Mara couldn't look at him during the pre-fight briefing.

She stood with the rest of Sunshine Squad in the staging area, checking her blades for the third time, adjusting straps that didn't need adjusting. Anything to avoid meeting Bright's eyes.

What did I do?

The question had been circling her mind since she'd left his quarters last night. She'd told herself it was comfort—that he needed someone, and she'd been there. But the truth sat heavier in her gut, like spoiled meat she couldn't digest.

She hadn't wanted Bright. Not specifically. Not the way it should have been.

She'd wanted to feel alive.

Death was always one step away in this place. Every patrol, every match, every breath could be the last. The Shroud didn't discriminate. Crawlers didn't care about your rank or your dreams or the people waiting for you back home. And last night, standing outside his door, she'd felt that void yawning open—the same one that had swallowed her parents, that would eventually swallow them all.

So she'd reached for something warm. Something real. Something that proved she was still breathing, still human, still here.

And Bright had been there, grief-raw and vulnerable, his defenses stripped away by Hailen's death.

I took advantage of him.

The thought twisted like a blade between her ribs, sharp and insistent. She'd seen his face when she kissed him—the confusion, the need, the desperate hunger for anything that wasn't pain. And she'd pushed forward anyway, telling herself it was what he needed, what they both needed.

But it wasn't about need.

It was about fear.

Fear of the never-ending night closing in. Fear of becoming another name on the memorial wall. Fear of dying without ever having lived.

So she'd used him. Used his grief, his vulnerability, his inexperience. And now she couldn't even look at him without feeling sick.

Across the staging area, Adam adjusted his rifle, his movements precise and methodical. He hadn't said anything. Hadn't looked at her differently. But Mara felt it—that cold, calculating awareness in his eyes when he'd glanced at her that morning.

He knew.

Adam always knew.

His network of informants might be inferior to Vaelith's web of spies, but Adam didn't need paid agents to understand people. He read body language like other people read books. He noticed the small things—the way Mara had hesitated before entering the staging area, the way Bright's jaw was set too tight, the careful distance they were keeping from each other.

He wouldn't tell anyone. That wasn't his style. Adam hoarded information the way Duncan hoarded defensive positioning—carefully, strategically, only deploying it when it mattered most.

But the knowledge sat between them like a third presence, unspoken and heavy.

Mara forced herself to breathe. Focus. The match matters now. Nothing else.

Duncan was running through his defensive positions with Rolf, his voice steady and grounding. "Stay behind me until their formation commits. Once they split, you take the high angles. Baggen will cover your retreat if they press."

Baggen cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders. The big man looked calm, but Mara could see the tension in his stance. They all felt it—the weight of Crimson Fang's perfect record, the knowledge that they were about to step into the ring with something beyond their current capabilities.

They were oblivious to what had happened last night, caught up in tactics and adrenaline, the way soldiers always were before a fight. For them, the world was simple: prepare, execute, survive.

And Bright…

He stood apart, staring at his hands.

Mara's chest tightened. He looked hollow. Like something essential had been carved out and left to bleed. His body was there—enhanced, powerful, ready for combat—but his eyes were somewhere else. Somewhere dark.

Did I make it worse?

The question gnawed at her. She'd meant to help him, to ground him in something physical and present. But maybe all she'd done was add another stone to the weight he was carrying. Another thing to compartmentalize and bury.

"Bright," Duncan called. "You with us?"

Bright's head turned, mechanical. "Yeah. I'm here."

But he wasn't. Not really.

-----

"Sunshine Squad, you're up!"

The call echoed through the staging area, carried by a junior officer with a clipboard and an expression that said he'd seen too many squads walk through those doors and not come back the same.

Duncan straightened, clapping a hand on Baggen's shoulder. "Let's show these bastards what we're made of."

The words were meant to rally them, to inject confidence into the collective. But they fell flat, absorbed by the tension pressing down on all of them.

Bright moved first, walking toward the arena entrance without a word. His footsteps were measured, controlled. Too controlled.

The others fell in behind him—Duncan flanking left, Mara right, Adam and the others trailing in formation. They'd done this walk dozens of times before, but today it felt different. Heavier.

