The silence after the drop of blood was unlike any before.
It didn't just hush the crowd.
It muted the arena itself.
No wind. No breath. Even the flickering remnants of magic paused, as if unsure they still belonged here.
Aurex Vykrall stood with a single drop of blood on his neck, his scimitar lowered. His gaze never left the one who had struck him.
Caelith, ribs cracked, arm shaking, Ashthorn hanging low in his grip, didn't move. He didn't have to.
The moment had already shifted.
And everyone knew it.
Aurex raised one hand.
The proctors who had begun to move, already mid-step with spells ready to halt the duel, froze.
The nobles in the stands leaned forward as one.
The champions still standing, heirs and elites alike, watched not as contenders, but as witnesses.
The prince's voice followed — low, direct, unquestionable.
"I name you my sworn brother."
The words dropped like iron into still water.
A pause.
A beat.
And then—
