Aira looked like she had nothing else to say after she heard Zyren speak. Her mouth pressed into a firm line, her eyes dull with fatigue. She simply stood beside him in silence, even as the cheers and applause around them grew louder—sickeningly loud. It grated against her skull like the clanging of blades. Each shout was a celebration of bloodshed, echoing like a war drum in her chest.
Intermittently, her gaze would flick toward the arena below, where blood smeared the sand in dark, drying patches. From one moment to the next, she'd catch glimpses of broken bodies being dragged out, limbs limp and twisted. Sometimes, it wasn't the defeated that left—sometimes it was the victor too, collapsing under the weight of their own wounds. The scent of iron drifted up from the pit, subtle but enough to churn her stomach.
