As the names for the second round's first duel are announced, the arena buzzes with an electric anticipation. Algrim's deep, commanding voice reverberates across the crowd: "Neville Longbottom, son of Frank and Alice, steps forward to face Gunnar, son of Ulf, known across the realms for his unparalleled strength!"
The crowd erupts into murmurs and cheers, with those who had witnessed Neville's skill in the first round eager to see him fight again. From the stands, Eirlys leaned forward, her emerald eyes gleaming with pride and just the slightest hint of worry. Her hair, red as fire, caught the sunlight as she turned to Alice Longbottom.
"You've raised a warrior," Eirlys said warmly, her voice brimming with admiration. "He fights with heart, not just muscle. That is rare."
Alice smiled softly, her hands folded tightly in her lap despite her calm demeanor. "He's worked so hard to get here," she replied, her voice touched with pride and maternal anxiety. "But this Gunnar—he looks like he could crush a mountain."
Frank leaned closer to Alice, placing a reassuring hand over hers. "He can handle it," he said confidently. His tone was calm, but his sharp eyes never left the arena. "He's got my stubbornness, your determination, and his own damn magic. Gunnar might be strong, but Neville's got something better—he's got grit."
Eirlys let out a soft laugh, leaning back in her seat. "And axes," she added, her lips curling into a teasing grin. "Never underestimate a man with axes."
—
In the arena, Neville walked toward the center of the field, his twin axes glinting dangerously under the sunlight. His steps were measured, his confidence hard-won from years of struggle and growth. Across from him, Gunnar—a towering Asgardian youth with muscles that looked like they had been chiseled from stone—strode forward, a greatsword slung over his broad shoulder. The weapon looked more like a battering ram than a sword.
The two combatants met in the center, their eyes locking in a tense moment of silence. Gunnar gave a wolfish grin, his voice a low growl. "You're smaller than I expected, Neville Longbottom. Those axes of yours won't save you from me."
Neville didn't flinch. Instead, he straightened, rolling his shoulders and gripping his axes with steady hands. "I've faced worse than you, Gunnar," he replied, his voice calm and steady, though his eyes were lit with a fiery determination. "And I'm still standing."
Gunnar let out a booming laugh. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Algrim raised his hand, his voice cutting through the noise of the arena.
"Combatants, prepare yourselves! The match begins… now!"
Gunnar surged forward like a storm, his massive greatsword swinging in a brutal arc. Neville barely had time to dodge, the blade slicing through the air where he had stood moments before. With a sharp inhale, Neville darted to the side, using his smaller size and agility to his advantage.
The clash of steel rang out as Gunnar came at him again, relentless in his attack. Neville's axes met the greatsword in a shower of sparks, and though Gunnar's strength nearly overwhelmed him, Neville held his ground, gritting his teeth against the force.
—
In the stands, Alice gripped Frank's arm tightly. "He's holding his own, but Gunnar's too strong," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Frank's jaw tightened, though his expression remained calm. "Strength isn't everything. Neville's smarter. Watch him."
Eirlys tilted her head, her sharp gaze following every movement on the field. "He's waiting," she murmured, half to herself. "Biding his time."
—
Back in the arena, Neville shifted tactics. He stopped meeting Gunnar's blows head-on and began circling, forcing the larger opponent to move. Gunnar snarled, his frustration mounting as Neville danced just out of reach, striking only when openings presented themselves. Each blow from Neville's axes was precise, calculated, wearing Gunnar down bit by bit.
Gunnar finally landed a heavy blow, his greatsword slamming into Neville's side and sending him staggering. The crowd gasped, and Alice's hands flew to her mouth. But Neville gritted his teeth and straightened, his eyes blazing. "That the best you've got?" he shot at Gunnar, his voice carrying over the arena.
Gunnar roared in fury and charged again, but Neville was ready. With a deft feint, he lured Gunnar into overextending, then slipped to the side and struck with both axes. The first knocked the greatsword from Gunnar's grip; the second swept his legs out from under him. Gunnar hit the ground with a thud that reverberated through the arena.
Neville stepped back, his axes at the ready, but Gunnar held up a hand in surrender. "Enough," Gunnar said, his voice grudgingly respectful. "You win."
