The group continued to relax and watch the duels from their seats as they waited for Tytus’s match to be called. When the horn sounded again, announcing the next duel, Sorin leaned forward eagerly, his eyes scanning the arena floor. Tytus strode onto the sands with his usual swagger, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. He raised a hand to the Warbringer section of the stands, and Sorin, Diego, Torrid, and Jackson joined the others in a loud cheer, Torrid being the loudest by far.

  Tytus’s opponent stepped onto the field from the opposite gate—a figure cloaked in shadow. Wren Hollis of Darkplight Institute was as striking as he was unsettling. Tall and lean, his frame seemed to move with an unnatural fluidity, his long black coat billowing around him as if caught in an invisible wind. His face was pale, almost gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow faintly against the shadowy aura that clung to him like a second skin.

  He carried a pair of wickedly curved scimitars, their edges glinting with a faint, dark spirit. The blades appeared to shimmer as though they were partially insubstantial, their forms flickering like smoke caught in a storm. Around him, the air seemed colder, and the faint smell of ozone lingered—a telltale sign of shadow magic at work.

  “Gods,” Jackson muttered, leaning closer to Sorin. “That guy looks like he crawled out of a nightmare.”

  Diego’s expression was unreadable as he watched the two fighters face off. “Tytus will need to end this quickly. Shadow magic thrives in prolonged battles.”

  Sorin’s fists clenched at his sides as the horn sounded, signaling the start of the duel. Tytus immediately summoned flames to his fists, the golden light of his spirit-infused fire clashing against the eerie shadows surrounding Wren. The arena erupted in cheers, and Sorin held his breath as the two fighters charged at each other.

  The duel was about to begin.

  As the horn echoed across the colosseum, signaling the start of the duel, Tytus wasted no time springing into action. He unleashed a surge of crackling lightning from his fists, his signature Lightning Surge illuminating the arena sands in a brilliant flash. The crowd roared as the bolt streaked toward Wren, but his opponent reacted with unsettling calm.

  Wren raised one of his curved scimitars, and the blade pulsed with shadowy energy. A translucent barrier of flickering darkness sprang to life around him—Void Veil, his first power according to Carcose’s information. The lightning bolt struck the barrier, dispersing harmlessly as the shadows absorbed the energy and dissipated into the air.

  Tytus smirked, the lightning on his hands intensifying. “You’re going to need more than that to stop me.”

  Wren didn’t reply, his cold blue eyes narrowing as he began to circle. With a flick of his wrist, shadows writhed up from the ground at his feet and coalesced into sharp, dart-like projectiles. He launched them toward Tytus, their trajectories erratic and hard to predict—a second spell, Shadow Barrage.

  “Not bad,” Tytus muttered, his grin widening as he planted his feet and called upon Gale Force. A powerful gust of wind erupted from his position, scattering the shadow projectiles mid-flight and sending a few of them slamming harmlessly into the arena walls.

  Not missing a beat, Wren leapt into the air with an eerie grace, his body momentarily dissolving into black smoke before reforming mid-flight—his Phantom Step spell. He reappeared directly behind Tytus, his twin scimitars cutting down in a deadly arc.

  The sudden attack forced Tytus to spin and raise a wall of wind, deflecting the scimitars just in time. “Sneaky,” Tytus growled, stepping back and summoning Tremor’s Might. The ground beneath Wren quaked violently, the sand shifting and cracking as the Darkplight fighter staggered, briefly losing his footing.

  Tytus took the opening, dropping his staff and surging forward with fists crackling with lightning. He swung a powerful punch at Wren, who narrowly avoided the blow by twisting his body unnaturally, like a shadow slithering out of reach—a fourth ability, Ebon Reflex. Wren retaliated by slashing with one of his scimitars, the blade leaving a trail of shadowy energy in its wake that lingered on Tytus’s arm where it struck—a debilitating effect of Withering Strike, his fifth ability.

  Tytus hissed as the energy seemed to sap some of his strength, slowing his movements slightly. “Alright, no more playing around,” he muttered, stepping back and raising both hands high. The air above the arena crackled and darkened as storm clouds gathered in an instant. Lightning arced across the sky before a massive bolt struck down toward Wren, Tytus’s Tempestuous Fury unleashed in full force.

