Charles trailed Dren and the group through the clan's corridors, feeling the disciples' stares drilling into his back.
Their constant murmurs filled the air, and though he tried to ignore them, he couldn't help overhearing some remarks.
"This guy's toast," one whispered, chuckling softly. "Dren's gonna flatten him."
"What element do you think he's got?" another asked, curious. "No one challenges a Mentor without a trump card."
"Probably just a loudmouth," a third scoffed. "Look at him. Doesn't even seem like a real fighter."
Charles clenched his fists, staying calm.
'Let them talk,' he thought. 'We'll see who laughs last.'
They arrived at the secondary arena, a smaller circular space than the main one, with weathered stone walls and a packed dirt floor.
More people were there than Charles expected: fighters and servants gathered in small clusters, chatting.
The crowd caught him off guard.
