Voices. Applause. Stomping. Screaming.
“Messina!”
“Matteo!”
“La bestia!”
I stagger forward, one foot dragging slightly, eyes scanning the sea of chaos, looking for only one thing, her.
And then I see her.
In the far edge of the crowd. Eyes full. Hands over her mouth. Her tears are not from fear anymore, but from something else.
Relief.
I raise my hand again, not for them, but for her. The roar grows louder. I should collapse. I should pass out.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Not until I’m by her side.
Because I didn’t fight this hard just to win.
I fought to survive for her.
And the silence?
It belongs to them now.
They know what it means when a Messina doesn’t fall.
The air in my lungs is sharp glass, each breath rattling like broken teeth. I can still taste copper on the back of my tongue. The crowd roars around me, the Messina name burned into the arena floor like a brand of defiance.
But I don’t hear any of it.
I only see her.
Aoife.
Our eyes lock.
Relief. Fear. Something between prayer and pain flickers in her.
I step toward her.
One. Two.
My family all celebrating at my win, jumping around and laughing.
Aoife steps forward, eyes brimming. Mouth parting like she’s about to say my name.
Then—
I see the Irish crowding her, not just Conor, there are a few of them.
They close in like shadows too fast to outrun.