  Wren darted to the side with another Phantom Step, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the lightning strike. The energy scorched the sand where he’d been standing, and a sharp boom reverberated through the colosseum. The crowd roared, their cheers nearly deafening.

  Wren skidded to a stop, his breathing heavy but his cold eyes unwavering. He raised his scimitars again, the shadows around him intensifying, but Tytus didn’t give him another chance to counter. With a burst of Gale Force, Tytus propelled himself forward, closing the distance in an instant. His blazing fists connected with Wren’s chest in a flurry of strikes, forcing the Darkplight fighter back toward the edge of the arena.

  Finally, with one last devastating punch, Tytus sent Wren sprawling to the ground with lightning arcing over his body. The shadows around him flickered and faded, and he lay still for a moment twitching before raising a trembling hand in surrender.

  The horn sounded, signaling Tytus’s victory. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as Tytus turned and raised his fist high, his grin as wide as ever. Sorin and his friends were on their feet, shouting their support from the stands.

  “Tytus!” Jackson hollered. “You’re insane!”

  “Good fight,” Diego said simply, his sharp eyes gleaming with approval.

  —

  More duels occurred, each more exciting than the last. As the horn signaled for the next duel, Diego rose smoothly from his seat. He adjusted his scythe, the curved blade gleaming faintly with his smokey grey spirit, and turned to his friends.

  “My turn soon, I must go and prepare,” he said in his usual calm tone, his voice steady but carrying a quiet determination.

  “Make us proud, Diego,” Sorin said with a nod.

  Tytus grinned. “And maybe scare the life out of them while you’re at it.”

  Diego allowed a faint smirk to touch his lips before descending the stairwell toward the arena floor. Three more duels occurred before Diego took to the sands of the arena.

  The crowd’s murmurs grew louder as he emerged into the sunlight, his tall, lean frame cutting an ominous figure against the bright sands. Diego’s long black hair faintly rippled in the wind. His scythe rested casually across his shoulders, its dark aura almost tangible as the sunlight seemed to dim around him.

  From the opposite gate, his opponent stepped onto the field. A young woman clad in dark, scarred leather armor that gleamed with a faint, oil-slick sheen approached with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Her name was Lirien Vexa, a follower of Sinistra, the Goddess of the Left-Handed Path, and she carried herself with the poised menace of a predator who knew the taste of her prey.

  Her weapon of choice was a dagger, long and cruel; its blade curved like a serpent’s fang. A second, smaller blade hung at her hip, but it was her movements that truly set her apart. Every step was deliberate, her body language dripping with malice as though every motion concealed a trap. Her sharp green eyes locked onto Diego, and a faint, humorless smile curled her lips.

  The horn blared, and the duel began.

  Lirien moved first, darting across the sand with the speed of a beast. Diego didn’t flinch, watching her approach with sharp focus. Her dagger slashed toward his side, but Diego spun gracefully, using the haft of his scythe to deflect the blade with a metallic clang.

  She laughed softly, the sound as sharp and cutting as her weapon. “I wonder,” she said, circling him, “what secrets the follower of Grimm hides.”

  Diego didn’t respond. He raised his scythe, activating Death’s Embrace. The weapon pulsed with smokey spirit, its aura growing more menacing as he lunged forward in a sweeping strike. Lirien twisted out of the way with an unsettling grace; her movements almost serpentine as her dagger lashed out again. This time, a faint greenish mist followed the blade’s path, a poison that clung to the air like a venomous fog.

  Diego stepped back, activating Spectral Pursuit to become intangible. His form dissolved into a shadowy mist, slipping through the attack and reappearing behind Lirien with a sudden burst of movement. He brought his scythe down in a deadly arc, but Lirien’s laugh echoed again as she flickered out of existence, her form dissolving into a cloud of ash before reforming several paces away—one of Sinistra’s deceptive powers in action.

  “Clever,” Diego murmured, his voice calm as ever. He raised his scythe again, the grey spirit writhed along its edge.

  Lirien crouched low, dragging her dagger through the sand as she summoned a swirling vortex of shadows that leapt up around her. The arena seemed to darken slightly as the shadows writhed and twisted, obscuring her movements. Diego responded by driving his scythe into the ground, activating Grave’s Grasp. Spectral hands erupted from the sand, clawing at the shadows and managing to seize Lirien’s leg as she tried to reposition.

