The glowing [Siphon Interface: Insecurity Spike Detected: Siphon 10% Complete.] text hovered above Liska’s head, unseen by Yulva. The air in the hidden archive, thick with moldering paper, turned dense. Remorse pricked Yulva’s ribs like cold iron. It was sharp, unfamiliar, and undeniably real. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” Yulva’s voice trailed off, her extended hand hovering uselessly. Liska’s head snapped up, tears still tracking paths through the grime on her cheeks. A flicker—too quick to identify—crossed her eyes, then was gone, replaced by fresh sorrow. “It’s fine, Yulva. You… you wouldn’t understand.” Liska drew back with theatrical precision, stepping out of reach. “It’s just… so loud. The chime in my head never quits. Every tone drills straight into my temples.” She clutched her head again, swaying theatrically. “I just want it to stop.” Janko slammed an oversized catalog shut with a sharp crack of leather. “Hold on, Liska! You mean that phantom whine? The pitch only you register?” His eyes, usually dancing with wild theories, narrowed. “That sounds suspiciously like the auditory feedback loop described in the ‘Codex of the Whispering Spires’! They say it’s a symptom of—” “Janko, please,” Liska interrupted, her voice rising in pitch, a perfect blend of irritation and distress. “Now isn’t the time for your… fancies. Can’t you see Yulva is trying to comfort me?” Janko, however, remained fixed on Liska. “The texts warn it heralds the Mind-Warping Weave! They tested it on pupils caught cheating the pitch trials until their ears bled!” Liska threw her hands up, the picture of exasperated suffering. “See, Yulva? No one takes me seriously. No one understands what I’m going through.” She turned back to Yulva, her eyes welling up again. “Perhaps… perhaps if I could just learn a little more from you, Yulva. If I could grasp even a fraction of your talent, maybe I could quiet the noise. A demonstration match, perhaps? On the central tiers? Just so I can study your technique?” Yulva blinked slowly. A match? Now? Her lids weighed like lead coins. The prick of guilt dissolved beneath a deadening, leaden stupor—not the cozy urge to doze, but an acrid void scraping her marrow. Every muscle dragged like wet lime. “A duel?” Yulva rubbed her temples, barely parting her jaw. “Liska, I can hardly stand.” An hour ago she had been comfortably drowsy; now her marrow felt completely looted. “It would be productive!” Liska pressed. “The instructors could evaluate us, and it would repair your standing after the mishap with the tuning-sphere.” Janko snorted. “A sisterly review? Liska, your so-called reviews usually end with your partner's eyebrows singed by harmonic backfire.” “Janko!” Liska snapped, dropping her sweetness. “Quiet down! This will help her!” Yulva’s ribs deflated. Bickering demanded far too much breath, and managing Liska’s wounded pouting would consume hours. “Fine,” she mumbled. “Quickly. I need sleep.” [Siphon Interface: Host Accepted Challenge. Odds of Siphon Success: 70%.] The Grand Arena lay draped in damp mist, its tiered granite rings slick with condensation. Bioluminescent moss glowed faintly against the balustrades under a dull gray sky. Several proctors took benches near the pit beside an audience of onlookers who had trailed the sisters outside. Janko sat in the very first row, muttering furiously to himself, occasionally pointing a finger at Liska on stage and then at the sky, as if accusing unseen entities. “A strict demonstration of pitch!” boomed Master Varrick, adjusting his metal collar as sound rolled across the wet flagstones. “Control and projection only. First to break cadence or yield steps down.” He gestured to Yulva and Liska, standing at opposite ends of the raised circular stage. Yulva rested her shoulder against a damp pillar, eyes half-shut. She reached out mentally for the subterranean hum of the municipal grid, the constant vibrational baseline she usually plucked like twine. Nothing stirred. The canal was dry. A cold knot tightened in her throat. Liska took center ring with taut, eager shoulders. She pursed her lips and cut loose a shrill whistle tuned to the granite floor. The air rippled, condensing into a jagged azure dart that shot straight for Yulva. Yulva raised an arm to hum a canceling chord. Only a raspy hiss escaped her throat. The azure dart struck her palm without mass, rattling her arm bones and setting her molars chattering. She stumbled back. Her resonance was flat dead. [Siphon Interface: Host Dominating. Talent Extraction Rate Increased to 15% per minute.] Liska curled her fingers, drawing a deep, droning crimson ribbon from the air. The pitch coiled around Yulva, squeezing the breath from her ribs. Yulva dug into her sternum for any stray note, finding only barren silence. On the lower bench, Janko dropped his notes, jaw slack. Liska unleashed a clattering flurry of bright tones, an overlapping hail of dissonance meant to overwhelm the ear. The clashing chords hammered Yulva’s balance, sapping whatever strength kept her upright until she slumped against the pillar. Then a strange quiet filled the gap. The numbness ceased being an absence; it turned into a vast, inert baseline. An absolute refusal to strive. Yulva stopped pushing. She opened her jaw and released a slow, flat sigh—a hollow draft of non-effort that carried a deadened tone of absolute zero. The dull exhalation rolled across the flagstones. Liska’s crimson ribbons dissolved to gray vapor; her harmonic barrage choked out mid-flight. Liska grabbed her skull as the inner chime pitched into an unbearable shriek. The runic interface above her forehead twisted, green glyphs warping to an angry crimson before fracturing. [Siphon Interface: Critical Error! Host Overload! Attempting to Absorb Pure Apathy! System Integrity Compromised!] The script shattered into dark green embers. A shrill, piercing squeal tore out of Liska herself, forcing the proctors to clamp their palms over their ears. Liska dropped to her knees on the cold flagstones, gasping against the stone floor. The pavilion went dead quiet except for ragged breathing. Yulva leaned hard against the column, hollowed out to the skin. Her acoustic spark remained vanished. It was not mere fatigue; someone had drained her dry. The prospect of the Hollowing—the silent surgery that converted spent youth into mute accumulators for the municipal generators—loomed over her. If her spark did not return, she would be queued for the operating slab. For once, staying passive meant destruction. She had to move.

The Amphitheater Duel