Chapter 179 Heat

The arena sand shimmered under the noon sun, an oval ringed by thirty thousand spectators and a wall of banners. Riven walked to the center ring with Overdue on his shoulder, bowing to the boos as if they were applause.

Veska stepped up to the referee’s stand, "Does custom permit a lady to stand watch over her suitor’s bout?"

"Courtship custom, article nine, permits it," the referee read, "as long as she stays behind the rope."

"I will stay exactly behind the rope while I count every single flare for the official record."

Veska planted herself at the rope line with her spear grounded, scanning the crowd as if daring any cheer closer. The arena sighed with delight, thirty thousand people deciding at once that this was the best part of the day.

"Veska asked first," Mara muttered, "I will remember this on my own bout day."

Nix and Cael ran a betting booth beneath the stands, quietly taking bets on the length of each match. Nobody dared bet against Riven so they sold small paper tickets on the exact second Varo finally stopped smiling.

"Ten silver says he stops smiling at the third sweep," he called across the sand.

Varo Sunscale strolled into the ring, heat rippling off his scales until the sand around his feet turned glass. He drew a short sword that glowed cherry red, grinning like a cat beside a freshly opened dairy door.

"I heard you break things for a living," Varo said, rolling his neck.

"I collect them... breaking is strictly optional."

Their blades touched once and Overdue’s edge sagged like warm wax, the red-gold crack in its spine spitting angry sparks. Riven pulled back at once, understanding that steel could not stay in contact with a body running quite this hot.

"Don’t touch his steel, he’ll melt it again," Mara shouted from the rope.

’My sword is wax. That’s a problem. Good thing I trained my feet before I ever trained my arms.’

Riven sheathed Overdue across his back and let his feet do the arguing, sliding through the gaps of Varo’s swings. Offbeat Step carried him inside each swing and outside each flare, leaving every ember to land harmlessly on empty sand.

"Fight me, don’t dance around like a nervous goat," Varo growled.

"Dancing is how I fight, goats are how I relax."

Veska stood behind her rope throughout, spear grounded, flinching at no flare, nodding at each good step like a judge. Whenever an ember skipped across the rope line she flicked it away with the haft, never once leaving her post.

"Flare count is eleven," she announced, "and the post still holds."

Isolde watched from the stands with her needle case on her knee, counting Riven’s steps quietly under her breath. Every time a flare grazed his sleeve she flinched, then pretended to adjust her braid with enormous dignity instead.

"Still untouched, still untouched," she whispered, "please keep it that way, Riven."

Varo chased him in widening circles, each swing hotter than the last, pouring his Reserve into every single wasted strike. His scales dulled from bright orange to ember brown while sweat steamed off his bare shoulders in thick white clouds.

’Dragon fire burns fierce but quits early. Make him run until the fire is all he has left.’

Varo lunged one last time, sword blazing, but his foot slipped on a thin sheet of glass he melted himself. Riven stepped inside the stumble, tapped the sword hand aside with two fingers, and swept Varo’s legs into the sand.

"Match to Class Zero, with a perfect score for footwork," the referee called, raising a flag.

Lucas stood at the rope line with his token raised, whispering the result for the record ahead of the referee. The Record agreed with him a half second early, which made the referee visibly blush and call the match twice.

"I witness: Class Zero wins, I said it first," he whispered proudly, clutching his token.

Varo lay laughing in the glass-flecked sand, then accepted Riven’s hand and let himself be pulled upright with a wheeze. His grin faded as he leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper beneath the roar of thirty thousand voices.

"The empire has started asking questions about you... my father reads their letters," Varo said.

"What kind of questions, and who is asking them?"

"The kind that come before invitations... the empire is—"

A horn blasted from the royal box, swallowing the rest of his warning in brass and cheering.

Selh, revived by lemonade, climbed his barrel again to announce the result in a voice like a rusty hinge. He got as far as Recently Upgraded before the cough returned, earning scattered cheers for his sheer stubborn persistence.

"Recently Upgraded... also very thirsty," he wheezed.

The next bout drew an even louder crowd as Garth stomped in, shield on his arm, murder on his face. Across the sand Ysabel strolled out carrying a parasol, humming softly to herself, her Council cord swinging against her hip.

"Ironhold does not fight girls with parasols," Garth growled.

"Then Ironhold can kneel, it is wonderful for the posture, I recommend it warmly."

She lowered the parasol one gentle inch and the whole arena felt the sand sink beneath Garth’s feet. He dropped to both knees in one second flat, shield clanging beside him, mouth open in pure astonishment.

"Now, Captain, repeat what you said about my Collector," Ysabel said sweetly, tilting her parasol.

Garth ground out the words between his teeth, "He is... a fine fighter."

"Louder, dear, the cheap seats paid extra to hear you."

"He is a fine fighter, I take back every—" Garth shouted.

"That will do nicely, thank you, Captain... you may go and sulk now."

Thirty thousand voices roared at once, Class Zero’s bench erupting while Ironhold’s cadets stared at their kneeling captain in horror. Ysabel twirled her parasol, released the weight with a flick, and strolled off the sand like a guest leaving early.

"That was for the spit," she told Riven, "next time I use the parasol."

"I’m starting to like your methods, they’re very efficient."

Ironhold’s cadets hauled their captain off the sand, his shield forgotten behind him like a dropped coin. He kept looking back at Ysabel’s parasol with the wounded dignity of a man robbed in daylight.

"Two bouts down and one princess still to go this afternoon," Nix said, stuffing a fistful of tickets into her coat.

Far above the arena a single white cloud drifted across the sun, throwing a brief shadow over the sand.

---

The morning brackets paired Yukine with Ser Joren, the Crown’s personal champion, a veteran of three border wars. Caius called the pairing a rather happy accident, smiling a little too widely as he said it aloud.

’The Crown’s champion and my brother smiling. That is not coincidence, that is a move.’

Behind the pavilion she drew her rapier to check the edge before her bout, as she did before every duel. A bitter smell rose from the sheath, a thin green film shining faintly along its inner lining like drying oil.

"Someone is very sure I will draw without checking," Yukine murmured, "and they used my own seal on the lock."