[The Tournament—Continuation]
The arena did not cheer as she climbed the steps.
It watched.
Stone tiers fell into a hush so complete that even the banners seemed to still, their embroidered suns frozen mid-billow. The dust had not yet settled upon the field, yet the air above the Malika's dais stood untouched—sacred, held apart from the roar below.
Lady Arinaya ascended without haste.
Her armor bore the scars of battle—gold marred by dust and blood—but her spine was straight, her steps deliberate. The red rose lay cradled in her hand, its petals uncrushed despite the violence that had birthed its offering.
Levin rose.
Not fully.
Not yet.
Protocol demanded restraint—but instinct pulled him forward all the same. When she reached the final step, Lady Arinaya stopped.
She did not bow at once; instead, she lifted her gaze.
Crimson met blue.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that exchange—a Malika and an real heir forged by war and oath, measuring not strength, but truth.