The crowd erupted into cheers, their applause deafening. Algrim stepped forward, raising his voice to declare, "The winner of this duel: Neville Longbottom!"
—
As Neville walked off the field, his friends and allies stood to greet him with cheers and smiles. Haraldr clapped him on the back. "Well done, Neville. You fought like a true warrior."
Susan smirked. "And you didn't even break a sweat. Show-off."
Neville chuckled, his cheeks coloring slightly. "Let's just hope I don't have to do that again anytime soon."
In the stands, Alice wiped a tear from her cheek as Frank grinned. "Told you," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "That's our boy."
Eirlys leaned toward them, her smile wide. "He's not just a warrior. He's a force to be reckoned with. You must be proud."
Alice nodded, her voice soft but firm. "We always were. We always will be."
—
As Algrim's deep, resonant voice boomed across the arena, the crowd fell silent with anticipation. "Hannah Abbott, daughter of Damara and Giffard, steps forward to face Freya of Alfheim, known for her speed and precision!"
Hannah took a deep breath, her hand steadying the hilt of her sword as she walked to the center of the field. The sun glinted off her golden hair, her freckled face determined. Across from her, Freya, lithe and confident, gave a slight smirk. Her silvery blade shimmered like starlight, a weapon crafted in the forges of Alfheim itself.
In the stands, Damara clutched Giffard's arm tightly. "She's nervous," she murmured, her own heart hammering in her chest.
"She'll be fine," Giffard replied, though his knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of his seat. "She's got this."
Susan Bones, sitting with Neville, Draco, and Luna, leaned forward, her auburn hair catching the light. "She'll be fine," she said, her tone somewhere between confident and hopeful. "Hannah's a lot tougher than people think."
Neville, still catching his breath from his own match, nodded. "Yeah. I've seen her fight. She won't go down easy."
Draco scoffed, though his eyes stayed locked on the field. "Freya's no joke. But… I'll admit, Abbott's not half bad."
Luna tilted her head dreamily, her blonde hair cascading like sunlight. "Freya moves like a butterfly, but Hannah has the patience of a niffler hunting gold," she said, her voice soft yet confident. "She'll find her opening."
—
Algrim raised his arm, signaling the start of the match. "Begin!"
Freya wasted no time. Like lightning, she darted forward, her blade slicing through the air in a series of rapid, precise strikes. Hannah met the attack head-on, her sword moving instinctively to parry. The clash of steel rang out, a sharp and electrifying sound that echoed through the arena.
Freya was relentless, her footwork graceful and fast. She danced around Hannah, forcing the Hufflepuff alumna to stay on the defensive. Each strike from Freya was faster than the last, her blade seeking openings with surgical precision.
From the stands, Susan's fists clenched in her lap. "Come on, Hannah," she whispered under her breath. "You've got this."
Neville leaned forward. "She's not panicking. That's good."
Draco crossed his arms, watching intently. "Freya's trying to wear her down. Smart strategy. But Abbott's not as easy to break as she looks."
—
On the field, Hannah took a step back, breathing heavily as Freya pressed the attack. Her arms ached, her muscles straining to block the Alfheim warrior's relentless strikes. Think, Hannah, think, she told herself, her mind racing. Don't let her control the pace.
She took another step back, letting Freya overcommit to a lunge. With a burst of energy, Hannah sidestepped and swung her sword in a sweeping arc, forcing Freya to leap back to avoid the blow. It was a small victory, but it gave Hannah the space she needed to regroup.
Freya smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Not bad," she said, her voice lilting. "But you'll have to do better than that."
Hannah straightened, her grip tightening on her sword. "Don't worry. I plan to."
Summoning her courage, Hannah shifted her stance, moving with newfound confidence. She began to counter Freya's speed with calculated precision, timing her strikes to disrupt the Alfheim warrior's rhythm. Freya's smirk faltered as Hannah's persistence started to take its toll.
—
In the stands, Astrid grinned, her green eyes alight with excitement. "She's turning it around," she said, nudging Bjorn, who nodded in approval.
"Smart girl," Bjorn said, his red hair gleaming like fire in the sunlight. "She's forcing Freya to fight her way."
Leif crossed his arms, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Told you she had it in her."
