Chapter 58: STEEL AND RESOLVE
The apartment was quiet that night, the kind of quiet that settled after a day of blood and cheering, the arena had emptied into the Caldmore streets, after the cleaning crews had scrubbed the platform clean of blood that had been spilled in the name of competition.
Dominic sat at the table with a cup of tea cooling in front of him and Wobbly on the table beside it, its glow a steady blue pulse in the dim lamplight, its little vest slightly crooked, its body rounder than usual from the mana crystals Theresa had been feeding it all evening.
He’d crossed the first name off his list today. Reyes had begged. Reyes had named Victor in front of eighty thousand witnesses. The accusation was public now, and somewhere Celia was writing letters and making plans and calculating how to contain the damage. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, Dominic was trying to let himself feel something other than the cold satisfaction of a task completed.
Theresa was in the kitchen, her silk scarf draped over the back of her chair, her sleeves pushed up past her wrists, flour dusted across her forearms. She’d been baking for an hour, biscuits, bread and pie, and the apartment smelled like butter and sugar and warm dough.
She cooked when she was thinking, the same way Florence drilled when she was restless, the same way Dominic drank tea when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. She’d felt his rage through the bond during the Reyes fight, a cold fire that had burned steady for two months and finally found its target, and she’d been in the kitchen ever since they got home, working dough with her steady hands while her mind processed what she’d felt.
Florence was in the courtyard, running through her evening drills with an intensity that bordered on violence. The sound of her bare feet on stone came through the open window in a sharp, relentless rhythm, punctuated by the occasional grunt when she pushed through a particularly difficult form.
She’d been out there since they got home, her borrowed shirt dark with sweat, her hair coming loose from its tie, her muscles burning with the need to exhaust themselves into stillness.
Dominic watched her through the window. Her silhouette moved against the fading light, sharp and precise, the forms flowing one into the next without pause. She was worried. He could feel it through the bond, a low hum of concern that she’d never admit out loud.
Lysandra was fighting Cassidy Vance tomorrow, and Cassidy Vance was not an opponent you faced without preparation. The Chain Binder had pushed Lysandra to her limit in the team phase, and she’d only gotten more dangerous since then.
"She’s been out there for two hours," Theresa said from the kitchen doorway. She was wiping flour from her hands with a cloth, her golden eyes fixed on the courtyard, on Florence’s silhouette cutting through the evening shadows. "She’ll exhaust herself at this rate."
"She’s thinking," Dominic said.
"She’s worrying over nothing." Theresa crossed the room and sat beside him, her shoulder against his, her hip pressed to his, and the bond hummed between them, steady and warm. "Lysandra faces Cassidy Vance tomorrow. They’re evenly matched. It could go either way."
"I know."
"And you face Seira."
"I know that too."
"Seira will withdraw. She’s practical. She knows she can’t beat you, and she won’t want to fight her own captain. It would be a waste of energy for both of you." Theresa’s hand found his on the table, her fingers cool from the dough, and she laced them through his. "Which means you’ll advance without fighting. And the semi-finals will be set."
"Victor," Dominic said. "If he beats Doran."
"He’ll beat Doran. Victor is S-rank. Doran is B-rank. The gap is too wide." She paused. "Are you ready for him?"
"I’ll have to get some training in with wobbly, but yes I am."
Florence burst in from the courtyard, the door slamming open behind her. A gust of cool evening air rushed in, cutting through the heat rolling off her body. She stood silhouetted in the frame for a heartbeat, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, her borrowed shirt plastered translucent against her skin, crimson hair a wild, damp tangle clinging to her flushed face and neck. Without a word, she crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside Dominic, pressing her thigh hard against his, her shoulder slotting against him like she belonged there.
"I hate waiting," she said, voice low and rough.
"You’ve mentioned that," Dominic replied.
"I’m mentioning it again." She stared at the cold, empty hearth, and shook her head sharply. "I don’t know how you stand it."
"I drink tea."
Florence snorted, the sound half-laugh, half-growl. "That’s not a solution."
"It’s worked so far."
She leaned her head back against the worn cushions and closed her eyes, but her body stayed anchored to his, heat and sweat and restless energy radiating from her. After a moment, her hand found his on the table, fingers threading through his with surprising gentleness. The bond between them hummed, two distinct threads now, one crackling like restless lightning, the other steady and warm.
The tea sat forgotten and cold. Wobbly’s soft glow pulsed on the table like a quiet heartbeat. Outside, the city kept buzzing, alive and oblivious. Inside, there was only the weight of her against him, and the shared silence.
A knock at the courtyard gate.
Florence was on her feet before Dominic could move, but Theresa put a hand on her arm. "It’s Lysandra. I felt her through the ward. She’s alone, and she’s been standing at the gate deciding whether to knock."
