"…Hope the brat at least knows how to hold a sword."
Arcten muttered the words as he stepped into the West Arena, coat half-buttoned and sleep still clinging to the edges of his skull. The mana lanterns flickered in protest above him—dim things, barely brighter than the moonlight spilling through the open dome.
The cold bit at his fingers, the damp chill of pre-dawn seeping through the seams of his gloves.
The field was quiet. Still.
Perfect.
He rolled his neck with a dull crack and paced across the outer ring, his boots brushing loose grit along the carved stone. Runes pulsed faintly beneath his feet—old academy enchantments meant to monitor injuries and suppress lethal intent. Good enough for safety. Worthless for real combat.
But this wasn't about real combat, was it?
This was theater.
The kind with paperwork and scorecards and preloaded expectations.
