The sound of the arena drums had already faded, replaced by the hum of the festival’s commercial district. Colorful tents lined the streets, filled with spices, rare fabrics, rune-forged weapons, and even magical jewelry.

  The air was a mix of fresh bread, incense, and sweat.

  Lukas walked slowly, hands in his pockets, just observing. His body still carried the weight of the last trial, but his mind was calm.

  He stopped before a stand selling tiny gladiator figurines — some poorly painted, others just ridiculous.

  “Look at that!” — a young noble’s mocking voice rang out behind him.

  “The failure who thinks he’s a hero just because he survived a few trials.”

  Two others laughed loudly, forcing their arrogance into the noise.

  “I bet he’ll fall flat on his face in the next one.”

  Lukas turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of their expensive clothes and inflated pride — then turned back to the figurines.

  “….” He sighed. Not a single muscle in his face moved.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you, bastard!” one of them barked, offended by his silence.

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  Before the scene could escalate, a shadow fell beside Lukas.

  Sarya Veyrunn.

  Tight armor, bow on her back, long red braid swinging at her hips. Her amber eyes locked onto the nobles — sharp and cold.

  “If he were really what you say,” she said, voice steady, “you wouldn’t be speaking so softly.”

  Silence hit like a stone.

  The nobles hesitated, then muttered curses and vanished into the crowd.

  Only then did Lukas glance at her.

  “You didn’t have to step in.”

  “I know,” Sarya replied. “But you didn’t have to ignore them either.”

  “I ignore what doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “And they don’t.”

  She studied him for a few seconds, but didn’t argue.

  That was when two familiar voices broke through the noise of the market.

  “Lukas!”

  Besouro was pushing through the crowd, looking proud as ever, carrying a sack of fruit like it was treasure.

  Beside him, Akemi, the quiet girl with sharp eyes and a faint smile, balanced a tray of rice cakes wrapped in leaves.

  “There’s the hero of the day!” Besouro grinned, raising the fruit in salute.

  “Can’t leave without tasting the best the market has to offer!”

  Akemi smiled softly. “And I came to make sure he doesn’t get lost among… temptations.”

  Lukas shrugged, the corner of his mouth hinting at a smile.

  “You two seem more interested in food than in the trials.”

  “Food is war, brother.” Besouro replied seriously — before biting into the fruit.

  Sarya watched in silence, but there was something new in her amber gaze — as if she was measuring not just Lukas, but the bonds around him.

  César’s voice echoed in Lukas’s mind:

  > “Those two trust you too much… interesting.”

  Morgana laughed, sultry as ever:

  > “And the elf is watching too. Are you going to pretend you didn’t notice, chocolatinho?”

  Lukas ignored them, taking one of the rice cakes Akemi offered.

  For a few moments, the weight of the arena felt far away.

  There, in the middle of the market — between ignored provocations, loyal friends, and glances he didn’t want to interpret — he could breathe.

  But deep down, he knew it was only the calm before the next storm.

  End of Chapter 8