The arena did not move.
No one spoke.
After everything that had been said—after choices were redrawn, after the rules themselves had been bent and reshaped—the world seemed to pause, suspended between breaths. Broken stone lay where it had fallen, ash drifting slowly enough to be counted, as though even gravity was waiting to see what Durgan Blackvein would do next.
Every gaze fixed on him.
Dwarven elders hovered in silence, their expressions carved from tension and restraint. Human nobles leaned forward without realizing it, hands gripping armrests too tightly. Reporters forgot their quills, their lenses, their questions—because no one wanted to miss the next word.
Luca met Durgan's eyes.
Despite the blood drying on his face.
Despite the dull ache screaming through his bones.
Despite the fact that he was standing upright on nothing but stubborn will.
