Two days later, the Coliseum roared with life. The marble seats were packed with Wardens, disciples, servants, and nobles from every corner of Christendom. The Vatican and Order had spared no effort in turning this trial into spectacle: banners of every branch fluttered in the wind, the great stone arena gleamed in the midday sun.
All eyes were on one team—the masked disciple of Aurelius, Lucien, and his companions.
At the high table, Aurelius leaned forward, arms folded, while the Warden of Constantinople and Warden of Paris exchanged curious murmurs. "Let us see," someone whispered, "if the boy truly carries his master's blood."
A gong thundered.
The battle began.
Before Isabella could even take a step, four smoke bombs exploded across the field, filling the Coliseum floor with thick, curling clouds. Gasps rose from the audience—most could see nothing but white haze swallowing the combatants.
Inside, the world turned grey.
Basil used his powers, black color absorbed his pupils. He focused his vision on the smoke.
"Oh," Isabella's voice cut through the smoke, light and amused. "Clever little boys."
Her form blurred, her powers surging. Muscles tightened, reflexes sharpened—her Mirage Veil shivered into being, though the smoke bent the light unevenly, breaking her illusions. She laughed softly, genuinely impressed.
"But tell me," her voice echoed from somewhere in the fog, "what will you do next?"
Then she felt it—footsteps, heartbeats. One to the left, another to the right. A third behind. A fourth ahead.
A trap.
She lunged, her rapier flashing as she dashed toward the heartbeat nearest her—only to slash through empty smoke. For a fraction of a heartbeat, confusion slowed her.
And then they struck.
Lucien from the front, dagger flashing toward her chest.
Ino from the right, blade angled toward her throat.
Juan from behind, sabre lunging for her heart.
And above—an arrow from Matteo, whistling down through the haze toward her leg.
For the first time, Isabella's eyes widened.
She spun, her rapier cutting in a sweeping circle. Juan's sabre was flung aside with a ringing clang. Lucien's dagger sparked away, nearly wrenched from his hand. She bent low, hair slicing in front of Ino's blade as it clipped a lock of brown strands. The arrow sank into her thigh with a wet thunk.
But Isabella did not cry out.
"Very well."
Juan came at her again, sabre descending. She parried in a single, fluid motion, and when Ino's sword came from the other side, she caught the steel between two fingers, pinching it like a chopstick.
Her knee shot up—slamming into Lucien's ribs.
He staggered back, coughing blood, fire lancing through his chest. A rib had broken, maybe two. The strength of an initiated hunter was terrifying.
Outside the smoke, the crowd grew restless. They could see nothing of the fight. Jeers and complaints rose—"Show us the battle!" "Clear the field!"
And as though answering them, the wind shifted. The smoke peeled away in curling veils, revealing the fighters.
There she stood, Isabella of Barcelona, untouched save for the blood trickling down her thigh. Her rapier still sheathed. Four opponents circled her, breathing hard.
She snapped the arrow in half, leaving the shaft buried in her leg. Her smile remained calm, but her eyes blazed.
A murmur swept the stands.
Lucien wiped blood from his mouth, steadying himself despite the pain. His amber eyes locked on hers, burning.
"Not bad," Isabella said, her voice carrying across the arena. "But playtime is over."
Her form shimmered.
One Isabella became two. Then three. Then four.
Matteo loosed an arrow. It sliced through one figure—and vanished into mist. Another shot, another illusion. Again and again, his shafts tore through nothing.
"Mirages…" Lucien hissed, scanning the battlefield. His grip tightened on his daggers.
But the question loomed—where is the real Isabella?