His flare Ikona hovered close — a dull, steady pulse of red just behind his shoulder.
He didn't speak often.
But now, under the monitors' glare and the coiled silence pressing down on the arena, his voice finally came.
"He'll fight for us," Wes said quietly.
"Even now."
The words weren't loud. But they cut through the air like an ember in dry brush. Elias heard them. Felt them. Just enough to anchor his feet in the gravel.
All around, the silence broke.
Not fully. Not all at once.
But the Shard Users on the upper platforms had begun to shift — turning, leaning, exchanging low words behind raised hands.
Murmurs.
Sharp and soft.
Speculation, dread, and that growing, hungering pull for violence.
No cheers. No shouts.
Just the quiet sound of people watching a story close its jaws.
The arena took it all in. Like it was breathing with them now.
Elias could feel it in the floor. In his spine.
Then came the Crafter.
