"Then we'd better be prepared," I say, reaching for a finely crafted rapier among the other weapons. The leather hilt is soft and warm against my palm, the steel edge and tip wickedly sharp. I test its weight, finding it perfectly balanced. "One real weapon each, and we sabotage the rest?"

Mireen nods, her eyes lighting up with a mixture of determination and grim satisfaction.

Everyone steps forward and claims a sharpened, weighted version of their weapon of choice to replace their blunted and lighter training weapons. Ambrose picks up a weapon for Beck and Brunhild to deliver to them later. Raith collects a few extras for his fires as well.

"Ollie. Do your thing," Mireen says. The small elemental materializes in a swirl of blue energy.

"Typhon," I add, glancing at my elemental who hovers nearby in his flying fish disguise.

"It is beneath my dignity," Typhon grumbles in my mind. "But I suppose I can assist. Though I would rather simply devour all the weapons. And possibly the humans who would wield them against you."

"Subtlety, Typhon. We're going for subtlety."

"Subtlety is overrated," he replies, but drifts toward the weapons rack anyway.

Ambrose examines the cache methodically, his eyes widening at the quality of the steel as the elementals get to work.

"Definitely military grade," Raith says, holding a flat sword in one hand and testing its weight before setting it back down.

"Expensive," Ambrose agrees, lifting a long knife and checking its balance. "Someone with resources is backing Malakai. The cost to buy all this? It would fund the construction of a small estate. And that's not mentioning the political power needed to make it happen."

Typhon and Ollie target the metal's structural integrity, inducing rust that spreads from within like a disease. Typhon, despite his complaints, proves remarkably effective at weakening blades by altering their internal structure without visible signs.

Raith tests their work, lightly swinging a sword against the stone floor, where it shatters into dust upon impact. "Good," he says, pursing his lips appreciatively.

"Twenty-eight daggers, fifteen swords, twelve bows with arrows—all compromised," Ambrose recites with quiet satisfaction. "Should significantly reduce casualties during the Crucible."

"No," Raith says, still inspecting his new sword. "It just changes who dies."

"But if we win the fight against Malakai,” Mireen says. “We'll have the windborne to deal with..."

She’s right. If Serena’s right, then the Crucible is a fight for something bigger than any of us. A fight powerful people don’t want us to survive.

Raith speaks, voice quiet but everybody’s attention snaps to him. “We’ll fight. It’s all we can do. We know the stakes. We know what’s coming. The only thing we can do is show up and fucking face it.”

Typhon suddenly goes alert, his small fish form darting in agitated circles. "Someone approaches," he warns, his mental voice sharp with urgency.

"Typhon says someone's coming."