  Her confident smirk faltered as Diego lunged forward, his scythe carving through the shadows in a deadly arc. The dark blade slashed her shoulder, the necrotic energy of Death’s Embrace seeping into her armor and opening a cut that quickly blackened. She staggered back, hissing in pain as the crowd roared.

  “You’re not as untouchable as you think,” Diego said, his voice low and even as he advanced.

  Lirien’s eyes narrowed. She lashed out with her dagger, but this time, her movements were erratic, leaving trails of illusion behind each strike. One moment she was directly in front of Diego; the next, she seemed to split into two, then three identical versions of herself surrounding him. It was a chaotic and disorienting assault designed to confuse and overwhelm.

  Diego activated Doom’s Shadow, a dark aura erupting around him. The oppressive energy radiated outward, dispelling the illusions and forcing Lirien to stumble back. Her smirk was gone now, replaced by a tense focus as Diego raised his scythe high.

  He swung in a wide arc, activating Harvest of Souls. A burst of grey spirit radiated outward, striking Lirien and sending her skidding across the sand. She tried to recover, but Diego was already on her, his scythe poised for a final strike.

  Lirien froze, her dagger slipping from her hand as she raised the other in surrender. The horn blared, signaling Diego’s victory, and the crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

  Diego straightened, lowering his scythe as the aura around him dissipated. He offered a brief nod to Lirien before turning and walking toward the Warbringer section of the stands, his movements as calm and composed as ever.

  “Efficient as always,” Sorin said with a grin, clapping along with the rest of the crowd.

  Tytus leaned back in his seat, grinning. “That’s how you win a fight. Clean and calculated.”

  Diego offered a subtle nod of acknowledgment toward his friends as he disappeared into the arena’s gate. Another victory for Warbringer Academy.

  —

  The horn blared, signaling the start of the next match. From the shadows of the colosseum gate, Aric Eversteel stepped into the light. His dark, gleaming armor, adorned with jagged silver accents carved into the symbol of Moros, seemed to drink in the sunlight, amplifying the cold menace radiating from him. His silver hair caught the light, framing his sharp, chiseled features and icy blue eyes that cut through the arena like blades.

  In his hand, he wielded his infamous longsword, a weapon etched with runes that glowed faintly with the ominous crimson energy of his god, Moros, the Deity of Doom and Inevitable Fate. Each step he took was deliberate, his expression devoid of fear or hesitation. To the Warbringer students watching from the stands, he was an unstoppable force—a symbol of Silverblade's cold, calculated power.

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  Sorin leaned forward, he needed to study this duel if he was to fight Aric Eversteel again. The last time, Sorin was on the backfoot and was outmatched. He needed to find a weakness within Aric and therefore could not miss a second of this duel. Additionally, Sorin did not know all of Aric’s powers and that was a dangerous thought. Despite fighting Aric previously and the information given to him by Carcose the Rat, Sorin did not know Aric’s fifth power. Such a blindspot could lead to

  Across the arena, Aric’s opponent emerged. Lorian Greyheart, a disciple of Valoria Academy, was a skilled spearman known for his precision and relentless discipline. His polished green and silver armor reflected the sunlight, and his long spear, tipped with a brilliant emerald crystal, glimmered faintly as he twirled it with ease. Lorian’s face was calm but determined, his posture that of a soldier ready to face death itself.

  The two fighters stood across from one another, tension thick in the air as the crowd fell into hushed anticipation. The announcer’s voice boomed across the colosseum.

  “Aric Eversteel of Silverblade Masters Academy versus Lorian Greyheart of Valoria Academy! Let the duel begin!”

  Lorian was the first to move, spinning his spear and dashing forward with a burst of speed. He activated a spell and his spear tip blazed to life with green spirit as he struck toward Aric with calculated precision. The spear thrust forward in a deadly, linear arc, but Aric didn’t flinch. He raised his longsword, deflecting the strike with a metallic clang that reverberated through the arena.

  Without missing a beat, Aric retaliated. His blade shimmered with crimson energy as he activated Doom’s Edge, slashing upward in a powerful arc. The attack sent a wave of crimson spirit surging toward Lorian, who barely managed to sidestep in time. The ground where the energy struck cracked and smoldered, sending shards of stone scattering.

