Silence shattered—sharp, splintered, wrong.
Not the hush of breath caught between strikes, but a brittle stillness that cracked the rhythm of battle and left the air raw.
A crater still smoked at the far edge of the arena, cracked stone spider webbing out from the point of impact like the mark of a god's hammer. Vaerin Stormont's body hung on the wall like a forgotten relic. Armor broken. Pride broken. His name — for now — broken.
Caelith stood where he'd landed after delivering the debilitating blow. His boot settled flat in the sand. Ashthorn still hung at his side, pulsing faintly with Rejection. His cloak swayed in the dead wind, but he hadn't moved an inch.
He didn't need to.
Everyone else had.
Serika Varendel's posture had changed first. Her spine straightened, not from tension but from readiness.
