Darkness still cloaked Northaven when Soren slipped from his quarters, the shard cold against his chest like a sliver of winter trapped beneath his skin. His body protested with each step, muscles stiff from yesterday's battles, cuts throbbing beneath their bandages.
Sleep had come in fitful bursts, haunted by Kaelor's warning: 'Trescan will have watched. Studied. He'll come prepared for chaos.'
The tournament grounds lay empty, abandoned after yesterday's bloodshed. Mist curled across the sand like ghostly fingers, catching the faint light of stars not yet chased away by dawn. The nobles' banners hung limp in the still air, Velrane's silver wolf, Trescan's crimson falcon, each a silent sentinel to the coming day's violence.
