Chapter 95: A wager

The healing bay was quiet.

Emeric lay on a cot. His tunic was off. His ribs were wrapped. His nose had been reset. His arms were covered in salves and bandages.

The healer—an old woman with steady hands and a no-nonsense expression—worked in silence. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t offer sympathy. She just did her job.

Emeric stared at the ceiling.

The pain was dull now. Distant. The adrenaline had faded. The exhaustion had set in. His body felt like it belonged to someone else.

He closed his eyes.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The second Semi-Final match! Aerion Vaelthorne! Prince of the Elven Court! Against—Vespera Pendragon!"

Emeric’s eyes snapped open.

He couldn’t see the arena from here. But he could hear it. The roar of the crowd. The clash of magic. The screams.

He listened.

The fight was long.

He could tell from the sounds. The explosions. The shattering of stone. The gasps of the crowd. Vespera was powerful. Precise. Terrifying. She had defeated every opponent she faced without breaking a sweat.

But Aerion was something else.

The elf was faster. Stronger. More ruthless. His magic was overwhelming—fire and ice and wind and lightning, all of it swirling together in a maelstrom of destruction.

Emeric listened.

He heard Vespera scream.

He heard the crowd gasp.

He heard the announcer’s voice, louder now, triumphant.

"The winner! Aerion Vaelthorne!"

The crowd erupted.

Emeric’s hands clenched.

The healer paused. Looked at him.

"Are you alright?"

"I’m fine."

She studied him. Said nothing. Went back to work.

Emeric stared at the ceiling.

Aerion Vaelthorne.

He would face him in the final.

And he would win.

The healer finished.

She stepped back. Examined her work.

"You’ll live. But you need rest. You’ll need all your strength."

Emeric sat up. His body screamed. He ignored it.

"Thank you."

She nodded. "Don’t thank me. Just win."

He looked at her.

"You want me to win?"

She smiled. It was a small thing. But it was real.

"I’ve seen that elf fight. He’s arrogant. Cruel. He doesn’t deserve to win." She paused. "You do."

Emeric stood. Pulled his tunic on. It hurt. He ignored it.

"I’ll do my best."

"That’s all anyone can ask."

He left the healing bay.

His hands clenched.

He would see Aerion again.

He had a few days before the final commenced according to the schedule.

He stopped.

A figure stood in his path.

Vespera Pendragon.

She was leaning against the wall. Her arms were crossed. Her expression was unreadable.

But she was hurt. He could see it. The way she held herself. The bruises on her face. The bandages on her hands.

"You lost," he said.

"I did."

She didn’t sound bitter. Just... tired.

"He’s strong," she said. "Stronger than I expected. Stronger than anyone I’ve faced."

Emeric said nothing.

"I wanted to fight you in the final. I wanted to see if you were as good as I thought." She paused. "But it seems the elf got in the way."

"I’m sorry."

She smiled. It was a small thing. Barely there.

"Don’t be. You’ll face him soon. You’ll win."

"How do you know?"

She met his gaze.

"Because you’re not fighting for glory. You’re not fighting for power. You’re fighting for something else." She paused. "Something he doesn’t have."

She pushed off the wall. Walked past him.

"Good luck, Emeric."

He watched her go.

He returned to the inn.

Fileria was behind the counter. She looked up when he entered.

"My lord. You’re back."

"I am."

She studied him. "Congratulations on making it to the final."

"Thank you."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I’ll prepare a bath for you. And food. You’ll need your strength."

He nodded. "Thank you."

He climbed the stairs.

He found his room. Sat on the bed.

His mind was numb and he didnt know when he drifted off into sleep.

The Final

---

Three days later.

The arena was beyond capacity.

Every seat was filled. Every standing space was taken. The walls were lined with spectators who had climbed up for a better view. The rich in their silk and velvet. The poor in their rags. The nobles in their finery. The commoners in their work clothes.

All of them here for one thing.

The final.

The announcer’s voice echoed across the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The final match of the Trials of Valor! The moment you have all been waiting for!"

The crowd roared.

"First to the arena—the prince of the Elven Court! The master of the arcane! The undefeated champion of this tournament! Aerion Vaelthorne!"

The crowd erupted. Louder than ever. The elves in the stands cheered. The humans cheered too—many of them. They had watched him dominate. They had watched him crush every opponent. They had bet their money on him.

Aerion walked into the arena.

He was dressed in robes of silver and white. His hair was immaculate. His expression was calm. Arrogant. He carried no weapon. He didn’t need one. His magic was his weapon. His magic was his power.

He raised his hand. Soaked in the applause.

The announcer continued.

"And his opponent! The challenger! The Unblessed one! The winner of the Hunt! Emeric Halden!"

The crowd cheered. But it was quieter now. Uncertain. Many of them had seen him fight. Many of them had watched him claw his way through the tournament. But few of them believed he could win.

Not against Aerion.

Emeric walked into the arena.

He was dressed in dark leathers. His cloak billowed behind him. His daggers hung at his hips. His sword—still wrapped in cloth—was in his hand.

He didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t soak in the applause. He just walked to the center of the arena and stopped.

He met Aerion’s gaze.

The elf smiled.

In the stands.

A small figure moved through the crowd. A bookmaker. A man with a ledger and a sharp smile.

"Place your bets! Place your bets! The elf is the favorite! Three to one! Three to one!"

People crowded around him. Coins changed hands. Gold. Silver. Copper. The crowd believed in Aerion. They believed in the elf.

The bookmaker’s smile widened.

Then a hand touched his shoulder.

He turned.

A young woman stood there. She was hooded. Her face was hidden in shadow. But her voice was clear. And her coin was gold.

"On the human," she said. "All of it."

The bookmaker stared at the coin. It was more than he had seen all day.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded.