Chapter 135| The Last Preliminary

Silverwake Company trained on ice.

Allen learned that much simply from the arena’s transformed terrain the following morning, the preliminary stage’s usual stone and modular terrain features replaced overnight by a considerable, frost-glazed battlefield, the tournament’s organizers apparently granting each remaining party some measure of home-field advantage during this final preliminary stretch. Frost clung to every surface, breath visible in air considerably colder than the stadium’s usual controlled climate, and Allen watched Myria study the transformed terrain with focused, professional interest rather than the wariness he might have expected.

"This favors them," Vivian observed.

"It does," Myria agreed. "Which is precisely why I don’t intend to fight around it. I intend to fight through it."

Silverwake Company’s own party emerged from the opposite tunnel moments later, five Hunters in pale, frost-touched armor, their captain a composed young woman whose silver hair and considerable bearing immediately marked her as the specialist Myria had spoken of the previous evening.

"Corin Ashby," Myria said quietly, recognition and genuine anticipation both evident in her tone.

Corin’s own gaze found Myria across the frosted field, and something like mutual, professional recognition passed between them — two Hunters who had each built considerable reputations around mastery rather than raw power, meeting now with the particular respect that only genuine peers extended one another.

"I’ve studied your ice work," Corin called across the field. "I’ll admit, I’m curious whether reputation matches reality."

"I’ve wondered the same about yours," Myria said. "Let’s find out together."

The countdown began, and Allen felt his own preparation settle into place alongside the rest of his party, though his attention remained fixed primarily on Myria, understanding without needing explanation that this particular match carried weight beyond simple tournament advancement.

The horn sounded, and the engagement’s shape emerged immediately as something considerably different from their previous preliminary matches — not a chaotic, multi-front battle, but something closer to a series of parallel duels, each pairing settling into its own considerable rhythm across the frosted field, Corin’s own teammates matching themselves against Irene, Vivian, and Everlyn respectively while Corin herself moved directly, deliberately toward Myria.

"Interesting," Corin said, ice already gathering along her outstretched fingers. "You’re not retreating to more favorable terrain."

"Why would I?" Myria said. "You’ve built your entire strategy around this ice. Denying you the chance to actually use it would be considerably less satisfying for both of us."

Corin’s answering smile carried genuine, delighted respect, and the exchange began in earnest — ice meeting ice in patterns considerably more intricate than anything Allen had previously watched Myria employ, her own crystalline formations meeting Corin’s frost-laced attacks with precise, controlled counters that spoke to exactly how seriously she’d studied her opponent’s recorded matches.

Allen found himself, watching the duel unfold, struck by something he hadn’t quite anticipated — not simple combat, but something closer to genuine conversation, each exchange building on the last, Corin testing a technique and Myria answering with a counter that revealed, in turn, some new wrinkle of her own considerable mastery, both women pushing each other toward increasingly refined, elegant expressions of an ability they’d each spent years perfecting.

"She’s enjoying this," Everlyn observed quietly, having already dispatched her own considerably less skilled opponent and drifted back to watch alongside Allen.

"She is," Allen agreed, something warm settling in his chest at the observation. Myria rarely allowed herself simple enjoyment during combat, her considerable discipline usually channeling every engagement toward efficient, purposeful conclusion. This felt different — felt like watching someone finally granted the chance to fully express a skill she’d spent years quietly, patiently refining without ever finding an opponent worthy of its full range.

The duel stretched on longer than any single exchange during their previous two preliminary matches, ice sculptures rising and shattering across the frosted field in increasingly elaborate patterns, and the stadium’s considerable crowd noise built steadily as the audience recognized, even without Myria’s own technical expertise, that they were witnessing something genuinely exceptional.

"I didn’t expect this level of refinement," Corin admitted eventually, breathing harder now, her own considerable reserves visibly taxed by an engagement that had long since exceeded her expectations. "You’ve clearly trained specifically for opponents like me."

"I trained for excellence," Myria said. "You happen to embody it particularly well."

The compliment, genuine and unadorned, seemed to settle something in Corin’s expression, and when the engagement’s final exchange finally arrived — Myria’s own considerable technique proving, ultimately, the more refined of the two — Corin accepted the defeat with none of the bitter frustration Allen had half-expected from someone who clearly took her craft as seriously as Myria did.

"Considerably well-earned," Corin said, extending a hand once the ice around them had settled. "I don’t say that lightly."

"Neither do I," Myria said, accepting the handshake with genuine, warm respect. "Your technique is exceptional. I hope we cross paths again, under circumstances that don’t require one of us to lose."

"I’d like that," Corin said, and meant it.

The stadium’s display screens confirmed Fallen Crown’s victory moments later, the tournament’s preliminary stage concluding with their own considerable record intact — three wins, no losses, no engagement that had genuinely tested their combined limits — and Allen found Myria afterward in the shaded tunnel, still faintly breathless, an unfamiliar lightness in her usually composed expression.

"That looked like fun," he said, genuine warmth in the observation.

"It was," Myria admitted, something almost shy threading through her usual confidence. "I don’t often get the chance to simply enjoy a fight for its own sake. Most engagements demand pure efficiency. This one allowed something closer to genuine expression."

"You should get to enjoy that more often," Allen said, drawing her close. "You’ve earned it."

Myria let herself lean into the embrace, some rare, unguarded softness settling over her features. "Final sixteen," she said quietly. "We’re through the preliminaries."

"We’re through the preliminaries," Allen agreed, and felt the considerable weight of the tournament’s next stage settling ahead of them — team battles, coordinated combat against opponents who would no longer face them in simple individual duels, and somewhere in that approaching gauntlet, the Descenders’ quiet, lethal efficiency and Fluxen Shore’s polished discipline both waiting their turn.

But that concern belonged to tomorrow. Tonight, walking back through the tunnel with Myria’s hand in his and the rest of his family gathered close around them, Allen allowed himself simply to be proud — of Irene’s fierce, decisive victories, of Vivian’s patient mastery, of Everlyn’s quiet, essential contributions that so often went unnoticed by anyone not paying proper attention, and of Myria, finally granted the chance to simply, genuinely enjoy the full expression of everything she’d spent years becoming.

"Three for three," Irene said, falling into step beside them with her usual restless energy. "Not bad for our first real tournament."

"Not bad at all," Allen agreed, and let the evening’s earned satisfaction carry them the rest of the way home.