The capital, Sorriso, shone as if it were still daytime. The streets were alive with banners and colorful lanterns, pulsing to the rhythm of drums, laughter, and songs. The festival never stopped—each corner smelled of melted sugar, roasted meat dripping fat onto the embers, and fresh bread coming out of improvised ovens.

  On one side of the square, the Palmares School formed an open circle. The chants of capoeiristas echoed with the beat of atabaques, bare feet striking the sand. Warriors spun, laughed, clapped—their movements were fluid, fierce, and joyful. In the center, Besouro moved like a shadow and lightning at once, each kick and spin more dazzling than the last.

  On the other side, in total contrast, the Sol Negro School displayed its cold precision. Akemi, calm as ice, threw down opponent after opponent with surgical grace. Her blows were clean; the falls hurt just to watch. No songs. No smiles. Only the sound of bodies hitting the ground—final and absolute.

  Sarya walked beside Lukas, eyes scanning the chaos.

  > “It’s… intense,” she muttered, her tone dry, as they passed between the two circles.

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  Lukas nodded.

  > “In my past life… it wasn’t like this. The festival felt smaller. Dimmer. Now it feels cruel—like all this joy is just waiting for blood to spill.”

  They moved on. Ahead, the betting tables were boiling with noise. Merchants and nobles shouted odds, colorful stones representing each competitor.

  > “Ten to one the skinny one falls before the first Valkyrie!”

  “The Huntress of Autumn takes it all!”

  “The Rowan heir will crush them!”

  Sarya glanced sideways.

  > “You don’t care about that?”

  > “Their gold doesn’t change the fight,” Lukas murmured. “But it’s funny how much my fall is worth to them.”

  That’s when Luiz appeared, grin wide, invisible hammer slung over his shoulder.

  > “Don’t make me laugh, skinny! You won’t even last past the first Valkyrie!”

  Lukas didn’t slow down.

  > “Shut up, you damn Copas clown.”

  Arlec, Luiz’s Lumpa, spun in the air laughing like a maniac.

  > “HAHAHAHA! I LOVE THIS! THE BOY IS PURE ENTERTAINMENT!”

  Luiz almost doubled over laughing.

  > “Try not to die too fast, bro, or I won’t even have time to make fun of you later!”

  Amid the chaos, a drunk lifted his wine mug and screamed:

  > “GO FOR IT, TAFAREL!”

  The entire street burst into laughter, clapping as if the joke were part of the festival itself.

  Lukas only sighed, adjusting the twin gladii on his back. The small leather keychain swayed quietly at his waist, unnoticed.

  Then, the deep bell of the arena echoed through the night. The laughter stopped.

  > “It’s time,” Sarya murmured, her amber eyes fixed ahead.

  The Seventh Trial of the Trêvos was about to begin.

  End of the Interlude