Esgard's Crucible was a cathedral of screams.
Sunlight beat down on the open arena, baking blood into the sand until the scent of iron clung to every breath.
Thousands filled the stone-ringed stands, their voices rising like a living storm — gamblers, nobles, merchants, beggars.
All drawn by the same ancient hunger: the thrill of watching men and women kill each other for glory.
It was Arena Day.
Ian sat in the elevated shadowed booth overlooking the Blood League ring, his gaze cool beneath the hooded cloak he wore to avoid the attention of the crowd.
Beside him, dressed in her flowing crimson and obsidian, sat Velrosa Lionarde, sipping chilled wine as if she weren't perched above a battlefield.
Her expression was unreadable, her silver hair pinned back like a crown of moonlight.
Below, the sand was already thick with it.
Two warriors circled each other — one wielding twin sickles, the other a chainblade that hissed with flame every time it struck the air.
