The walk toward the arena felt longer than it should have.
The path cut through stone corridors newly reforged, the walls still faintly warm, runes along the surface glowing with a restrained, disciplined light. Luca walked at the center, his pace steady, his posture straight—not rigid, not defiant—simply resolved. The black and white sabers rested at his sides, quiet, almost solemn, as if they too understood where he was going.
No one spoke at first.
Kyle walked slightly behind him, hands shoved into his pockets, his usual swagger absent. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed ahead, occasionally flicking toward Luca's back before snapping forward again, as if afraid that saying anything might fracture the fragile balance holding the moment together.
