For the audience, the combatants looked less like people and more like fleeting shadows—appearing and vanishing in the haze like restless ghosts.
Edwin staggered back a step, his chest rising and falling heavily. He coughed, his throat dry from the dust that hung in the arena.
With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat pouring down his brow, but it did little to clear his vision. His arm ached painfully, a dull throb that pulsed with every heartbeat.
Martis's last greatsword strike had rattled his bones even through the blade he'd used to block.
Across from him, Elysia stood with her sword in hand, her figure steady but strained. Her breathing was sharp and uneven, each inhale and exhale cutting through the silence between clashes.
The constant pressure of spells had left its mark—her hands trembled slightly, fingers twitching as if reluctant to grip the weapon any longer.
