Amidst the roar of the crowd and their panting breaths, the battles grew fiercer.
Valerian, his breath cold despite the rising tension. In front of him, that strange girl stood lightly.
He said nothing, only drew his dagger from its sheath.
His first step wasn't surprising, but faint, as if walking on the edge of dreams. But the second... didn't exist.
A phantom stab.
The girl didn't see a thing. There was no trace of movement, just a flicker, and a sudden gust of air brushing her neck. But she pulled back at the last moment, her body bending like a dancer on stage, not a duelist in an arena.
"Fast..." she whispered to herself, her lips barely moving.
"She's light... very light."
Valerian thought, launching again. Each strike, each move, came more from instinct than strategy. He let his subconscious lead, let instinct decide.
From the high stands, eyes were watching.
King Yaram, his hands clasped over his knees, back straight, and his eyes never leaving the field.
