The silence was absolute. It pressed down on the Imperial Arena like a physical weight, heavier than the previous roar.
Ten thousand pairs of eyes stared, uncomprehending, at the scene in the sand.
Aile, pushing herself up on one elbow, surrounded by glittering shards of her own sword, ruined leather from her bracer hanging loose, the fractured breastplate a testament to an unseen force.
Darien Voss stood frozen a few paces away, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror, his own pristine blade held uselessly before him.
He looked less like a victor and more like a startled rabbit caught in a hunter's lantern.
The herald's stammered question – "W-What happened?!" – hung in the air, unanswered, amplifying the bewilderment.
One of the three judges, an elderly man with a neatly trimmed white beard, cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud.
