The elder's arm dropped. The air inside the Grand Competition Grounds shifted—not with sound but with weight. It pressed against the skin, against breath, against the space between heartbeats. Robert Osborn stepped onto the stage, boots touching stone that still carried the heat and scars of Essie's battle.
Across from him, Conner Brooks rolled his neck once, loose and confident, the sword already in his hand. His grin was wide and unguarded, the grin of someone who had never doubted the outcome of a fight.
The crowd buzzed, low and restless.
"Conner's at Peak Stage…"
"That Osborn boy only showed Level Four before, right?"
"This will not take long."
Robert stopped at the center line. He drew a slow breath, then another, letting the noise fade until it became distant, irrelevant. The stone beneath his feet felt solid. Familiar. Like a place he had already walked in his mind.
Then he let go.
