Finally, he sheathed his blade, breathing hard as he surveyed the pattern his boots had traced in the sand. Blood dripped from his fingertips, small dark spots marking his path like breadcrumbs leading back to this moment of clarity.
The shard pulsed faintly against his chest, its rhythm matching his slowing heartbeat. Valenna's presence softened slightly, though her voice remained winter-cold as it brushed against his thoughts.
"One cut, placed true, can end the patient man," she whispered. "Remember that when he tries to measure you."
Soren nodded, flexing his bleeding hands. He wasn't ready—not truly, not completely. But he was sharper than before, honed by understanding what had previously been instinct.
He walked away from the practice ground as the first servants appeared, come to prepare the arena for the day's matches. They stared at his bloodied hands, at the dark stains on his clothes, but said nothing as he passed.
