The arena's roar had softened to a hum, as if the crowds were catching their breath. Long gone were the days of easy victories and early dominance—this was a battlefield of equals now. The stone floor bore the scars: glowing seams patched with magic, fissures sprawling across its expanse, dust motes dancing in the dim light. The barrier above flickered, and the distant torches flashed in rhythm with the crowd's heartbeat.
Darius Wycliffe leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, observing. His eyes tracked every dancer, every fighter, as the battered arena filled with the next pair. Internal reflection stirred—a balance between pride and regret:
"I spent so much time writing Lucien's enemies… I never stopped to admire how skilled the others had to be to stand beside him."
