The arena, carved deep within the mountain heart of Tharvaldur, echoed with distant footsteps and murmuring voices. Soft beams of artificial sunlight—filtered through glowing mana crystals embedded in the ceiling—bathed the stone stands in a warm glow. The crowd had not yet reached full capacity, leaving room for quiet conversation.
Noel sat beside Balthor, both of them watching as the arena floor was cleaned and restructured by the staff.
Balthor leaned back with a smug grin. "Hey kid, you made me some good money. I knew you wouldn't lose. Keep it up."
Noel crossed his arms. "I told you—I don't like losing. I'm competitive by nature." He glanced at the field below. "And if I keep this up, maybe I'll start screwing with Torwan's plans. If someone from the Tharvaldur Institute of Arcane Might suddenly starts loses a match with me, it could rattle him."
Balthor raised an eyebrow. "You think that bastard's gonna mess up just 'cause he loses a bet?"
