The sun hung low over the Proving Grounds, casting long, bloody shadows across the churned earth of the arena. The cheering had died. The chanting had stopped. The air was so thick with tension it felt like breathing water.
The scoreboard burned with a silent, judging light: Iron-Clad: 2 – Azurefall: 2.
It all came down to this.
On the Azurefall side, Kaelan sat heavily on the bench, his chest heaving, his one arm trembling from the aftershocks of his victory. Lia stood beside him, her hands glowing faintly as she knit the worst of his bruises, but her eyes never left the ring. Ilya leaned against the wall, her face pale, her silver eyes narrowed in calculation.
"He's big," Ilya murmured, watching the Northern champion stretch. "But Dain is solid. It's force against mass."
"It's not just mass," Kaelan whispered, watching Torian's armor vent steam. "Look at the sword. The hilt. It's vibrating."
