The roar of the crowd dimmed to a muted thrum in Edran's ears as he stepped onto the obsidian tiles of the Heaven-Seizing Combat Array. The etched runes beneath his boots pulsed faintly, their glow syncing with the slow beat of his heart.
Across the circle stood his opponent.
Kael Varrow.
Tall, lean, and unnervingly still. His black-and-silver dueling robes hung neatly from his frame, untouched by wind or dust. He held no weapon in hand—only a short, slender blade sheathed at his side, its lacquered scabbard marked with tiny sigils too fine for the casual eye to notice. His posture was balanced, weight perfectly centered, like a man who had rehearsed the act of killing a thousand times in silence.
Their eyes met.
Kael's gaze was not a glare, nor a challenge—it was a slow, methodical examination. He wasn't looking at Edran's face. He was tracing his stance, the way his shoulders carried weight, the faint tension in his hands.
A dissector, Edran thought. Not a brawler. Every move I make, he'll record and file away for later.
The announcer's voice echoed somewhere high above them, but the words were irrelevant.
---
"Edran Kaelith," Kael Varrow said at last, his voice calm, smooth, and dangerously quiet. "You walk as though your feet don't trust the ground."
Edran tilted his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying the observation. "And you watch as though you're afraid of what you'll miss."
A faint twitch at the corner of Kael's mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
Between them, the runes of the Array brightened, the formation stirring like a beast sensing its prey. Threads of silver qi coiled through the air, not yet snapping into full activation.
Kael shifted his stance a fraction—left foot forward, right hand resting loosely on his sword's hilt. Not an opening stance for attack, but for interception.
He was daring Edran to move first.
---
The audience leaned forward in their seats. Somewhere in the stands, Lira of House Selvan sat like a statue, eyes unblinking. Taren, by contrast, was leaning on the railing, grinning like he'd paid for front-row entertainment.
Edran breathed slow, deep. His qi circulated lazily, deliberately muted, like a river running beneath layers of ice. No leaks, no flares. Nothing Kael could read beyond the surface.
The Varrow heir took a single step forward, the movement so measured it barely disturbed the dust. His voice carried just enough to reach Edran's ears.
"You mask your presence well," Kael murmured. "Too well. Which means you're either stronger than you seem… or weaker than you'd like me to think."
"And you?" Edran replied. "You speak like a man who already knows the ending to this story."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Stories are written by those who survive them."
---
The Array's glow intensified, the runes humming louder. Now the air between them carried weight—charged, heavy, like the moment before lightning struck.
Kael's hand slid an inch along his sword's hilt. Edran's fingers flexed once at his side.
Neither moved.
The tension grew unbearable. The crowd's noise blurred into a single heartbeat of sound.
Then Kael's blade whispered free of its sheath—not a shout of steel, but the quiet promise of something sharp and final. The moment the edge cleared, the Array surged to full power, silver light erupting upward in a pillar around the two fighters.
Edran's eyes narrowed. He wants my first move.
Kael waited, still as death, sword angled low, tip aimed at Edran's right knee. An unorthodox opening—not guarding his center, but threatening a crippling blow if Edran closed distance.
Seconds stretched into eternity.
And then—
Edran moved.
A single step, but the dust beneath his boot scattered like dry leaves, and his qi pulsed once, sharp enough to ripple the Array's glow. Kael's eyes lit—not with surprise, but with calculation.
Their clash began.