Pain was the first order of business. A deep, singing ache in my ribs where Cassius's spear had glanced off something that shouldn't have existed, and a sharp, fiery protest from the gash in my side with every breath I took. My draconic blood was already knitting the flesh back together with its usual quiet miracle, but it couldn't erase the memory of the impact. I was learning that victory had a price, and it was paid in exhaustion and blood.
"If you would just hold still, my lord," Seraphina murmured, her touch surprisingly firm as she applied a fresh, cool poultice to the wound on my side. The infirmary of the Ashworth estate was a quiet, sterile place, smelling of sharp, clean Kingsfoil and antiseptic. It felt a world away from the roaring chaos of the colosseum.
"If I hold still, I might fall asleep," I grunted, wincing as the salve stung. "And I have a feeling the world isn't going to stop just because I'm tired."
"Perhaps it should," she countered, her brow furrowed in a way that was more motherly than servile. "You are not made of stone."
A deep, resonant voice cut through the quiet. "No. But he is forged from something just as stubborn."
Cassius Ardane stood in the doorway, looking no worse for wear, his own injuries already tended to. He walked in, not with the swagger of a rival, but with the quiet, deliberate tread of a fellow soldier who understood the cost of a real fight. He dismissed my guards with a nod, and the atmosphere grew serious.
"The news from the court is not good," he began, his voice a low, direct rumble. "Viscount Vane may be disgraced, but his house is old and their roots are deep in the capital's soil. They have formally declared House Ashworth a political enemy."
'So, the vipers have finally bared their fangs,' I thought, my expression remaining neutral. A political war was a messy, unpleasant thing. Far less clean than a duel.
"What does that mean, exactly?" I asked.
"It means our families' business interests in the capital will be choked," Cassius explained, his gaze hard. "Trade contracts will be contested, alliances will be strained. They will use their political leverage to isolate and punish us for the dishonor. My father is already feeling the pressure." He paused, the weight of his words heavy in the sterile room. "Our victory yesterday was a matter of honor in the ring. Out here, it has started a different kind of war."
"A war I am prepared to fight," I said, and I meant it. My old life had been a series of small, polite corporate battles fought with spreadsheets and passive-aggressive emails. This was just a different kind of meeting.
A look of respect crossed Cassius's face. "I know. House Ardane stands with House Ashworth in this. The North has a long memory for both slights and honorable deeds. You fought with honor. You exposed a coward. Our houses are now bound by more than just a match." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, a gesture of solid, unshakable alliance that meant more than any treaty.
His visit left me with a heavy mind. I had come to the capital to hunt a secret cult, and in doing so, I had kicked a very public, very angry hornet's nest. The game was getting more complicated.
Later that afternoon, seeking a quiet place to think, I found myself in one of the guest manors' private training yards. The pain in my side had subsided to a dull ache, and the need to move, to feel the familiar flow of the cadence, was a persistent itch.
Aria was there. She was standing before a single, undamaged training dummy, a small, flickering flame held in her palm. She wasn't attacking. She was just… watching it, her expression a mixture of intense concentration and profound frustration. She was trying to hold it steady, to feel its rhythm, but it sputtered and flared like a nervous candle flame.
With a frustrated cry, she let the flame explode in a harmless puff of smoke.
"It's not about forcing it," I said from the entrance to the yard.
She spun around, startled. The fiery anger that had once defined her was gone, replaced by a raw, naked frustration that was almost painful to see. "Then what is it about?" she demanded, gesturing wildly at the scorch-marked dummy. "I'm trying to do what you said, to find a rhythm, but it's just… noise! It's a storm, and I'm in the middle of it, and I can't hear a damn thing!"
"Then stop trying to shout over it," I said, walking closer but keeping a respectful distance. "You're a force of nature, Aria. You command the fire and the lightning. You don't have a quiet, steady rhythm like I do. You are the storm. You just need to learn to listen to its heartbeat."
She stared at me, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The arrogance was gone. In its place was a desperate vulnerability that she clearly hated. "I have to win," she whispered, the words a raw, broken confession. "It's not just about the glory. My family… House Thorne is on the verge of collapse. The prize money, the patronage that comes with being a champion… it's the only thing that can save us. I don't have the luxury of learning to listen. It has to be now."
The cracks in her facade finally showed, and I saw the terrified girl behind the prodigy. I thought of my own family, of the pressure of the Ashworth name, of my father's cold, pragmatic expectations. We were worlds apart, and yet, we were walking the same damn path.
"Pressure can forge a diamond," I said softly, my voice filled with a genuine empathy that seemed to surprise her. "Or it can shatter it into dust. The difference is finding your center, the one calm point in the heart of your storm."
We stood in a comfortable silence for a long time, no longer rivals, but two young warriors buckling under the weight of their own worlds. I hadn't given her an answer, but I had given her something more valuable: understanding. She wouldn't meet my eyes, but the furious tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction.
"Tomorrow," she said, her voice a low, determined murmur. "I won't hold back."
"I would be disappointed if you did," I replied with a grin.
That night, alone in my chambers, the weight of the coming day finally settled on me. The finals. The Zenith. The Void Cult, who were 'watching'. And the memory of the scales. That horrifying, instinctual, life-saving eruption of power.
I sat in the center of my room and sank into a deep meditation, the Two-Heart Cadence a slow, powerful drumbeat in the silence. I journeyed inward, back to the moment of the duel with Cassius. I relived the searing pain, the desperation, the absolute certainty of my own demise. And then, the eruption.
I remembered the feeling. It wasn't like channeling mana, which felt like guiding a river. This had been different. A deeper, more primal command, a calling forth of the very concept of the dragon. A power that came not from the heart, but from the blood, from the very blueprint of my new existence.
I tried to replicate it. I focused my will, not on my mana, but on my own skin, on the spot over my heart where the scales had appeared. I called to the dragon within, commanding it to manifest, to give me its armor.
The response was a surge of raw, chaotic energy that made my vision flash with red-and-black light. A sharp, searing pain, like being pricked by a thousand hot needles, erupted on my chest. I gasped, my concentration shattering, the Two-Heart Cadence stumbling into a discordant, panicked rhythm. I clutched my chest, a strangled grunt of pain escaping my lips. There were no scales. Only the ghost of an agony my body was not yet strong enough to bear.
'So that's the limit,' I thought, my breathing slowly returning to normal as the pain subsided. 'A desperate, life-or-death reflex. Not a weapon in my arsenal. Not yet.'
The conclusion was immediate and humbling. My Path had a clear, logical progression. Adept was the mastery of Rhythmic Circulation. Artisan was the mastery of Rhythmic Infusion. The next step, the one I had planned in the Voidstone Chamber, was the Expert-level mastery of Rhythmic Manifestation. The scales were the ultimate form of Internal Manifestation. I had tried to skip a step.
I could not consciously control it. Not yet. To try and force it would be suicide.
A strange sense of calm settled over me. I couldn't rely on a miracle. I couldn't count on a hidden trump card. The final battle tomorrow would not be won by some new, spectacular power. It would be won with what I had already mastered. My rhythm. My infusions. My sense.
It would be enough. It had to be.
I opened my eyes, my mind clear and resolved. I knew my path forward, both in the fight tomorrow and in my training for the years to come. The dragon's armor was a promise for the future.
Tomorrow, I would face the fire in my own skin.