Author's Notes:

Apologies again for the long gap between updates. I would do a recap, but considering I just did one for the previous chapter, it might just be better to go back and reread that (heck, you might be better off rereading from the start, if you've got the time/patience, given how many hiatuses this fic has seen). I was hoping to have this story finished by the end of this year, but it doesn't look like I'm going to be making that goal. Nevertheless, I hope to finish it sooner rather than later.

On a separate note, if any of you happen to have read The October Daye series by Seanan McGuire, I've started posting a series of drabbles in that fandom over on AO3. And if you haven't read The October Daye books, I highly recommend them. The series follows a changeling (half-human, half-fae) knight, October, who solves kidnappings and murders while unraveling secrets about her heritage as the daughter of Amandine the Liar, the most famous bloodworker in Faerie. It also has an excellent slow-burn found family arc, for those of you who are into that kind of thing (which is probably most of you, since that's one of the main draws of TRC). Anyway, it's a really small fandom, but I've already got a couple short fics planned for it, so if any of you want to follow me over on AO3, that's what I've been up to lately (username is cinderstorm).

Thanks, everyone, for your patience and support! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Twelve

They stay until the last traces of sunrise fade from the sky, then slip out of the drainage pipe and down the ladder that brought them there. "I'll see you tomorrow, right?" Ryuuo asks as they return to the streets. "After the next round?"

They both hear the question Ryuuo is really asking—it's the same question he asked the first time Syaoran left his apartment, except this time, Syaoran knows the answer. "Tomorrow," he promises.

Ryuuo's answering smile warms him down to his bones.

They part ways, Ryuuo heading for his apartment, Syaoran for the inn. It takes only minutes for his insecurities to start creeping back in the absence of Ryuuo's company, but he's already avoided returning long enough. It doesn't matter whether anyone is waiting for him; he has responsibilities to see to.

Their room at the inn is dark when he steps across the threshold, the curtains drawn against the pale, artificial light of the streetlamps. Syaoran locks the door behind him and slips out of his shoes, taking care not to make too much noise.

He's halfway to the couch before he sees the figure perched on the armrest. His body shifts into a fighting stance without a conscious thought, magic tingling in his fingertips as he prepares to draw his sword, but then the figure looks up and Syaoran recognizes Fai by the startling blue of his eye.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" A smile ghosts across Fai's face as he lifts a half-empty bottle of liquor from the coffee table and pours himself a shot.

Syaoran eases out of his fighting stance, shame knotting in his stomach. "Sorry. I thought . . ."

"You thought I was someone else?" Fai guesses. "An intruder, perhaps?"

He shrugs, uncomfortable. If anyone is an intruder here, it's him, but that's not exactly a point he wants to bring up.

Fai swirls the liquor in his glass. "You disappeared after the last match. We looked for you in the lounges, but you weren't there."

And there it is—the accusation. The knot of shame tightens into a hard lump. His gaze drops to his feet. "I'm sorry. I should have told you where I was going."

A silence falls between them, broken by the faint clink of ice in Fai's glass. Syaoran braces himself, holding his breath as if that will make Fai's next words bearable. "Sakura was worried about you."

He flinches. "I—"

"We're all worried about you," Fai continues, the words cutting into Syaoran like wires. "It's one thing for you to slip away during the Spectacle; no one blames you for that. But you've been avoiding us as well. And then there was that confrontation the other night, with the councilman's son. Ryon, I think his name is?" Fai shakes his head, as if it hardly matters. "It's all a bit concerning."

Syaoran bows his head. He was prepared for frustration, even contempt, but not this. He doesn't know how to explain that he's unworthy of their concern. "I'm sorry. I won't leave without telling you again."

He can feel Fai's gaze on him, but he can't bring himself to meet the other man's stare. After a moment, Fai sets his glass down and rises gracefully to his feet. "You should get some rest. The next round is tomorrow."

Syaoran nods. Fai regards him a moment more, then brushes past him with a whisper of parting air, leaving him alone in the dark.

"All participants will be required to wear one of these during their matches," the attendant says, balancing a silver collar between her fingertips. It gleams like quicksilver in the dimness of the tunnel, eerily luminescent.

"What is it?" one of the other participants asks, eyes fixed on the collar as if she's afraid it will bite her. She's right to be wary. Syaoran doesn't know what the collar does, but if the magic shivering within it is any indication, it's nothing good. Beside him, Sakura stands tense, her attention focused on the attendant's face as if by not looking at the collar, she'll be able to ignore the wrongness singing through the metal.

"It's a shock collar of sorts," the attendant says. "Today's trial will consist of several elimination rounds, during which each team will face each other in a game of Crowns. Whenever your team ends up with a losing hand, the dealer overseeing the table will activate the collar, sending a jolt of pain through one member of the losing pair. These shocks will grow progressively more intense with each loss, reaching their maximum strength after ten hands. The game ends when one team reaches that point or chooses to withdraw, and the winner at each table continues to the next match, until only four teams are left."

