The challenger's quarters turn out to be little more than a bare stone room off the side of the arena, a single torch guttering in one corner, a rack of mismatched, well-used armor along the far wall and a low bench where Lucien has already discarded three failed attempts at a proper fit.
Distant crowd noise seeps in through the walls, growing steadily louder as the arena fills.
Lucien stands in the middle of it, trying on one piece of armor after another while Serenith floats nearby, offering a steady stream of terrible, sarcastic suggestions on how he might still talk his way out of this.
"You could try crying," she says. "Wolves respect tears. Probably."
"I actually might."
"Or piss in your pants!" Serenith barks, laughing. "Nobody fights a man that pissed his pants."
