The Weight of Seven Minutes
The arena went silent.
The runes ignited brighter.
A clock of light formed above them.
The first second began to tick.
Victor rolled his shoulders once. Slow. Controlled. As if settling invisible armor around himself.
He tilted his head slightly, feeling the faint tremor traveling up through the iron platform and into his boots.
Then he planted his feet.
The metal beneath him felt alive — cold, heavy, pulsing. The rising pillars that ringed the circular platform locked into place with a low, grinding hum. Heat from the runes crawled along the air like a living thing, kissing his skin, burning without consuming.
Victor lifted his gaze.
Garron stood where he had emerged — a walking fortress. Motionless. Towering. Breath steady. Massive arms hanging loose at his sides, as if gravity itself bowed to him.
"Come," Victor said, voice calm but edged with something sharp. "I'm ready for your attack."
