The stone platform settles with a low grind, and the two teams step into the arena.
The crowd leans forward.
At the center of the field, the heir of the Nighthorn Clan stands tall—Dvrick, wrapped in a black coat of scaled leather and cold iron, blades strapped across his back in an X-shape. His eyes, dark and unreadable, land directly on Velira.
"Velira," he says evenly, voice low but clear enough for the arena's magic to carry it, "our clans have been on good terms for years."
Velira keeps walking. No hesitation. Her boots echo against the stone.
He narrows his eyes slightly. "But I won't go easy on you."
Velira stops a few paces from him.
The arena's lights catch the dark metal of her armored coat, the bow slung over her shoulder reflecting a faint violet hue.
She meets his gaze without flinching. "Fine by me," she replies coolly. "It's not like I ever wanted you to."