Mara caught Adam's eye as they walked. He gave her the smallest nod.

Not a word, he said. Not to anyone.

She nodded back, grateful and guilty all at once.

The tunnel to the arena was long, carved from reinforced stone and lit by soul-force lamps that cast everything in harsh, flickering shadows. Their footsteps echoed, a marching drumbeat that counted down to something none of them were ready for.

Bright's hand rested on his weapon, fingers drumming against the hilt in a rhythm that didn't match his breathing. Mara recognized it—a nervous tic, the kind that emerged when someone was trying too hard to stay present.

He's dissociating, she realized. He's sealing it all away.

She wanted to reach out, to say something, but what could she say? Sorry I fucked you to feel alive? Sorry I used your grief as an excuse?

The words wouldn't come. So she walked in silence, carrying her own stones.

-----

The arena roared.

Thousands of voices crashed over them like a physical wave as Sunshine Squad emerged into the open—a circular pit ringed with tiered seating, every bench packed with soldiers, merchants, and nobles eager for blood and spectacle.

The soul-force lamps overhead burned bright, pushing back the Shroud's darkness and illuminating the arena floor in stark detail. No shadows to hide in. No cover except what they made themselves.

Across the arena, Crimson Fang entered from the opposite gate.

Captain Seris Vale led them—silver hair gleaming under the lights, her chain-blade coiled at her hip like a sleeping serpent. She moved with absolute confidence, each step precise and economical. Behind her, five fighters followed in perfect formation, their weapons varied but their coordination unmistakable.

They looked less like individuals and more like extensions of a single, deadly will.

Mara had seen recordings of their previous matches. Crimson Fang didn't just win—they dissected their opponents. They identified weaknesses in seconds and exploited them ruthlessly, rotating targets and tactics with mechanical efficiency.

Eight wins. Zero losses.

And they were about to make it nine.

The announcer's voice boomed over the crowd, amplified by soul-force resonators embedded in the arena walls. "EIGHT WINS. ZERO LOSSES. CRIMSON FANG SEEKS THEIR NINTH VICTORY AGAINST THE RISING SUNSHINE SQUAD! WILL PRIVATE BRIGHT MORGAN BE ABLE TO OVERCOME CAPTAIN SERIS VALE'S PERFECT RECORD?"

The crowd roared approval, hungry for the answer.

Bright's jaw tightened. Mara saw his fingers flex around his weapon's hilt.

Focus, she willed him. Be here. Be present.

But she knew it was useless. He was somewhere else, sealed behind walls he'd built in the last twelve hours.

The gong sounded—a deep, resonant tone that cut through the noise like a blade.

And the match began.

-----

Bright activated his spatial foresight the instant the gong's echo faded.

The world shifted.

Colors bled into lines of probability, trajectories mapped out in crystalline clarity. He saw every possible movement, every angle of attack, every opening and weakness displayed like a tactical overlay across his vision.

He saw Seris's first move before she made it—her weight shifting forward, her hand moving to the chain-blade, her squad splitting left and right to create a pincer formation.

"Baggen, walls! Adam, cover!"

His voice cut through the arena noise, sharp and commanding. For a moment, he was back—fully present, operating on instinct and training.

Baggen slammed his hands down, channeling his earth manipulation core. The arena floor cracked and heaved, jagged walls of compacted stone erupting in strategic positions. They blocked sightlines, created chokepoints, forced Crimson Fang to commit to angles.

Adam dropped into position behind one of the walls, rifle already shouldered and tracking targets. His first shot rang out before Crimson Fang had fully split, forcing their formation to adjust.

Rolf hung back near the starting position, fire coalescing in his palms. He was waiting—patient, disciplined—for vulnerabilities to emerge.

Mara darted left, blades flashing as she feinted toward Crimson Fang's flank. She wasn't trying to engage yet, just draw attention, make them commit resources to tracking her.

For three seconds, it worked.

They looked coordinated. Professional. Like a squad that deserved to be in this arena.

Then Seris moved.

-----

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