  Lorian lunged again, feinting left before spinning to strike from the right. His spear glowed with the light of emerald spirit, releasing a shockwave of green energy designed to stagger Aric. But Aric’s movements were eerily precise. He sidestepped with fluid grace, his blade swinging in a counterstrike that cut clean through the shockwave, nullifying its effect.

  The crowd gasped as Aric closed the distance, his sword crashing against Lorian’s spear in a flurry of brutal, calculated strikes. Each blow was heavy and deliberate, forcing Lorian to retreat, his face twisting in concentration as he struggled to maintain his guard.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Aric sneered, his voice carrying across the arena. “Your Academy might preach discipline, but discipline alone won’t save you from the inevitable.”

  Lorian gritted his teeth, his spear spinning defensively as he activated another spell, creating a shimmering barrier of emerald light that shielded him from further attacks. Aric smirked, raising his longsword high as the runes along its edge flared brighter. With a single, powerful swing, he unleashed Doom’s Edge, a devastating wave of crimson spirit that shattered the barrier like glass and sent Lorian sprawling across the sand.

  The crowd roared, half in awe and half in dismay, as Aric slowly advanced. Lorian pushed himself to his feet, his movements slower now, his breathing labored. He raised his spear, its tip glowing faintly as he prepared one final, desperate attack.

  Aric’s eyes glinted coldly as he activated Inevitable Strike. His blade seemed to blur for an instant as though guided by unseen forces, and he surged forward with terrifying speed. Lorian thrust his spear in a last-ditch effort, but Aric was already behind him. A single, decisive swing of his sword knocked the spear from Lorian’s grasp, and a follow-up strike sent him crashing to the ground.

  Lorian tried to rise, but Aric placed the tip of his sword against his throat, his expression unreadable. “Yield,” he commanded, his voice low but filled with unyielding authority.

  Lorian hesitated, his pride warring with his survival instinct. Finally, he raised a trembling hand in surrender.

  The horn blared, signaling Aric’s victory. The crowd erupted into cheers and boos, the Warbringer students glaring while Silverblade erupted into jubilant celebration. Aric lowered his blade, turning without a second glance at his defeated opponent. As he walked back to the gate, his expression was as cold and fill with anger as ever.

  To the watching crowd, it was clear: Aric Eversteel wasn’t just strong—he was unstoppable. Sorin shook his head. He managed to hold his ground against Aric in the first stage of the Ranking Tourament, but it was clear that Aric would be more difficult to best in a duel. Aric definitely excelled in single combat. Sorin needed a plan, a way to defeat Aric.

  Sorin got lost in his own head for a few minutes before Diego leaned over and nudged him, bringing Sorin back to the present. Sorin turned to Diego and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “You are doing to up to duel soon. You need to go prepare,” Diego stated.

  “Oh yes, of course. Sorry, lost myself for a second there,” Sorin apoligized.

  “No one is truly lost, not even in death. Grimm will always be there to guide the lost souls,” Diego replied.

  “Thats not what I meant… Oh nevermind,” Sorin gave up and turned to descent down the flights of seats. His brothers wished him luck as he left.

  —

  When Sorin stepped onto the sands, the roar of the crowd swelled to a deafening crescendo. He took a deep breath, his dark brown, almost black, eyes scanning the arena as Vestian fluttered above the Warbringer section, squawking loudly in support. Across the field, his opponent emerged from the opposite gate, drawing an audible gasp from the spectators.

  Valdrak Steelblood, a towering figure from Silverblade Academy, radiated raw power. Clad in blood-red armor adorned with jagged spikes, he carried a massive warhammer that glowed faintly, pulsing with an ominous orange light. His every step seemed to shake the ground, and his wild mane of black hair framed a face twisted in a permanent sneer. Followers of Ravagor, the God of Power, Conquest, and Bloodshed, were known for their brutality, but Valdrak seemed to embody conquest itself.

  The two fighters met in the center of the arena, the air between them thick with tension. Valdrak sneered down at Sorin. “A little shadow worshipper? This’ll be over quick.”

  Sorin didn’t respond, but felt anger grow in him. The comment although not directly an insult was disrespectful to his God and father, Vesperos. This would not stand. Sorin’s hands tighten around the hilts of his blades. This pathetic excuse for a warrior was about to learn a lesson. The horn blared, signaling the start of the duel.

