The shout rose from the stands—sharp, spiteful, the kind of voice that wants a crowd to bend to its anger.
"She used magic on that sword! And she used it while fighting! That's not fair!" the man yelled, and it spread like dry tinder.
Heads turned, lips peeled back in suspicion, insults ricocheted down the rows. The accusation was precise, murderous. They wanted a sin to point at, an excuse to tear me down.
I let the laugh roll out of me—short, incredulous, a sound that tasted like whiskey and amused contempt.
If I used magic, did they think I would let the cut on my cheek happen?
I respected the rules of the sword session, as far as I was concerned.
The fellow who spat the claim looked ridiculous by the way, veins standing at his temple, eyes wild with the satisfaction of being heard. His face was flushed, raw with the hunger of the mob. A few men nearby nodded, mouths hard, and others joined him, fingers thrown wide like they had discovered a religion.
