The hall was in an uproar. Voices tumbled over each other, shouting names, numbers, curses. Metallic clanging, dull thuds, the smell of sweat and blood. Lina stood frozen, fingers cramped around the strap of her backpack.
Alaric was lying on the ground.
For a moment, everything seemed to stand still. Even the crowd fell silent briefly, as if someone had held their breath. Then jubilation erupted like a storm. The opponent raised his fists high, grinning blood-smeared, and somewhere beside Lina, someone laughed harshly. "That's it."
"No," she whispered. Her voice was lost in the crowd, but in her head it was loud. No. You get up. You must.
She pushed forward, through shoulders, through voices. The smell of beer and dust cut into her throat. The ring was only a few meters away, the ropes gleaming in the harsh light. She saw the blood on the mat, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
The referee began to count. "One... two..."
Lina held her breath.
"Three... four..."