—
Hannah's sword found its mark, a glancing blow on Freya's arm that drew a thin line of blood. The crowd gasped, and Freya hissed, her movements faltering for just a moment. Seizing the opportunity, Hannah pressed the attack, her strikes growing bolder and more precise.
Freya, though still fast, couldn't fully recover. Hannah's next blow struck her leg, forcing the Alfheim warrior to stumble. The crowd roared as Hannah pressed forward, her determination blazing like a beacon.
With a final, decisive strike, Hannah disarmed Freya, sending her sword clattering to the ground. Freya stumbled, but before she could recover, Hannah's blade was at her throat. Freya raised her hands in surrender, her breathing ragged. "You win," she said, a hint of respect in her voice.
Hannah stepped back, lowering her sword. "Well fought," she said, extending a hand.
Freya hesitated, then took it, her lips quirking into a small smile. "You're tougher than you look. Well done."
—
As Algrim's voice boomed over the arena, declaring Hannah the winner, the crowd erupted into cheers. Damara let out a sob of relief, burying her face in Giffard's shoulder. "She did it," she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
"That's our girl," Giffard said, his voice thick with emotion. "That's our Hannah."
—
Hannah walked off the field, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounding. She was immediately surrounded by her friends. Susan threw her arms around her, laughing. "I knew you could do it!"
Neville clapped her on the back. "That was incredible, Hannah. You were amazing out there."
Draco smirked. "Not bad, Abbott. You might actually survive this tournament."
Luna smiled serenely, tilting her head. "I told you. The niffler always finds the gold."
Astrid grinned, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder. "That was impressive. You've got some fight in you."
Hannah laughed, her cheeks still pink. "Thanks, everyone. That was… intense."
Leif nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. "You earned that win."
Bjorn crossed his arms, his expression approving. "You've got guts. I like that."
Sigrun, her red hair shining in the light, gave Hannah a warm smile. "You've shown everyone what you're made of."
Viggo leaned against the railing, his piercing eyes fixed on her. "Keep it up, Abbott. You're making us look good."
Hannah smiled, her heart swelling with pride and gratitude. She had barely scraped by, but she had done it—and she wasn't done yet.
—
Luna stepped onto the field with the same airy grace as a feather caught in the wind, her pale blue robes fluttering behind her. The crowd murmured as her ethereal presence seemed to change the very atmosphere of the arena. Her opponent, Erik of Vanaheim, was already waiting. Broad-shouldered and towering over Luna, Erik's reputation as a brute-force fighter preceded him. He gripped his massive broadsword, rolling his shoulders in preparation, though he couldn't help but squint at Luna's dreamy expression.
In the stands, Xenophilius Lovegood leaned so far forward he nearly toppled over the railing. "Do you see that, Pandora?" he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. "She's walking like the moon herself blessed her with weightlessness!"
Pandora Lovegood, perched beside him with a radiant grin, adjusted the oversized flower crown atop her golden hair. "That's my girl! Oh, look at the way her toes barely touch the ground. She's clearly channeling a mooncalf, Xeno. I told you those twinkle-dust socks were a good idea!"
"Genius!" Xenophilius breathed, clasping his hands together. "The socks must have synchronized with her auratic flow. Oh, Pandora, she's magnificent."
—
Down on the field, the match began with Algrim's booming voice. "Begin!"
Erik wasted no time. He charged forward like a bull, his massive sword cutting through the air with deadly intent. Luna tilted her head curiously, her silvery-blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight, and stepped lightly to the side. Erik's blade cleaved nothing but air.
"She's not even trying to fight yet," Susan murmured in awe from the stands, gripping the railing. "She's just… floating out there."
Draco, lounging with a practiced air of disinterest, raised an eyebrow. "More like confusing him to death. The guy doesn't know whether to hit her or ask her for dance lessons."
Neville chuckled nervously. "I don't think Erik's the dancing type."
—
Erik, clearly irritated by Luna's evasiveness, growled as he swung again. This time, he aimed lower, forcing Luna to twirl out of the way. The crowd gasped as she pivoted and turned, her footwork so light it looked as though her boots barely touched the ground.
From the stands, Xenophilius jumped up, pointing dramatically. "Look at her! She's mimicking the Veela spiral! I knew all those hours studying their courtship rituals would pay off!"
