“What an upset!” Kraven screamed, not caring in the slightest that a man’s life had been withered away right before him. “Who would have seen that one coming?” The crowd screamed, but their voices sounded distant to Arnold’s ears. His ears rung and blood pounded in his skull to the beat of an invisible drum. There was nothing he could do to pull his eyes away from the pile of ashen armor that had been a man mere moments before. This was far from the first time he’d seen someone die. Arnold wasn’t a professional warrior, but he’d seen his share of death as an adventurer. But never before had he seen a death like this. There had been no chance to fight back. One moment, there had been a knight. The next, he was gone, and all that remained was a pile of fallen armor and the memory of a man. And above that pile rose a shadow with eyes like molten stone. It flowed from the hilt of the sword impaled in the ground beside where the knight had fallen — and its gaze was turned straight toward Arnold. “You’ve been carrying me around without drawing me once. I’m offended,” the shadow said. It couldn’t have spoken any louder than a whisper, but he heard it perfectly. He heard it perfectly, and he knew the voice it spoke in. Arnold knew it well. Arnold’s team had lost. The three of them had put up a fight, but their remaining opponents completely outclassed them. That really wasn’t a surprise. The boy had left the sword untouched where it had fallen. Without it, he stood absolutely no chance against the other team. The difference between the teams had always been clear. Arnold’s group had been meant as a sacrifice to their opponents. A way for the Secret Eye to build them up for whatever round they were preparing for — but those plans had gone up in flames. Even though Arnold’s team had lost, Esmerelda was willing to bet that there wasn’t a single person in the crowd who hadn’t been completely focused on the fight — nor was there anyone who gave a rat’s ass about who had won it. Funny, isn’t it? Tournaments aren’t like real fights at all. In the real world, the only thing that matters is victory. Victory, no matter the cost. But a tournament? Victory is just the cherry on top. The people are here for a show, and that naïve, fresh little brat and his team sure put one on. Esmerelda blew out a long sigh and let her head roll back so she could stare up at the ceiling. “What a pain in the ass. Loopholes through loopholes, and the boy doesn’t even bite. Honor. Pathetic. He could have been a monster.” “Your words lack the sting that they once held.” Esmerelda turned to a shadow rising up between the cracks in the stone beside her. It formed into a flickering, humanoid shape. Two molten red eyes burned as they met her gaze. “Don’t get uppity with me. You’re a rancid fart trapped in a hunk of steel,” Esmerelda said. “How long has it been since you last showed up? Sorry excuse for a devil, you are.” “Hardly my fault. We both know how this works. The Dealer doesn’t use her own weapons, nor can she truly choose their wielders. She can only select when someone gets a chance to try. The only reason I haven’t done anything is because you haven’t tried to sell me to anyone suitable in years. Recent times have made you soft.” “Picky,” Esmerelda corrected. “There’s nothing worse than an idiot with a strong weapon.” “The words of a woman who’s lost her touch.” “The words of one who has been biding her time.” “Is that what you call growing fat and complacent? You haven’t sold a single cursed item in months. I wasn’t the only one growing hungry, Esmerelda.” “Brat. You’d do well to learn some patience. All of you. These complaints are nothing but hot wind.” “What makes you so certain?” the shadows flickered. “Do I look like a baby to you?” Esmerelda rose to her feet. “If you make me answer that, I can assure you you’ll regret it. Don’t mistake my patience for weakness. I was old before you were a spark in a forge. I am the Dealer. And you are satisfied with my work. If you were not, the sword would have already returned to my possession.” The molten eyes narrowed as the faintest streak of orange light marked the figure’s lips as they pulled up into a smile. “I am. The others just wanted me to check if you still had what it took. Your choice was apt. He has strong ideals, but he is stupid. Arrogant. Lacks a true purpose. A bumbling fool with fragments of notions that could make a hero and none of the glue to keep them together. He is trash… but trash can be refined. The building blocks are present within him. In time, after he has been broken, he may become competent. And if he does not — we will meet again sooner than planned. I have no complaints.” Power flowed into Esmerelda, burning through her veins like freezing ice. Her features didn’t so much as twitch. She hadn’t gotten this old by revealing her emotions so easily. “Then be off with you,” Esmerelda said in a flat tone that hid her thoughts perfectly. “I’m trying to enjoy myself.” The shadow didn’t respond. It was already gone. The sword that housed it had long since vanished from the floor of the arena. And, though the Secret Eye would search for it, they would find nothing.