Lightning still crawled along the length of Steve’s sword, thin blue veins pulsing as the blade remained buried in the Griffin’s chest. The current wasn’t violent anymore. It didn’t need to be. It was controlled, just enough to keep the body locked in place.
The Griffin’s teeth were clenched so hard they creaked. His wings lay spread and useless against the cracked floor, feathers twitching uncontrollably as his muscles spasmed under the shock. His claws dug shallow furrows into the stone, more instinct than intent.
Steve looked down at him.
"Do you concede?" he asked.
The words were simple. There was no mockery in them.
For a moment, the Griffin didn’t answer.
His eyes rolled slightly, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpened as he took in the scene around him. The ring of guests. The Feran generals standing rigid and silent. The Griffins watching without a single whisper passing between them. Torace Goldwing standing still as carved stone, his golden eyes unreadable.
Finally, his gaze drifted toward me.
Something flickered there.
"Yes," he said hoarsely. "I concede."
The word fell into the hall and stayed there.
Steve didn’t reply. He simply twisted the sword once and pulled it free in a clean motion, stepping back as the lightning faded into nothing. The Griffin collapsed fully against the floor, chest heaving, the wound already beginning to close on its own but leaving him shaken and spent.
Torace moved.
With a single gesture, the golden barrier enclosing the arena dissolved into motes of light that drifted upward and vanished. The tension it had contained didn’t disperse with it. If anything, it thickened.
Two Griffins flashed forward, arriving beside the fallen young master in a blur of motion. They lifted him carefully, one supporting his shoulders, the other steadying his wings. As they did, a familiar golden glow blossomed around his body again, washing over torn feathers and battered flesh.
When the glow receded, he was healed.
But the hall remained silent.
No applause followed. No murmurs. No celebration.
Guests stood frozen where they were, eyes fixed on the center of the hall, recalculating what they had just witnessed.
Steve stepped away from the center and walked back toward us, sword resting on his shoulder once more, lightning fully dormant.
I met his eyes and gave a small nod.
The fake deal had been decided.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then I started clapping.
Slow at first. The sound cut through the silence like a blade sliding from its sheath.
North glanced at me, understood instantly, and joined in. One clap, then another, her expression calm but approving. A moment later Ragnar followed, then Aurora, then Lyrate with an amused smile she didn’t bother hiding. Even Knight inclined his head slightly before bringing his hands together, the sound muted beneath his robes.
The hall hesitated.
Guests exchanged uncertain looks, searching for cues, measuring risk. Then one clap sounded from the Nagas side. Another followed. Awkward at first, uneven, but spreading all the same until the entire hall was filled with applause that felt more like obligation than celebration.
I stepped forward as the sound swelled.
"That," I said, letting my voice carry without effort, "was a beautiful fight."
The clapping softened, then stilled as attention returned to me.
"Watching young blood move like that," I continued, glancing briefly at Steve before turning my gaze back to the center, "it makes you feel a little more optimistic about the future of our universe. Skill, restraint, resolve. It’s good to see those things still exist."
My eyes shifted to the young Griffin, who stood supported between his kin, posture straight but eyes sharp now, no longer dazed.
"You fought well," I said evenly. "And you kept your word."
A faint ripple went through the Griffin group.
I took another step forward.
"Ryn," I said, addressing him directly, "You’ll be coming with us tomorrow. Tonight, enjoy the celebration. Say your goodbyes properly. A new year of life is a good time to start an adventure."
The words settled heavily.
Ryn’s expression flickered. Disbelief etched on his face.
Before he could speak, Torace Goldwing stepped forward.
"Mr. Billion," Torace said smoothly, his tone polite but firm, "I believe there has been a misunderstanding."
I turned to face him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"Oh?"
Torace gestured lightly toward Ryn. "What the young master said was spoken in the heat of the moment. A joke, if you will. There was no binding intent behind it."
The hall leaned in.
I tilted my head, studying him as if he’d just said something mildly curious rather than politically dangerous.
"A joke," I repeated.
"Yes," Torace said, nodding once. "Surely you understand. Words spoken during a duel—"
I cut him off by raising a single finger.
"Let me be very clear," I said calmly. "Are you saying his words held no weight?"
Torace’s golden eyes sharpened. "I am saying—"
"Or," I continued, my voice still even, still controlled, "are you saying the Griffins have a habit of stepping back from their own declarations once the outcome displeases them?"
The temperature in the hall dropped.
Feran generals shifted. Even the music at the far end seemed to falter, as if unsure whether it was still welcome.
Torace didn’t answer immediately.
Ryn looked between us, jaw tightening.
I took another step forward.
"Because from where I was standing," I said, "the terms were spoken clearly. Victory and defeat. Conditions stated. No ambiguity. If those words meant nothing, then this wasn’t a duel. It was theater."
My gaze didn’t leave Torace’s.
"And if it was theater," I added quietly, "then every force watching tonight will remember who treats their own words as decoration."
Silence pressed down hard now.
Ryn swallowed, then took a step forward despite the hands on his shoulders.
"No," he said, voice steady but young. "It wasn’t a joke."
Torace turned sharply. "Ryn—"
"I said it," Ryn cut in, his voice steady, almost sharp as he lifted his chin. He met Torace’s gaze first, then looked at me without flinching. "I made the deal because I could. And I’m choosing not to honor it because my name is Ryn Goldwing, and I can afford to do that."
The words landed like a slap.
For a heartbeat, no one in the hall moved. Even Torace seemed caught between anger and calculation, his mouth half-open as if weighing whether stopping this would make things worse.
I looked at Ryn calmly.
"So you are going back on your word," I said.
"Yes," Ryn replied. "I am."