Pandora beamed, clapping her hands. "Oh, Xeno, do you think she's also using Nargle avoidance techniques? Look at how she's weaving—it's like she's predicting where they'll appear!"
"Brilliant observation, my love!" Xenophilius crowed. "She's dodging him the same way she dodges corrupted mistletoe every Yule!"
—
On the field, Luna moved with the calm serenity of a gentle stream. Her blade, slender and elegant, flashed in the light as she began to counter Erik's brute strength with surgical precision. She danced around him, her strikes landing on his armor with a soft clang, just enough to slow him without injuring. Erik's frustration mounted as he swung harder, faster, but Luna was always a step ahead, her movements flowing like water.
"You're infuriating," Erik muttered, panting as he swung wildly again. "Stop moving so much!"
"Oh, but moving is the fun part," Luna replied dreamily, ducking under another strike. "You should try it. Less like a mountain, more like a cloud."
—
In the stands, Pandora sighed blissfully, resting her chin in her hands. "She's so poetic, isn't she, Xeno? Did we ever tell her how important metaphors are in combat?"
"Of course we did," Xenophilius said, his eyes wide with pride. "But she takes it to another level. Did you hear that? She's not just fighting; she's philosophizing. Erik doesn't stand a chance."
—
Back on the field, Luna's patience paid off. Erik's movements grew slower, heavier. Seizing her moment, Luna sidestepped a downward swing and stepped in close, her blade slipping past his defenses to tap his shoulder. Erik stumbled, but before he could recover, Luna twirled around him, her sword flicking with almost playful precision. The tip of her blade found his wrist, disarming him with a soft clatter as his broadsword fell to the ground.
Before Erik could react, Luna's blade hovered an inch from his throat. The crowd erupted into applause, the sound almost deafening. Erik raised his hands in surrender, his chest heaving.
"Well fought," Luna said gently, lowering her sword and giving him a serene smile.
Erik blinked at her, momentarily stunned. "You're… incredible," he admitted, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Thank you," Luna said, tilting her head slightly. "You're very strong. Like a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, but less mysterious."
Erik stared at her, clearly unsure how to respond, and simply nodded before walking off the field.
—
Luna returned to her friends, her smile as bright as the sun. Susan launched herself at Luna, hugging her tightly. "You were amazing! I mean, I knew you were good, but wow! You made it look so easy!"
"You were like a butterfly," Neville added, his face lit with admiration. "Or… or maybe a dragonfly. So graceful."
Draco smirked. "And completely bonkers, as usual. Did you really compare that guy to a… whatever you just said?"
"Yes," Luna said with absolute sincerity. "It was a compliment."
Astrid grinned, shaking her head. "You're something else, Lovegood. That was a fight I'll remember."
—
Up in the stands, Xenophilius and Pandora were still buzzing with excitement. "She's a revelation!" Xenophilius declared, throwing his arms around Pandora. "Did you see the way she moved? Like the tides under a full moon!"
Pandora wiped a happy tear from her cheek. "Our Luna. Always turning every moment into magic."
"She's going to win this whole thing," Xenophilius said firmly. "I can feel it in my dirigible plums."
"Of course she is, Xeno. Of course she is."
—
Draco strode onto the field with an air of unshakable confidence, the faint smirk on his face daring the crowd to doubt him. His silvery hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his posture radiated a mix of aristocratic arrogance and calculated composure. Across from him stood Hjalmar, a towering Asgardian warrior with a broadsword almost as wide as Draco's torso. The crowd buzzed in anticipation, sensing the tension between the sleek tactician and the raw, hulking force of his opponent.
Hjalmar narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening around his sword. "You're awfully smug for someone who's about to be crushed."
Draco tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Crushed? Oh, how charming. I didn't realize the Asgardians let their court jesters compete. Tell me, Hjalmar, is your plan to bore me to death with your predictable footwork?"
Hjalmar's jaw clenched, and he charged without warning, his massive blade swinging downward in a deadly arc. Draco sidestepped lazily, as if the attack was a minor inconvenience. "Really? That's your opener?" he drawled, inspecting his nails. "You're just confirming every stereotype I've ever heard about Asgardians: all brawn, no brain."
