A thick wall of killing cold grinding across the arena floor with the patience of a glacier. The frost climbing the steps of Jeren's elevated platform in fractal patterns, temperature dropping with every passing second, the air thickening into something that stung the lungs and turned breath to crystal.
Jeren did not move. He stood his face contorted in anger and annoyance as he stared at the group.
Whether that was composure or something else, Akhil couldn't tell in the moment. The man stood exactly as he had before—fan folded in his fingers, mask in place, posture carrying that infuriating performance of effortless control. But his eyes, visible above the mask, had changed. The theatrical gleam was gone.
Something colder had replaced it, though not the kind of cold currently eating its way toward him.
The kind that came from calculation.
'He's waiting,' Akhil realized. 'He's not running because he knows he doesn't have to.'
The frost reached the base of Jeren's platform.
