The arena still burned in my bones. Even after the clash, even after the silence that followed steel against steel and the final cry that had cut through the circle, I could still hear the echo of it inside my chest. The duel had ended, but its ghost lingered in the marrow of my body, in the twitch of my fingers, in the metallic sting at the back of my throat. Victory had not felt like triumph. It had felt like swallowing fire.
The circle of ash around me had not yet cooled. The wards, though dimming, still shimmered faintly in the air, like the breath of a dying god reluctant to abandon its creation. I stood at the center, my boots planted in soil carved and scarred by spells and blood. My hand trembled on the hilt of my sword, though whether from exhaustion or grief I could not tell.
