The arena roared like a living beast, its voice rising in waves as Rondan stepped into the blinding sunlight.
The heat hit him first—dry, merciless, and unyielding. The scent of iron and dust clung to the air, the perfume of battles fought and lost on these sands.
He could still feel the mark on his chest, burning faintly beneath the leather straps of his armor. Each heartbeat seemed to feed it, a pulse of strange power threading through his muscles.
From the opposite gate emerged his opponent—tall, draped in crimson cloth, wielding a curved blade that caught the light like fire. The crowd cheered his name: Varek the Blade Dancer.
Varek's smile was thin, confident. "I've heard of you, Northern boy. They say you fight with the stubbornness of your people. Let's see how long that lasts."
The gong sounded.
Varek moved first—a blur of motion, his blade flashing in intricate arcs. Rondan's instincts screamed, but something else moved him faster than thought. His body bent, twisted, evaded, as if the mark itself guided his steps.
Steel met steel with a sharp cry. The impact rattled his arm, but power surged from his chest into his grip, steadying him. He countered, his strike heavier than it should have been.
Varek staggered back, eyes narrowing. "You're faster than they said…"
The battle became a whirlwind. Sand erupted under their boots, weapons sang, and the crowd screamed for blood. With every exchange, the mark's fire grew hotter, urging Rondan to push harder, faster—until the fight became less about skill and more about surrendering to that strange rhythm.
In a sudden clash, Rondan's blade knocked Varek's weapon high into the air. Without thinking, his free hand shot forward, palm burning with the mark's light. The energy burst out, striking Varek square in the chest and sending him sprawling into the sand.
The arena went silent for a breath. Then the crowd erupted.
Varek lay coughing, too stunned to rise. The announcer's voice thundered above:
"Victory to Rondan of the Northern Plains!"
Rondan stood there, chest heaving, the cheers washing over him. Yet inside, he felt no triumph—only the heat of the mark, whispering that this was only the beginning.
High above in the shaded stands, a cloaked figure watched him with unreadable eyes. And somewhere beneath the arena, in the darkness of the east catacombs, Leina waited.
Tonight, the real fight would begin.