"Oh God, oh God, oh God...."Coach Viriam stood before the assembled team in what was, objectively speaking, an excellent locker room. Polished wood lockers lined the walls, each bearing brass nameplates and the Lireth Academy crest. The floors were polished marble, and soft lighting emanated from crystal fixtures that suggested someone had taken interior design very seriously indeed.It was, in every measurable way, significantly nicer than their usual facilities.Which made Coach Viriam's obvious distress all the more pronounced."Right," Viriam said, clearing his throat. "So."He stared at his clipboard for approximately seventeen seconds, during which time the only sound was Talef methodically cracking his knuckles, what might have been Serena testing her gauntlets against her locker, and the distant roar of the crowd filtering through the walls above them—a constant rumble punctuated by occasional eruptions of enthusiasm."This is it," Viriam continued, with the air of a man announcing his own execution. "The tournament. The actual tournament. Which we are in. Participating."Hugo shifted on the bench, which was sturdy enough to support his massive frame without complaint. Through the walls, another wave of crowd noise rolled down—cheering, stomping, what sounded like organized chanting."Coach, are you—" Hugo began."Fine," Viriam said quickly. "Perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? My mother always said..." He trailed off, blinking rapidly as another burst of crowd noise penetrated the room. "No, that's not important right now."Adom examined his gauntlets with detached interest. The coach had been exhibiting signs of acute nervous collapse for the better part of an hour, which was impressive considering they'd only been in the building for twenty minutes."The thing is," Viriam said, beginning to pace across the generous space available, "nobody expected us to qualify. Nobody. Including (...)