—
In the stands, Narcissa Malfoy sat with her legs elegantly crossed, her icy blue eyes fixed on her son. She leaned slightly toward her sisters, a faint smile gracing her lips. "Look at him. Precision, grace, cunning—everything I taught him."
Bellatrix Lestrange lounged beside her, twirling a lock of her dark hair and grinning like a wolf. "He's toying with that oaf. Oh, I do love it when they underestimate us."
Andromeda Tonks, sitting on Narcissa's other side, raised an eyebrow. "You mean him, not us. Some of us don't revel in psychological warfare."
Narcissa's smile sharpened, but she didn't look away from the field. "It's not warfare, Andromeda. It's artistry."
On Narcissa's right, Fandral leaned forward, his golden hair catching the light as he clasped his hands. "I must admit," he said with a grin, "the boy has style. That tongue of his might be sharper than his blade."
Bellatrix chuckled darkly. "He gets that from me, obviously."
Andromeda snorted. "If by that you mean he's exhausting to listen to, then yes."
—
Back on the field, Hjalmar's frustration was mounting. He swung again, this time with more force, but Draco ducked and stepped lightly around him, circling like a predator. "Oh dear," Draco said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Did I touch a nerve? You're swinging that thing like a troll trying to swat a fly. Tell me, do you actually train for these things, or are you relying solely on brute force and wishful thinking?"
Hjalmar growled, his swings becoming wilder. Draco danced around each one, his blade occasionally flicking out to graze Hjalmar's arm or leg. "You might want to slow down," Draco advised, his tone almost bored. "You're sweating all over the field. It's embarrassing for both of us, really."
The crowd roared with laughter, and Hjalmar's face turned crimson. With a snarl, he lunged again, but Draco sidestepped, his own blade darting out to cut a shallow line across Hjalmar's side. The Asgardian stumbled back, glaring at Draco, who stood perfectly still, his sword resting casually at his side.
"Do you know what your problem is?" Draco asked, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "You think strength is everything. But strength without strategy is just a tantrum with muscles. And frankly, it's embarrassing to watch."
—
Narcissa leaned back in her seat, her expression as serene as ever. "He's dismantling that boy piece by piece. It's almost cruel."
Fandral laughed. "Almost. You must be so proud."
Narcissa's lips curved into a slight smile. "Oh, I am. He's my son, after all."
Bellatrix cackled, slapping her knee. "This is better than dueling practice! Look at that oaf—he doesn't even know what hit him."
Andromeda crossed her arms, but even she couldn't suppress a small smile. "Draco's confidence does seem... effective."
"Oh, it's not confidence, dear sister," Narcissa corrected smoothly. "It's certainty."
—
Hjalmar roared and charged one final time, but Draco was ready. With a precise twist of his wrist, he parried the blow and sent Hjalmar's sword flying across the field. Before the Asgardian could react, Draco stepped in close, his blade resting lightly against Hjalmar's throat.
"Yield," Draco commanded, his voice sharp and cold, his smirk firmly in place. "Unless you'd like me to carve my initials into your armor."
Hjalmar, panting and defeated, scowled but nodded. "I yield."
Draco stepped back, sheathing his sword with a flourish as the crowd erupted into thunderous applause. He turned on his heel and strode off the field, his smirk widening as he basked in the cheers.
—
As Draco returned to his friends, Haraldr clapped him on the back. "That was brutal. You didn't just win—you humiliated him."
"That was the point," Draco said, smoothing his hair. "Why settle for victory when you can make it memorable?"
Susan shook her head, though she couldn't hide her smile. "You're impossible, Malfoy."
Draco smirked. "Thank you. I do try."
—
In the stands, Narcissa rose gracefully, smoothing her immaculate robes. "Well, that was a delightful performance. Shall we celebrate?"
Bellatrix jumped to her feet, practically bouncing with glee. "Oh, let's! I've got a bottle of firewhisky with Draco's name on it."
Andromeda sighed, but she followed, shaking her head. "He really is your son, Narcissa."
Narcissa glanced back at the field, her eyes glittering with pride. "Yes. And isn't he magnificent?"
—
Viggo strode onto the field, his steps purposeful and his emerald eyes glinting with determination. The crowd quieted as they took in his opponent—Ragnvald, a boy from Vanaheim, his long, dark braid trailing down his back and his smirk sharp enough to cut steel.
