The Beastbinder's Ascension

Light faded, and the familiar chill of the chamber returned.

Aston blinked as the white brilliance of teleportation dissolved into muted stone walls and the soft hum of the recovery wards. The faint smell of herbs hung in the air, mingling with the ozone scent of residual essence. Rows of healers in white-trimmed robes moved briskly between cots, their hands glowing with soothing radiance.

Two of those cots were occupied.

Selene lay propped against a pillow, her complexion pale but calm, the soft aura of her healing dove still circling faintly above her chest. Beside her, Marcellus sat with his warhound's paw draped across his leg, a broad patch of sealing essence binding a deep gash on his arm. His jaw was tight, his usual calm demeanor cracked by anger.

But the chamber felt half-empty.

There was no sign of Ivy or Brennar.

The absence hung in the air like a blade.

Marcellus looked up as Aston approached, his tone sharp enough to cut.

"They didn't even have the decency to show their faces after what they pulled."

Aston didn't answer right away. He just walked past the healers, his boots silent against the floor. Gray padded behind him, tail low, Mirage fluttering above his shoulder in silence. He stopped near Marcellus's cot, eyes glancing briefly at the glowing barrier projected above—still showing the frozen image of the final moment, of Gray tearing through Tristan's cheetah.

"They were offered something," Aston said at last. "Points. Favors. Maybe more."

He shrugged lightly. "It's not the first time that's happened in an open-rule match."

"That doesn't make it right." Marcellus's fist slammed against the cot rail, rattling the essence tubing. "We could've had them. If they'd held the line instead of walking off—"

Aston raised a hand. "We were finalists, Marcellus. That's farther than most ever reach. You fought well. All of us did."

For a moment, the older boy stared at him—then exhaled, shoulders loosening. The warhound beside him gave a low huff, pressing its head against his arm as if agreeing.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Still pisses me off."

"I'd worry if it didn't," Aston replied with a small smile. "But we'll take what we earned."

He turned toward Selene, who had been silent until then, watching them quietly. Her eyes were gentle but wary, the kind that saw past victories and losses alike.

"You saw the end?" she asked softly.

Aston nodded. "Gray finished strong."

Marcellus let out a bark of laughter, the tension breaking for a heartbeat. "Strong? You mean terrifying. Did you see Tristan's face? I'd pay for a portrait of that moment. He looked like someone just told him his beast was allergic to winning."

Even Selene couldn't suppress a smile at that. "The arena projection froze right after that strike. The crowd went wild."

Marcellus leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. "Hah. Bet they'll remember that kitten longer than they remember the winner."

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But Selene's expression sobered again, her gaze lowering. "Still," she said slowly, "we shouldn't forget what Ivy said before she surrendered. She mentioned a deal… and that someone wanted something out of it."

Aston's faint smile faded. "I remember."

"She might've just been trying to justify herself," Marcellus said with a scoff. "You know how people get when they betray others—they make excuses."

Selene shook her head. "No. Her tone wasn't defensive. It was… scared. Like she'd gotten into something she didn't fully understand."

Aston leaned against the wall, arms folded. The light from the healing wards glimmered across his features, half-illuminated, half-shadowed.

"If that's true, then it means whoever offered the deal wasn't just doing it to win."

Marcellus frowned. "What do you mean?"

Aston's gaze drifted toward the faint shimmer of the arena projection still lingering above the ceiling—replaying fragments of the earlier fight in muted colors.

"Think about it. Whoever bribed them didn't stop our advance. They just made sure the finals weren't clean. It wasn't sabotage to win—it was sabotage to send a message."

Selene's dove fluttered once, its wings brushing her cheek as if mirroring the chill that passed between them.

Marcellus's expression darkened. "A message to who?"

"To me," Aston said quietly. "Or to whoever's watching me."

That silence pressed in again, heavier this time. Even the healers in the distance seemed to move slower, as if the air itself thickened with unease.

Selene was the first to break it. "Then be careful. If someone's willing to meddle in the tournament, they might try again. In the next match. Or after."

Aston nodded once. "I know."

Marcellus grunted. "Well, whoever they are, they can shove it. You're still the only reason we even made it to the finals. Without you, we'd have been knocked out back in the quarters."

His tone softened, begrudgingly. "You did good, kid."

Aston chuckled under his breath. "You're not that much older."

"Old enough to say it," Marcellus shot back with a grin.

That earned the faintest smirk from Aston before he sank onto one of the benches. He reached down, brushing Gray's fur. The beast leaned into his touch, purring low, its obsidian coat faintly reflecting the dim light of the chamber.

Mirage perched above, tilting her head toward Aston—silent, but her eyes gleamed with quiet confidence. They'd both fought to the edge of their limits, and even in defeat, neither had bowed their heads.

"Rest for now," Aston murmured. "We're not done yet."

Selene watched him for a long moment before lying back on her cot, whispering something under her breath—maybe a prayer, maybe just relief. Marcellus finally allowed himself to relax too, leaning against his warhound and closing his eyes.

For a brief, fragile instant, the room felt still.

Then, from the corridor outside, came the distant echo of the crowd's cheers—Tristan's name roaring through the stone.

Aston looked toward the sound, his expression unreadable.

The cheers outside rose again—so loud they rattled the chamber doors. A voice, amplified by essence projection, echoed through the hallways from the arena above.

"Attention, audience and participants! As both finalists for the Team Arena and Singles Arena are the same—Aston Rhyner and Tristan Graves—there will be a one-hour recess before the final match begins!"

The crowd erupted. Tristan's name thundered through one side of the stadium, while Aston's rolled like a countercurrent—softer but burning with conviction.

Marcellus cracked an eye open, smirking. "Hear that? You're on twice today. Don't make it boring."

Aston exhaled, shaking his head with a faint smile. "I'll try not to."

He turned toward the healers who had begun resetting the wards for the next patients. "Excuse me—could you check on my beasts?" he asked.

The senior healer nodded, gesturing for Gray and Mirage to step closer. Essence-infused sigils shimmered beneath their feet as threads of restorative light wove around their forms. Mirage spread her translucent wings, scattering frost-light across the walls, while Gray purred softly—his claws glowing faintly as they reabsorbed the stabilizing energy.

Aston quietly brushed his hand through Gray's fur and the other on Mirage's feathers.

The healer smiled faintly. "Rest while you can, finalist."