The third morning of the tournament preliminaries brought a crisp, unforgiving glare to the central arena. Ren Montclair stood at the edge of the stone boundary, the chatter of the gathering spectators already building into a restless roar. He adjusted the leather grip of his practice sword, his knuckles pale as the weight of the upcoming match settled firmly onto his shoulders.
Lena stepped up beside him, her posture rigid. Her eyes darted across the arena floor, studying the angles and sightlines not like a fellow student, but like a royal guard searching for assassins.
"Move away from the ring, Lena," Ren said, keeping his voice low but leaving no room for argument.
Lena frowned, her hand resting instinctively near the pommel of her own sword. "If he pushes the tempo too fast, or if the referee misses an illegal follow-through—"