"Ah, Viggo," Ragnvald greeted, rolling his shoulders as he drew his sword with a flourish. "Still trying to play hero, are you? I thought I taught you better the last time we met."
Viggo tilted his head, his signature smirk—a blend of confidence and playful defiance—spreading across his face. "Funny, Ragnvald. I was just thinking it's time I showed you what real training looks like. Try to keep up."
From the stands, Draco Malfoy, lounging with his arms crossed, muttered, "Oh, he's got this. Ragnvald doesn't stand a chance." Beside him, Luna Lovegood, dressed in flowing silver robes, tilted her head dreamily. "Ragnvald might surprise us, though. He looks like someone who's seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack and lived to tell the tale."
"Please, Luna," Susan Bones, radiant and composed, leaned forward with anticipation. "Viggo's sharper than Ragnvald will ever be. He'll outthink him."
On the field, the signal to begin rang out, and the warriors launched at each other like lightning bolts. Swords clashed, sparks flew, and the crowd gasped as Viggo and Ragnvald exchanged blows. Their movements were precise, their strikes calculated. Every swing of Ragnvald's blade was met with Viggo's shield or counterattack. It was clear they knew each other's styles well—too well.
"You're faster than before," Ragnvald grunted as their swords locked in a clash of strength, their faces inches apart.
"And you're still too slow," Viggo quipped, wrenching his sword free and twisting to deliver a sharp slash across Ragnvald's side. The Vanir staggered back, snarling, his hand flying to the shallow cut.
From the stands, Hannah Abbott, soft-spoken but fiercely loyal, gasped. "Did you see that? Viggo's timing was perfect!"
Draco smirked. "Of course it was. He's practically a Malfoy without the bloodline."
Ragnvald lunged again, this time with a flurry of aggressive strikes. Viggo matched him, step for step, blade for blade, his focus unyielding. "You always go for brute force when you're frustrated," Viggo said, his tone conversational. "It's almost predictable—almost."
The barb struck true, and Ragnvald's frustration grew. He roared, overextending in his swing, leaving himself open. Viggo capitalized, pivoting behind him with lightning speed and sweeping his leg, sending Ragnvald sprawling into the dirt.
From the sidelines, Bjorn, massive and fiery-haired, let out a booming laugh. "That's my brother-in-arms! Always three moves ahead."
Astrid, graceful yet fierce, leaned toward Sigrun, who was as red-haired as her brother but far more tactical in her demeanor. "Did you see how he baited Ragnvald? Brilliant."
"Classic Viggo," Sigrun replied, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
Ragnvald scrambled to his feet, desperation creeping into his strikes as Viggo toyed with him now, blocking and parrying effortlessly. "Give it up, Ragnvald," Viggo said coolly, sidestepping another attack. "The only thing you're proving is that you've got stamina—but no brains."
Finally, Viggo saw his moment. With a swift, decisive disarm, he sent Ragnvald's sword flying. Before the Vanir warrior could react, Viggo's blade was at his throat, his expression steely but calm. "Yield," he said, his voice low and commanding.
Ragnvald froze, then slowly raised his hands. "I yield," he growled, his voice dripping with reluctant respect. "Well fought, Viggo."
The crowd erupted, cheers echoing across the field. In the stands, Neville Longbottom, ever modest yet unwaveringly supportive, clapped enthusiastically. "He earned that. Viggo's always had the heart of a champion."
Back with his friends, Viggo was greeted with a barrage of congratulations. Leif, towering and broad-shouldered, clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "That was bloody brilliant, mate! You had him dancing in circles."
"Circles?" Draco drawled, tossing his blond hair. "Please. Viggo had him spinning like one of Luna's imaginary creatures."
"That's true," Luna chimed in, her smile serene. "But I think the Snorkack might have been more graceful."
Susan stepped forward, her blue eyes shining with pride. "You did it, Viggo. You kept your cool the entire time. That was incredible."
Viggo shrugged, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "What can I say? Ragnvald brings out the best in me. Or, at least, the better."
As they all laughed and watched the remaining matches, Viggo's victory served as a rallying point for the group. Inspired and united, they knew their own challenges lay ahead, but with each success, their bond only grew stronger.
