I’ve been watching the two of them try to kill each other for almost twenty minutes.

  At first, it was impressive. Light. Fire. Explosions. Impossible movements. Bodies that shouldn’t still be standing, yet they are. Something almost… beautiful, in a twisted way.

  Then it stopped being that.

  Now I just see them crashing into each other. Hitting. Falling. Getting back up again.

  Now they’re only using me as an excuse.

  It doesn’t matter who lands the next blow.

  It doesn’t matter who’s left standing.

  This isn’t about me anymore.

  It’s pride. It’s not knowing when to stop.

  And I’m tired.

  I step forward before I think about whether I should. My brother’s sword was lying on the ground. I pick it up with both hands, and it almost slips from my grip. It’s heavier than I expected. Not just because of the metal.

  When my fingers close around the hilt, the sword begins to glow.

  It startles me. It startles both of them too. I don’t say anything. It doesn’t matter right now.

  I look at them. Both of them. Advancing slowly.

  They’re breathing hard. Broken. Bloodied. And still tense. Ready. As if their bodies haven’t gotten the message yet.

  “Enough,” I say.

  My voice comes out lower than I expected. Tired.

  Lucian frowns.

  “Elena,” he says, in that tone I know far too well. “Put that down.”

  I answer by lifting the sword with one hand and pointing it at his neck.

  He clenches his jaw. Steps back half a step. Lorcan, startled, does the same.

  The sword trembles in my hands. I don’t know where I’m getting the strength to hold it like this.

  “I don’t understand what you think you’re still fighting for.”

  Lorcan is the first to answer.

  “Elena, I already told you, it’s—”

  “Yes. For me,” I interrupt. “Always for me.”

  I swallow. Now I point the blade at Lorcan.

  “If you win, Lucian won’t disappear from my life. And if Lucian wins”—I turn the sword back toward Lucian—“I promise you I’m not joining any monastery, and I’m not letting anyone experiment on me.”

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  The sword vibrates. My arm does too. My grip is weakening.

  “So go ahead,” I continue. “Keep fighting if you want. But understand that this doesn’t decide anything anymore.”

  I let go of the sword.

  It falls between the three of us.

  Lucian steps closer. He’s furious.

  “You’re confused,” he says. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  Tears fall without permission. I don’t wipe them away.

  “My decision was already made. And you’re still fighting like it isn’t. What did you think would happen at the end? That I’d clap for the winner?”

  I grit my teeth.

  “I’m tired of watching you tear each other apart over something that’s already over.”

  Lorcan tries to step closer now.

  “Elena, please—”

  “Don’t ask me to look away,” I interrupt. “Not now.”

  He stops.

  I take a deep breath. My chest hurts.

  “If this continues, nobody wins. Because I won’t be able to live with the outcome.”

  The silence falls like a blow. Lucian hesitates.

  “You’re wrong,” he says. “I can—”

  “No. You can’t,” I cut him off.

  I look at him with something that isn’t hatred. And isn’t affection either. It’s absence.

  “And even if you could… I don’t want that.”

  His lips tighten. His eyes shine. But he doesn’t move.

  Lorcan lowers his head. He’s given up too.

  The silence of the night wraps around us for a few seconds.

  Then, behind me, I hear someone clapping. Slow. Satisfied.

  One.

  Two.

  Three claps.

  “There it is,” a voice says.

  Lucian seems to recognize it. Instinctively, he steps between the voice and me.

  “Pure, delicious exhaustion.”

  Another clap. The figure finally reveals himself. A tall man with pale skin. He wears a tabard similar to my brother’s, but black with gold details. A scythe rests against his shoulder.

  “That,” he says, amused, “is what stops wars.”

  Lucian tenses.

  “Yoma…” he says.

  “It was a beautiful show,” says the figure—Yoma—“but the elders reached an agreement.”

  Another voice can be heard, from the opposite direction. It sounds like thunder.

  “Stand down immediately,” it roars.

  I turn to look. Before I even register it, Lorcan is already standing in front of me.

  It’s an older man, around sixty. Long coat. Beard. Hat. Golden eyes.

  “Grandfather…” Lorcan says.

  “This spectacle is over,” the old man says.

  That old man is Lorcan’s grandfather?

  Lorcan straightens despite himself. I see Elisabeth appear beside him. And then a younger woman, slightly older than me, dressed elegantly, silver hair, glasses. She steps closer to Lorcan and hands him a vial of electrolytes. He drinks it.

  “Thank you, Celeste. It’s been a while.”

  “This isn’t the best moment,” she replies.

  The old man and Yoma move forward, finally facing each other a few meters away.

  “Relax, old man,” Yoma says. “We’re just here to collect our paladin.”

  “‘We’?” Lucian says.

  “Lucian…” a female voice calls.

  From the same direction Yoma came from, a woman appears. She wears a simple fitted robe, bandages wrapped around her hands—stained with blood. She walks slowly toward my brother. No weapons. No hurry.

  “Mara…” Lucian says, stepping toward her.

  His posture shifts. Just slightly—but enough for me to notice.

  My brother freezes when another figure appears on the horizon. He advances with the same rigid discipline. Ceremonial armor. A golden spear resting on his right shoulder.

  “Peacefully,” Yoma says, gesturing toward Mara, “or not so.”

  Lorcan’s grandfather doesn’t flinch.

  “Take your paladin and leave,” he says. “That was the agreement. You have ten minutes.”

  Yoma studies him in silence. He doesn’t smile right away. Measures him. Counts on his fingers, slowly.

  “So you threaten us with…” he says at last, “…two weapons?”

  He tilts his head theatrically.

  “One of them broken?”

  The old man doesn’t answer immediately.

  He pulls a cigar from his coat. Holds it between his fingers without looking at it. A spark jumps from his middle finger—an obscene gesture. Fire appears effortlessly.

  He inhales. Exhales the smoke directly into Yoma’s face.

  “Three,” he corrects. “Weapon Faust is parking my truck.”

  The air changes.

  I see my brother tense. This can’t be good news.

  Yoma blinks. He’s still smiling—but it’s no longer amused. With a motion, his scythe dissolves.

  “Fine,” Yoma says. “Ten minutes.”

  Then I notice Yoma exchanging a glance with Elisabeth. He tips an imaginary hat.

  Elisabeth looks away.

  Too late.

  I’ve never seen her like that.