The weight of the arena pressed in from all sides—thick and molten, like the heat trapped inside a sealed forge. Luca had already stepped forward, his body angled toward the arena floor, resolve written across the set of his shoulders. Murmurs rippled among dwarves and humans alike, all eyes converging on him as the expected next challenger.
But then—
A hand closed around his wrist.
Not roughly.
Not desperately.
Just firm enough to halt his momentum.
Luca blinked in surprise and turned.
Sylthara stood behind him, and for a heartbeat he wondered if the firelight flickering across her skin was a trick of the dwarven mana lamps—because her obsidian-colored skin seemed almost to absorb the surrounding light, giving her an otherworldly silhouette. Silver hair spilled down her back like a waterfall of starlight, catching the faint glimmers of mana in the air. Her golden eyes, normally sharp with feline alertness, were steady and striking now, focused entirely on him.
