Avin sat rooted to the bench, unable to blink, unable to breathe.
Across from him, the two nobles squared off.
Eira dropped into a stance—basic but grounded. Her left leg slid forward, bent just enough to take weight, while her right stayed behind, angled outward, supporting balance. Her fists hovered in front of her chest, loose but ready. For someone who'd just been spouting curses and losing focus seconds earlier, her eyes were different now—razor-sharp, locked on her target.
Sylas, by contrast, moved like a man who'd practiced every gesture thousands of times. He raised his hands into a closed-guard stance. His right fist tucked near his cheek, his left angled just slightly ahead, guarding the lane toward his body. Both knees bent fractionally, distributing his weight evenly. He looked like a fortress—calm, steady, immovable.
The air shifted.