  Valdrak was on him instantly, swinging his warhammer in a wide, devastating arc. The ground cracked beneath the force of the blow as Sorin darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. Shadows clung to him as he activated Veil of Vesperos, his form blurring into indistrict shadows.

  Valdrak roared in frustration, his hammer smashing into the ground again. He spun attempting to pinpoint Sorin as he darted between the shadows that littered the ground from the walls of the arena. “Coward! Face me!”

  The crowd held its breath, trying to pinpoint Sorin as he constantly moved about. Valdrak stalked the arena, his crimson aura flaring as he activated one of his powers—a wave of raw, orange spirit surged from his body, scouring the area for any sign of his opponent. The crowd gasped as shadows writhed in response, recoiling from the wave of spirit, but Sorin wasn’t there.

  A whisper echoed behind Valdrak. “Looking for me?”

  The massive warrior spun, swinging his hammer in a blind fury, but it passed through empty air. Sorin had already move, pivoting with Valdrak to remain in his shadow. Sorin emerged from Valdrak’s shadow, his twin blades cutting through Valdrak’s orange aura as he struck. The attack wasn’t deep, but it was precise, it opened a gap in Valdrak’s armor so Sorin could send a ripple of shadow from Shadow Control into Valdrak’s armor. That shadow then pierced into Valdrak’s flesh.

  Valdrak staggered and let out of a yell of pain, his sneer twisting into a furious snarl. He activated another power, slamming his hammer into the ground and summoning orange chains fashioned out of spirit. The ethereal orange bindings shot toward Sorin, aiming to immobilize him, but Sorin leapt backwards, leaving the chains to bind only the air.

  “Pathetic, you’ll have to do better than that,” Sorin said, his voice calm but cutting.

  The fight escalated as Valdrak unleashed another power, the sand around him turning orange as a field of spirit erupted, increasing his strength and speed. He charged at Sorin, his movements faster and more unpredictable. Sorin activated Eternal Twilight, shrouding the arena in a dense, oppressive darkness. The sunlight vanished, replaced by a shadowy realm where visibility was nearly impossible.

  The crowd gasped in awe and unease, the Silverblade section erupting in boos. Only Sorin moved confidently within the twilight, his Eye of Discernment allowing him to track Valdrak with precision. Valdrak swung wildly, his hammer smashing into nothing but sand and shadow. He cursed, his voice booming in frustration.

  Sorin seized the advantage, summoning chains fashioned from shadow from the darkness using Shadow Control. Valdrak had given Sorin a good idea. The shadowy bindings wrapped around Valdrak’s legs and arms, pulling him to the ground with a thunderous crash. Valdrak roared, straining against the chains as his orange aura flared in defiance.

  “Stay down,” Sorin said coldly, raising his blades.

  With a burst of strength, Valdrak shattered the chains, but his movements were sluggish. Sorin deduced that Valdrak was probably running low on spirit. His armor was probably crafted by a spell and used spirit to maintain it. Having it active for so long and using so many powers during the duel must be draining. Valdrak stumbled forward, his warhammer dragging behind him as Sorin darted in, his strikes swift and relentless. Each cut sapped Valdrak’s strength further, causing him to begin to bleed from small cuts covering his body. Valdrak attempted to swing his hammer and defend himself, but was too drained to put up any significant resistance.

  Finally, Sorin leapt back, raising his hands as the shadows of Eternal Twilight swirled around him. With a commanding gesture, he unleashed Shadow Control, the Essence of Vesperos, with his strongest attack yet. A wave of pure darkness crashing into Valdrak like a tidal wave. The impact sent the towering warrior sprawling, his warhammer clattering uselessly to the ground.

  Valdrak struggled to rise, his aura flickering weakly, but Sorin was already there. He placed the tip of one blade against Valdrak’s throat, his eyes dark and piercing.

  “It’s over,” Sorin said simply.

  The horn blared, signaling his victory. The arena erupted into cheers and jeers, the Warbringer section roaring with approval while the Silverblade section booed loudly. Sorin stepped back, letting the twilight fade as the sunlight returned to the arena he occupied. Valdrak slumped to the ground, defeated but still alive, his sneer replaced by a grimace of pain and humiliation.

