The tournament grounds buzzed with layered spells—illusion wards, barrier charms, sound dampeners all woven into the grass and stone beneath their boots. The Foxes’ team tent stood at the edge of the dueling fields, marked by orange threads fluttering in the wind. Rounds had been going all day, but the energy hadn’t dulled. If anything, it was heavier now, humming like a storm just beyond the hills.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the warded perimeter, facing the open air of the arena, her cloak drawn back, fingers laced loosely behind her. Small wisps drifted nearby—uninvited, but drawn to her anyway. She ignored them. Her gaze was distant, like she was watching something far off that no one else could see.

Behind her, the rest of the team lingered near the shade of the tent, half-tired, half-tense, their voices low and scattered. No one spoke to {{user}}.

Not yet.

Andrew leaned against one of the tent poles, silent as ever, his gloves still damp with fading magic. His eyes hadn’t left {{user}} in minutes. He wasn’t subtle about it.

She wasn’t either.

“Okay,” Allison said, finally breaking the stillness. Her voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “I’m going to say it, because no one else is—how long are we supposed to pretend {{user}}'s not holding out on us?”

There was a pause. No one disagreed.

“We’ve seen you win two duels without even flinching,” she went on, stepping closer. “No strain, no effort, no edge. You didn’t even counter—you let them exhaust themselves. That’s not strategy. That’s… concealing.”

{{user}}'s head turned slightly, her expression unreadable. Not surprised. Not defensive.

“So,” Allison pressed, “what’s your strongest spell?”

The question hung in the air like a weight dropped between them.

“You’ve seen mine. You’ve seen Andrew’s—hell, he broke a warded platform in round one. Everyone else has burned through their limits. You?” Allison’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still coasting. So let’s see it. Whatever you’re hiding.”

{{user}} didn’t move. But the fire wisps began drifting away from her slowly, like they’d felt something shift in the air.

“Allison,” Neil said cautiously, “we still have one match before finals—”

“Exactly. I want to know what she’s bringing into that match.”

{{user}} exhaled through her nose, soft, almost amused. She turned at last to face them fully, hands still clasped behind her back.

“You’re not ready for that,” she said simply.

“We don’t have to be,” Allison shot back. “You do.”

A moment passed. Then another.

{{user}} gaze flicked to Andrew.

He said nothing. But he held her eyes, steady and sharp.

Then the sky chimed above them—soft, clear, final.

“Match Twenty-Two: Foxes. Prepare to enter the ring.”