With both semifinal matches now over, I thought there would be a break.

  But instead, a senior officiator stepped forward—scroll in hand, ceremonial box under his arm—and the crowd fell into silence.

  “In light of the Advanced Division’s early conclusion,” the man announced, “and in accordance with the High Council's interest in adaptive combat and team coordination—this year’s final round will proceed as a team battle.”

  A murmur swept through the stands.

  Team battle.

  “The final six will be paired into three teams. Pairings will be drawn by lot.”

  A hush fell.

  Trevon blinked. “They’re kidding.”

  I didn’t expect the twist—not like this.

  The announcer had briefly mentioned a team battle at the start of the tournament, but I had assumed it would involve the lower brackets or a side event. Not the Advanced Division finalists. That part had been conveniently left vague.

  “Participants, step forward and draw from this box.”

  The st six competitors approached the center of the ring. Among them were Theoden and Constantine.

  Theoden walked like he always did—measured, focused, already prepared for whatever was coming.Constantine, naturally, bounced in with a grin, like he’d just been invited to a party rather than a high-stakes final.

  Their contrast was impossible to ignore.

  One by one, each participant reached into the ceremonial box and pulled out a folded slip of paper.

  “Do not open them yet,” the officiator instructed. “Once all papers are drawn, you will raise your hand and reveal the color inside.”

  The air grew still. Even the spectators quieted.

  The st name was called. The final slip drawn.

  “Reveal.”

  Six slips of paper unfolded in near-perfect unison. Six hands rose.

  The response was instant.

  A wave of murmurs. Audible gasps. Even the participants blinked at their papers as realization sank in.

  Across the ring, Theoden and Constantine looked at each other. No words exchanged. Just one long, loaded stare.

  Both holding red.

  Theoden exhaled through his nose—controlled, but unmistakably displeased.

  Constantine burst into ughter.

  “Of course,” Constantine called out, loud enough for the entire ring to hear. “By luck or by curse, I guess we’re stuck with each other.”

  From beside me, Trevon muttered under his breath.

  “They’re going to hate that.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  To the casual observer, Theoden and Constantine might seem like an ideal pair—heir to a Marchisate, heir to a Duchy, famously close since childhood. On paper, it made sense.

  But on the battlefield?

  They were night and day.

  Constantine fought with chaos. Fire, instinct, and pressure.Theoden was structure. Precision. Control.

  They weren’t opponents.

  But they weren’t allies either.

  “They’ll manage,” I said quietly. But even as I said it, I wasn’t convinced.

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