The sands of the Arena had already been painted red.
Now they were thirsty.
Both fighters clashed many times before they pulled back.
Torkas' axe dragged behind him, carving a long furrow through the arena floor as he closed in on Ian with an expression that was neither glee nor fury—just cold expectation.
Like a man already measuring where to bury the body.
Across from him, Ian adjusted his stance, breathing ragged but steady.
The crimson flicker of Bloodflame danced along one dagger, while the other pulsed faintly with a deeper, hungry darkness—Vowbreaker, awakened.
Even so, Ian had not yet called upon its full wrath.
He was still holding back.
From the noble stands, Velrosa leaned forward, eyes glinting behind her veil of poise. Next to her, Eli was still as a statue, arms crossed, lips pressed into a tight line.
Ian's gaze flicked upward—and in that moment, Eli moved.
A slow nod. Subtle. But unmistakable.
Now.
Ian inhaled.
