The hall rang with silence after the final blow.
Eira stood over Sylas, victorious, sweat dripping down her temples and blood smearing her lip. Sylas lay stretched out, arms splayed, chest heaving shallow breaths. For a heartbeat, Avin thought neither of them would rise again.
And then, without warning, Eira's legs buckled. She dropped beside him, slumping against the floor with a long groan. The two of them lay there shoulder to shoulder—bruised, battered, utterly spent.
Avin sat forward, lips parted. What the hell did I just watch?
That wasn't a duel. That was a war compressed into a handful of minutes. He could still see Sylas's calm, brutal fists hammering Eira's face. He could still see her wild grin when she knocked him to the floor. Every strike had sounded like a drumbeat in Avin's chest.
Now, both combatants just… laid there.
