The smoke was still clearing.
The crowd had gone quiet—not out of respect, but confusion. People leaned forward in their seats, squinting, asking each other what just happened.
And then they saw it.
Lucian Thorne was standing at the center of the battlefield.
Chest rising and falling. Blood trailing down his face, slicing across one eye. A thin stream ran from his nose. He looked tired… but not broken. Not even close.
At his feet—Astrid Vale.
Unconscious. Motionless. Sword still gripped in her hand, but her fingers were slipping.
The announcer's voice cracked through the silence.
"...And that's it! LUCIAN THORNE ADVANCES TO THE SEMIFINALS!"
The crowd snapped back to life with a delayed roar—some cheering, others still stunned.
"What was that?"
"Where'd that smoke come from?"
"Did he knock her out in the mist?"
"She was winning—what the hell happened?"
Back in the arena, Lucian wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked down at Astrid.
