The silence of the arena was heavy, broken only by the crackle of cooling glass and the distant, rumbles from the falling pieces of block outside the Arena. Aden stood up, slowly and crookedly, his bare torso glowing with the fading heat of the Thermal Shock lines.
His eyes darted around as his left arm slowly rubbed his shoulder and quickly snapped it back into place. Giving a small hum of praise to the architectural strength of the Arena, he exhaled and stepped forward.
He looked toward the Platinum Tier. Shattered glass clung to the frames like jagged teeth. From behind the wreckage of the central suite, a figure stepped forward—not Kaelen, but a man in white ceremonial robes, holding a staff that hummed with a light that felt older even than the Tetrarchy's suicide.
Aden's eyebrows furrowed. "What's an old man like you doing here?"