So it's a game of endurance, Syaoran thinks, glancing at Sakura before turning his attention back to the attendant. "You said only one member of the losing pair will receive a shock from the collar. How is the recipient chosen?"

"They volunteer, of course." The woman gives a careless shrug. "Once the dealer confirms the losing hand, a pair of buttons will light up in front of the losing pair. Whoever presses their button first receives the shock. If one of the buttons isn't pressed within fifteen seconds, it is considered an automatic forfeit, and the opposing team moves on to the next round."

She pauses a beat, surveying the crowd in case any of them have further questions. None of them do. "In order to keep things moving, we'll have several tables operating concurrently. As with yesterday's trial, each team will draw lots to determine where they are to be seated and when. The top four teams will move on to the final round, where they will have a chance to win the grand prize."

There's nothing more to say after that. Syaoran glances to the side, but Sakura's expression is impassive, her gaze steady as she lines up to receive her shock collar. Syaoran almost asks her if she's sure about this, but he knows the answer: she will see this through, no matter the cost.

As they near the front of the line, he inspects the shock collars laid out on the table in front of them. Up close, the silvery material flickers oddly, solid one moment, translucent the next. He never learned any illusion magic—by the time he was old enough for that kind of subtlety, he'd already left his home world—and this isn't quite an illusion. But it's . . . strange, the way the collars flicker between real and unreal depending on the resonance of their magic. As if they're nothing but magic, transformed by some undefinable process into metal.

The collar feels real in his hands, though, cool and smooth against his skin. There's a little jolt as it closes around his neck, an unpleasant buzz that races along the filaments of his nerves. His skin prickles at the sensation, but it subsides after a moment to a distant vibration. Beside him, Sakura rises onto her tiptoes, her fingers flexing as the clasp clicks shut.

"You'll be seated at table three," the attendant says, handing Sakura a slip of paper. "Your first match will begin in a few minutes."

"Thank you." Sakura folds the slip in half and makes her way to the gate. Syaoran trails after her, running his fingers along the inside of his collar. The seam beneath the clasp is gone, the collar a solid ring around his neck, inescapable.

It's not the same, he tells himself. The magic of this collar is nothing next to the spells that held him in stasis, nothing like the strings of runes that bound his limbs in place as he floated in his glass prison. He could snap the fragile threads of magic with a flick of his will, though the resulting shrapnel would probably leave him bleeding out on the floor.

It still takes everything in him not to start clawing at his neck.

Sakura regards him with concern, her hand half-raised as if to reach out to him. He shifts back a step. "I'm all right."

She drops her hand, lacing her fingers in front of her body. "It's because of our magic, I think," she says, and it takes her eyes flickering to the other contestants for him to understand what she means. No one else seems particularly bothered. A few are even chatting near the snack table, nibbling on scones or sipping liquor from dainty shot glasses. He looks back to Sakura, noting the tense lines around her eyes, the thinness of her lips, and it helps, knowing he's not the only one discomfited by their collar.

"Right." He squares his shoulders, looking out at the arena. Beneath the rumble of the crowd, he can hear the whir of machinery as the platform descends into the pit. As it comes into view, the portcullis separating them from the arena rises, and an attendant approaches to escort them to their table. There are four of them along the circumference of the platform, equidistant from one another to ensure everyone in the audience will have a decent view of at least one of the tables.

Once the first wave of players have all been seated, the platform begins its ascent. Syaoran scans the crowd until he finds Kurogane and Fai among the sea of strangers. They've claimed one of the benches in the front row, close enough that Syaoran can see Mokona perched in Fai's lap, perfectly still, like a stuffed animal. She and Fai both smile, Mokona with more sincerity, while Kurogane offers only a grave nod.

Syaoran returns the gesture, not trusting his ability to smile with any conviction, then searches the rest of the crowd for the familiar shock of red-brown hair.

"Who are you looking for?" Sakura asks, voice low.

"No one," Syaoran says quickly, dragging his focus away from the audience.

"Your friend from before?" Sakura asks. His surprise must be apparent, because she clarifies. "Before the first round, when the announcers were introducing us, you waved to someone in the crowd. When I asked about it, you said he was a friend."

"Oh." He'd forgotten about that. "Right."

He says nothing more, and Sakura doesn't press. They have more immediate concerns. Syaoran recognizes their opponents from the previous round, but they haven't stood out enough to catch his attention. He knows nothing of their particular play styles or strategies. But then, he doesn't need to—Sakura's luck is what will see them through to the next round. So long as they play competently, their opponents' strategies won't make much difference.

The announcer's opening remarks are winding down. Syaoran casts one final glance about the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Ryuuo, but there are too many faces, and as their dealer takes his place at the table, he's forced to abandon his search. He'll meet up with Ryuuo later, in one of the lounges.

"All right," the dealer says, shuffling his deck of cards. "Let's begin."