Florence settled back onto the couch, her eyes tracking the door. Dominic crossed the room and opened it to the courtyard. The evening air was cool against his face, carrying the smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the street. The mana-lanterns along the street were lit, their warm gold glow spilling across the cobblestones.
Lysandra stood at the gate, her new rods crossed on her back, the black steel with gold patterns catching the light. She’d changed out of her fighting clothes into a simple blouse and fitted trousers. Her hair was still damp from washing. She was just standing there, one hand raised to knock again, frozen in the golden light.
"You’re here," Dominic said.
"I’m here." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I’ve been thinking about tomorrow. About Cassidy. About what I did to Baines. About whether I can control it when I need to, so I thought to visit."
"Come in," Dominic said.
She stepped through the gate and followed him inside. Theresa was already pouring tea. Florence was already pretending she hadn’t been worried. Wobbly bounced off the table and landed at Lysandra’s feet, its glow brightening in greeting.
Lysandra sat on the edge of the chair, both hands wrapped around the cup. "So concerning the match tomorrow, cassidy Vance is not Baines," she said. "She’s faster. Smarter. She’s probably been studying me the same way I’ve been studying her."
Florence leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her expression sharp and focused. "You’re thinking about the rods as weapons you either use or discard. But those rods are heavy enough that four men struggled to carry them. They’re not just striking tools. They’re projectiles. They’re distractions."
Lysandra looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"You throw one." Florence mimed the motion, a two-handed overhand launch. "Not at your opponent. Above them. High arc. While they’re tracking it, you close distance with the other rod. Now they’re defending against you and watching the sky at the same time. Their attention is split. If they dodge the falling rod, you strike while they’re moving. If they don’t dodge, the rod comes down on their head or their shoulder or their weapon, and you strike while they’re staggered."
Lysandra’s eyes widened slightly. "I never thought of that."
"Most people don’t. They see heavy weapons and think slow." Florence sat back. "You can also throw one rod directly at them to force a dodge, then use the opening to close distance with the other. You can throw both rods into the ground in front of them to create a barrier, force them to go around or jump over, and you’re already moving to intercept wherever they land. You can mix heavy strikes with the rods and fast combos with your hands, switching between them without warning, never letting your opponent settle into a rhythm. One moment you’re swinging two hundred pounds of black steel at their skull. The next moment you’re inside their guard with your fists. They can’t predict you. That’s the point."
"What about the switch," Lysandra said slowly. "The mental shift. While it helps with fighting, I’m not really comfortable with the person I become in those moments."
"It is something that happens to you. But you can use it the same way you use the rods. The switch isn’t just about aggression from what I’ve noticed. It’s about clarity. When you’re in that state, you see patterns faster. You react without hesitation. Your body moves before your mind catches up. That’s not something to control. That’s something to trust. Let it happen. Let it guide your hands. Your conscious mind can focus on the tactics, when to throw, when to switch, when to change rhythm. The switch will handle the execution."
Lysandra was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded. "I can do that."
"I know you can. Tomorrow, use everything. The rods. The fists. The switch. Mix them together until Cassidy Vance has no idea what’s coming next." Florence stood and stretched.
Theresa set a plate of biscuits on the table. "Eat," she said. "You’ll need your strength tomorrow."
Lysandra took a biscuit. She didn’t eat it. She just held it, staring at the golden surface like it contained something she was trying to understand. "Dominic," she said quietly. "When you faced Reyes today, when you hit him and kept hitting him, did you feel anything?"
Dominic considered the question. "Not really, I felt like I was just completing a task. That’s all."
"Is that what it’s supposed to feel like?"
"I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. I know what it felt like for me."
Lysandra looked at him. "Tomorrow, I face Cassidy. If I win, I face Pembroke in the semi-finals."
"That’s going to be a tough one."
"Pembroke is something else. The thought of facing him makes my stomach cold."
"That’s normal," Dominic said. "Fear is normal. The question is whether you let it stop you."
"I won’t let it stop me. But I don’t know if I can beat him."
"You don’t have to beat him. You just have to face him. Make him remember your name. Give your all"
Lysandra nodded slowly. The fear was still there, but something else was growing alongside it. Resolve. The same resolve that had carried her through the team phase, through the Round of 16, through every fight where people had looked at her small frame and underestimated what she could do.
She stayed for another hour. She drank her tea. She ate biscuits. Florence taught her to adjust her grip on the rods, practicing the transition from rod-work to boxing until the movement was smooth. When she finally left, her shoulders were straight and her hands were steady.
Dominic walked her to the gate. The street was dark now, the mana-lanterns burning low.
"Goodnight," she said.
"Good night."
She turned and walked into the dark. Dominic watched her go, then went back inside. Theresa was clearing the cups. Florence was stretching, preparing for one last round of drills.