnoticed.'
If his family found out about his survival, he would be doomed.
However, Caelith hadn't acted completely on impulse during the match.
He was different now.
He had been a young, brutish, common-looking boy when he lived in the manor.
Now he was considerably taller, worlds stronger, his skin had completely changed, and even his features were more refined now.
Anybody could tell he did not have an ordinary background.
Which meant drawing the connection between him, Orien Blackhall, and Caelith Stormont would be almost impossible.
A boy in the far corner whispered something to his neighbor. The second one glanced in Caelith's direction. Then away.
He recognized that look.
Fear wrapped in curiosity.
He didn't feel pride. Not even satisfaction.
Only... friction.
This wasn't the outcome he'd wanted. Power was useful, but only when applied carefully. His win in Round Two — decisive, brutal — had snapped a thread he meant to keep taut. The plan had been to remain forgettable. Unremarkable.
Instead, his name had echoed off the walls.
Orien Blackhall.
No crest. No lineage. And yet, the noble heir he'd faced had bled on the sand, not in duel but in disgrace.
Because he mentioned her.
His fingers curled slightly on his knee.
The crowd might've roared, but there were already consequences.
The eyes of this place didn't admire brutality. They studied it. Catalogued it. Weighed whether it could be turned into something useful — or whether it should be contained.
He had stepped too far into the light. And worse, not because it had served his strategy, but because it had served something personal.
A name. A memory. A vow.
He exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the cold of the bench beneath him.
No more slips.
Let the nobles believe he was a brute. Let the instructors think him undisciplined. That was fine. As long as they didn't see the layers beneath, the pieces that moved far beyond this tournament.
But still...
He glanced around the hold again. Candidates pressed themselves further into their corners.
Even the air had changed. Like the room didn't want to breathe near him.
So be it.
He adjusted his cloak. Let them stare without looking. Let them whisper. For now, fear was a kind of silence. And silence meant time.
Time to plan.
Time to strike again — when it counted.
"Brutal work out there, friend. Efficient. Messy. Little terrifying. I loved it."
The voice slid into Caelith's thoughts like oil through a crack — smooth, far too cheerful, and entirely unwelcome.
He didn't look up. Not right away.
The speaker didn't wait for acknowledgment.
A wiry young man sidled into view, settling beside him on the bench like he belonged there. Robes, a shade too clean. Boots, barely worn. No visible wounds. But the candidate token he wore? Bronze-edged, warm with faint mana — authentic. Somehow.
He had a lean face, all angles and intention, with a mouth that didn't quite stop smiling. One corner always curled higher than the other, like it knew something the rest of him hadn't caught up to yet.
"I was watching your match," the stranger said. "Ring Eleven, right? The second you pulled that blade, the whole row behind me stood up. One of them dropped his drink. Another tore up his betting slip."
Still no response from Caelith.
"Yarik Senraith had odds of twenty-to-one. House-backed, moderately trained, well-postured prick. You flipped that investment into ashes. Gorgeous work."
The boy leaned back, crossed his arms, and adjusted his voice — softer now. Subtle shift. Like a salesman moving from pleasantries to pitch.
"Name's Farren. I trade in insight. Odds, signs, whispers, patterns, and anything you want if you have coin. I know which instructors run favoritism. Which candidates are being protected — and which are being prepped for slaughter. That includes you, by the way."
Caelith's eyes flicked toward him, just briefly.
Farren didn't miss it. "Yeah, I know. You've got the silver stag's backing. No crest. No whispers before your name. That's dangerous. You're on their board now, and the board doesn't like unexpected pieces."
He tapped his own token. "I've made it this far by knowing how not to be noticed. You, my friend, no longer have that luxury. You pulled too much weight in front of too many eyes."
Caelith didn't answer. But his silence wasn't rejection. Farren pressed on.
"I'm not here for charity. I'm here to offer a deal. You keep me from getting turned into ash by the third round, and I make sure you don't walk blind through this game. Because make no mistake — it is a game. Rigged. Scripted. Designed to cull the unworthy. Or, more accurately, the unsponsored."
He leaned in, voice low now, serious. "Round Three? Mana comes into play. Controlled environments. Precision tests. You'll need finesse — not just force, and it's not one-on-one. But it's Round Four that's the real trap."
Caelith's eyes narrowed.
Farren grinned. "Battle royale. All surviving candidates thrown into a broken field, limited resources, and shifting objectives. Not just duels — chaos. And guess who'll be the first targets?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"People like us. No banners. No name, no weight. They want us gone before the final phase. Before the Ember Path."
Farren straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "I don't plan to be cannon fodder. And judging by what you did to that noble, neither do you."
He extended a hand. Not for a shake — just a gesture.
"You don't have to like me. Hell, you probably won't. But I'll keep your blade sharp in ways others can't."
A beat passed.
Then Caelith finally spoke, voice low.
"And why shouldn't I just walk away with the knowledge you just gave me?"
Farren's grin widened. "Good, you're not a sap. Then let me prove I'm more than talk."
He began to turn away, but left one last breadcrumb for Caelith.
"The second test, I know about it."
He stood, slipping away into the corridor's murk with a half-wave.
"I'll be nearby. And when the brackets drop for Round Three, you're going to want to find me. After all…" He winked.
Caelith leaned back, arms loose.
But he'd survived this long. And that meant something.
Whether it meant enough, time would tell.