  Sorin turned toward his section, his expression calm but triumphant. He raised one blade in acknowledgment of the cheers, his eyes scanning the crowd before returning to his friends. Tytus, Torrid, and Diego clapped loudly while Jackson waved his arms like a madman.

  “That was epic!” Tytus bellowed. “You didn’t just beat him—you humiliated him!”

  Sorin allowed himself a faint smile as he made his way back to the staging area. It still wasn’t enough. Most of those tricks would fail against Aric Eversteel.

  —

  Jackson sprang to his feet with an exaggerated flourish. “Alright, folks,” he declared loudly, drawing stares from the surrounding Warbringer section. “It’s time for the main event. Watch and learn because this is going to be legendary.”

  Sorin blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Did he just call himself the main event?”

  “Yup,” Tytus replied with a snort, leaning back on the bench. “This’ll be good.”

  Diego raised an eyebrow. “What’s he playing at? He’s usually trying to find the nearest escape route by now.”

  Sorin shook his head, watching as Jackson descended the stairs with an exaggerated swagger, waving to the crowd like a conquering hero. “I don’t trust it. He’s never this confident. Something’s off.”

  Diego smirked faintly. “You don’t think he’d just run away, do you?”

  “Honestly?” Sorin replied, rubbing his temple. “At this point, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  —

  The colosseum erupted in applause as Jackson entered the arena, his arms spread wide as though soaking in the cheers meant for someone far more deserving. His cheeky grin radiated confidence. Across from him, his opponent, Delvin Harlow, stepped forward—a hulking Valoria Academy fighter wielding a massive broadsword that gleamed with ethereal light. The man’s expression was a mix of confusion and irritation as he sized up the clearly flamboyant and unserious Jackson.

  The horn blared, signaling the start of the duel.

  “Let’s make this unforgettable!” Jackson shouted, raising his hands dramatically. A shimmering aura of energy surrounded him as he activated his Phantom Army spell. Instantly, a dozen identical copies of Jackson appeared around the arena, each one brandishing an illusory weapon and striking a combat stance.

  The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers at the display. The identical Jacksons moved in perfect unison, circling their opponent with synchronized precision. Each wore the same confident smirk. It was a spectacle designed to awe, and for a moment, it worked.

  Even Sorin couldn’t help but feel the faint stirrings of excitement. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Maybe he’s actually taking this seriously for once.”

  The tension in the air was palpable as Jackson’s opponent, Delvin Harlow, stepped into a defensive stance, his eyes darting between the shifting copies. He hesitated, clearly trying to discern the real Jackson. The illusion was flawless, and the crowd leaned forward in their seats, holding their collective breath as the moment stretched.

  Then, with a sudden flourish, Jackson raised his hand high, and the illusory copies froze. The air shimmered again as he activated his Shifting Reality spell, the energy coalescing into a massive, glowing illusion in the sky above the arena. Fireworks erupted in a dazzling display, and when the smoke cleared, the words “I FORFEIT” hung in enormous, radiant letters for all to see.

  Jackson’s voice rang out, clear and confident: “I forfeit!”

  The colosseum fell into stunned silence.

  For a moment, not even the wind dared to disturb the stillness. The crowd stared, slack-jawed, unsure of what they had just witnessed. Jackson, still grinning, gave an exaggerated bow toward his opponent and the audience before tossing his illusory sword to the ground as if punctuating his declaration.

  In the Warbringer section, Sorin groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course he did.”

  Diego sighed, shaking his head. “So he didn’t run away. He just… forfeited in the most dramatic way possible.”

  Tytus doubled over with laughter, pounding a fist on the bench. “You’ve got to hand it to him—that’s one way to make a statement!”

  The horn blared, officially ending the match. Jackson waved cheerfully at the crowd before sauntering off the field, utterly unfazed by the mix of boos and laughter that followed him.

  As he reached the Warbringer section, he spread his arms wide. “Well? What’d you think? Epic, right?”

  Sorin and Diego exchanged glances before simultaneously facepalming. Jackson, completely undeterred, plopped down on the bench with a satisfied grin.

  “Legendary,” Tytus wheezed, still laughing. “Absolutely legendary.”

  “You are an idiot,” Sorin said from between his fingers.

  “Torrid confused,” Torrid said with a rumble.

  “Me too Torrid, me too,” Diego agreed.