—
Skadi strode onto the field, her expression sharp as a blade and her every movement radiating icy precision. The crowd hushed as they took in her opponent: Hrolf, a giant of a man from Vanaheim, his broad shoulders and thick arms making him seem more beast than human. He smirked as she approached, his massive axe resting easily across one shoulder.
"Well, this is disappointing," Hrolf drawled, his voice booming as he scanned her slight frame. "Sending a girl to face me? Guess they ran out of real warriors."
Skadi stopped a few feet from him, her pale blue eyes locking onto his like a predator sizing up prey. She didn't respond, her silence louder than any insult she could throw. The corners of her mouth twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk—a dangerous warning.
From the stands, Susan Bones, watching intently, leaned forward. "She's not even fazed," Susan murmured, her auburn hair glinting in the sunlight. "Look at her. It's like she's already won."
"Overconfidence," Draco Malfoy commented lazily, though his eyes flicked nervously between Skadi and Hrolf. "It's a thin line between calm and reckless."
"She's not reckless," Luna Lovegood added softly, her silver-blond hair shimmering in the breeze. "She's waiting for him to show his weakness."
The signal to begin was given, and Hrolf wasted no time, charging forward with a roar that shook the air. His axe came down with the force of a falling boulder, but Skadi moved before it landed, her body twisting gracefully to the side. The blade smashed into the ground where she'd stood, sending dirt flying, but she was already circling him, light on her feet.
"Hold still!" Hrolf barked, swinging again, only to meet empty air as Skadi danced out of reach.
"Why?" Skadi finally spoke, her voice calm and mocking. "So you can get lucky?"
The crowd chuckled, and Hrolf's face reddened with anger. He swung again, harder this time, his axe whistling through the air. Skadi ducked low, slipping under his guard with eerie ease. She didn't strike yet; she simply moved, her sword still resting lightly in her hand as she studied his every motion.
From the sidelines, Bjorn leaned forward, his red hair catching the sunlight. "She's baiting him," he said, his voice tinged with admiration. "He's big, but he's a brute. She knows it."
Hrolf, panting now, growled in frustration. "Fight me, damn you!"
Skadi tilted her head, her smirk widening. "I am fighting. You're just losing."
The insult landed harder than any blade. Enraged, Hrolf overextended with a wide, reckless swing. Skadi moved like a shadow, stepping in close and slicing her sword across his leg in a single, fluid motion. Blood welled as Hrolf stumbled, his roar of pain echoing across the field.
"She's surgical," Haraldr muttered in the stands, his green eyes narrowing. "Every move has a purpose."
"Scary, isn't it?" Susan added, her tone half in awe, half in concern.
On the field, Hrolf's movements were slowing. He swung again, but the weight of his axe was dragging him down, and Skadi saw it. She stepped in and struck again, a shallow cut across his arm this time. Her attacks weren't about inflicting damage—they were about breaking him, piece by piece.
"You're slowing down," she said coolly, circling him. "Not as strong as you look."
"You… little…" Hrolf growled, but his words faltered as he stumbled. Desperation crept into his strikes, each one more wild and unfocused than the last. Skadi waited, patient and calculating, until his next swing left him completely open. In a flash, she knocked the axe from his hands and brought her blade to his throat.
"It's over," she said, her tone devoid of triumph. To her, this was simply another step forward—another obstacle overcome.
Hrolf froze, his chest heaving as he stared at her with equal parts fury and grudging respect. "I yield," he spat, his voice thick with humiliation.
Skadi lowered her blade and turned without another glance at him. The crowd roared its approval, but she didn't seem to notice. Her focus was already elsewhere as she walked off the field, her steps as measured as when she entered.
Back in the stands, Astrid exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "She doesn't just win," Astrid said, her voice soft but firm. "She makes sure they know they never stood a chance."
"That's what worries me," Susan replied, her blue eyes tracking Skadi as she approached the waiting area. "There's something… unsettling about how focused she is. It's like she doesn't care about anyone else."
As Skadi reached the waiting area, her gaze landed briefly on Haraldr, who was watching her with a mixture of admiration and unease. Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles—not warm, not friendly, but calculating. Then, just as quickly, the smile was gone, and she turned away, her mind already analyzing her next challenge.
"Who is she?" Susan whispered, her unease growing. "And what does she really want?"
---
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