Back in the ring, Elaria breathed heavily, hair tousled from movement. Cuts lined her sleeves, though her flesh remained untouched. Her blades dripped with sweat and dust.
She had come expecting a show of dominance.
Instead, she was fighting for real.
She smiled.
"Come," she said, raising her swords again. "Show me what else you've got."
The captains charged again.
The spar had turned into a battlefield.
Elaria's movements changed. The grace in her steps sharpened into ruthless efficiency. She was no longer testing. She was fighting.
Lumberling narrowed his eyes. Beside him, Vaenyra's brows furrowed.
"…She's not holding back anymore," she whispered.
He didn't respond. He knew. The rhythm, the aura, the look in her eyes, it was no longer a spar. It was survival.
Grokk roared as he was struck again, his twin axes grinding against the ground as he knelt. But he rose. Bloody, battered, shoulders heaving, he rose.
