Biscuit saw the announcer's face bloom across the ghostly screens and something in him cracked clean through.
Too familiar. Too close to a life he had buried.
He opened his mouth like he meant to breathe, then his eyes rolled back and he folded, heartache taking him faster than any blade.
Shears and Thimbles, living the life that was supposed to have been promised to them.
The small drama did not slow the floor.
In the dark, participants were already moving, shadows pushing through shadows, feet scuffing grit, breath loud in their own ears.
Ropefist. Twenty three, with a small house to his name, and no woman willing to chain herself to a mortal when cultivators walked around like living answers.
He carried two bundles of rope at his hips the way other men carried swords.
He unfurled them as he jogged, quick hands feeding cord through cord until he had gloves wrapped thick around his fists, though it used only a quarter of what he owned.
