The tournament continued like a bone-grinding machine.
With each call from the scribes, the sound of the runes activating filled the arena with a bluish glow that reflected on tense faces. Men rose from their seats, each step carrying pride, fear, or arrogance, and walked into the fighting circles. The crowd grew larger by the moment, thirsty for spectacle. Nobles and commoners mingled in the stands, cheering, betting, shouting names they didn't even know, just eager to see someone fall.
The metallic smell of blood began to linger in the air, even with the runes protecting lives. The blood didn't kill, but it marked, reminding everyone that every blow was real, every wound a price.
Strax stood still, like an uncrowned king, watching from his elevated position. His golden eyes gleamed amid the blue torches, absorbing every detail. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, a rhythm only he understood.
