Quincy stepped into the fighters' waiting room with a bounce in her step and a wide, satisfied grin across her face.
"That was great! Short—but great!" she chirped, hands clapping together as she took in the sight of the gathered fighters. Her eyes swept the room before landing squarely on Mae and Lexy.
"But you two," she said, voice lilting into a mock-scolding tone as she pointed at them, "were just a bit too violent. This tournament isn't about trying to kill each other, you know? It's a fight—not a blood feud."
She wagged her finger at them, still smiling but with a trace of firmness in her voice. "So let's not do that again, okay, Mae?"
Mae smirked, unbothered, and gave a light shrug. "Alright~ I mean, it's not like I can do anything that bad next time anyway," she said casually, then flicked her eyes to Xain and licked her lips. "Considering who my next opponent is~"
Xain's shoulders stiffened instantly. A chill ran down his spine as he tried not to meet her eyes.
*Why does she have to be so damn creepy about everything?* he thought, hugging his arms tightly to his chest.
Quincy blinked at Mae, then sighed and crossed her arms. "That doesn't sound very convincing, but… I guess I'll take it."
Her attention turned to Zeva, and her smile brightened again. "Anyway! That was a fantastic performance—you and Edluar both! I really hope you liked the arena I made for your match."
Zeva gave a calm exhale, a small smile touching her lips. "It was very appropriate," she said. "I can't speak for Edluar, but I felt at home."
"I can't exactly say the same," came a voice from the hall.
Everyone looked over as Edluar stepped into the room, bandages wrapped neatly around his cuts and head. Despite the injuries, he wore a relaxed smile.
"But it was still good," he added, walking in.
"You recovered quickly," Zeva noted, her eyes briefly scanning the wrappings across his body. "I suppose my cuts were very clean."
Edluar gave a light chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, that helped the medics a lot. But hey, I am a half-elf. We recover fast."
As he joined the group, Annabel turned her attention to Quincy, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
"While we're on the subject of arenas…" she said, gesturing between herself and Even, "what kind of arena do we get?"
Quincy pressed a finger to her lips with a playful wink. "Can't tell you! That's a secret~"
Even scoffed lightly, arms crossed. "Whatever it is, I doubt its gonna stay intact for long in a fight between magic users."
Then he turned to Annabel, a serious look on his face. "Not that it'll matter. I'm going to win."
The sorceress gave a low, amused laugh. "I like your confidence, Mathers."
Meanwhile, off to the side, Callum leaned toward Vilak and gestured vaguely at the group. "Did they forget we're fighting too?"
Vilak shrugged, expression unreadable. "It's fine. I like it better not having too many people pay attention to me."
— — —
Inside the steamwagon, silence hung thick in the air. The hiss of the engine and the gentle creak of metal were the only sounds breaking through the tension. Samwell sat across from his son, his arms folded, eyes locked on the floor in a cold, brooding glare. The flickering lantern-light cast sharp shadows across his face, but none of them revealed what he was thinking.
Matthew sat opposite, back straight, hands fidgeting in his lap. He kept glancing at his father, waiting—hoping—for him to speak. To say something. Anything. About tomorrow's match. About Even. About the brother he never knew existed until today.
But Samwell remained silent.
Eventually, the weight of that silence pressed too heavily on Matthew's chest.
"...Father," he began, voice small. "Who is Even?"
Samwell's head rose slowly, his piercing gaze landing on the boy. Matthew froze.
"A failure," Samwell said coldly. "Nothing more."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice sharpening like a blade. "He couldn't use enhancements. He didn't possess our hereditary ability. The Mathers most fundamental gift—ours by blood—and he lacked it. He barely scraped by with two affinities. The worst of our family's history."
The venom in his words made Matthew recoil. He had never heard his father speak with such open contempt.
Still, he swallowed the knot forming in his throat and managed to ask, "W-why did he seem to hate my name?"
Samwell scoffed and waved a hand as if brushing away a bug. "That's something you'll understand when you're older. Not now."
Matthew nodded, swallowing his questions like bitter medicine. But one more pressed at his throat. It slipped out before he could stop it.
"Father… do you want him to lose? Or win?"
Samwell twitched. Just slightly—but Matthew saw it.
The man's mouth opened, then shut again. His hand clenched into a fist against his knee.
Yes. He wanted Even to lose. The disgrace of the family deserved no glory, no recognition, no redemption. He had failed the Mathers legacy. Let him fail in front of the world.
But…
Even had stood before the coliseum crowd, bold and unshaking, and called himself a Mathers. His real name. Not a false moniker. Not a lie. That alone tethered him to their legacy. If he lost—if he fell publicly—it wouldn't just be his failure.
It would stain the family name.
Samwell stared forward, silent. Muscles tight. Jaw set.
He leaned back, expression unreadable, and said nothing.
But to Matthew, that silence was louder than any answer ever could be.