The western approach to the arena smelled of leather and hot iron.
Vencian moved through the armory's outer galleries, past workbenches cluttered with buckles and straps, past boys hauling crates of practice weapons toward the staging halls. The air hummed with noise. Hammers rang against steel. Someone barked orders about replacing a cracked breastplate before the next match.
The space felt functional. Not crowded, but alive with movement.
A narrow stairway led upward along the arena's inner curve. The maintenance walkway. Originally built for stagehands, armor runners, prop handlers, medics. Anyone who needed quick access to the field without trampling through the noble galleries.
Young nobles had discovered it years ago.
The view was better. Direct downward angle. The crowd's roar vibrated through the stone walls. The regular seating felt sterile by comparison.
