Keith's fists were cracked and bleeding. The bones in his knuckles groaned with every twitch. His breathing came in short, savage bursts—his chest heaving as sweat soaked the collar of his tattered uniform. He stood across the broken stone platform, legs spread wide, fists raised in a battered boxer's stance. His eye, nearly swollen shut, glared at Elius with a mix of pain, resolve… and deep, unspoken resentment.
Elius stood silently, watching him. The wind blew strands of his hair across his face, but he didn't flinch. His breath was steady, his robes fluttering gently. His swords hovered in a slow orbit behind his back, their points gleaming with the blood of those already defeated.
"Keith," he said at last, his voice soft but unyielding. "This is over. You don't have to keep fighting."
Keith didn't lower his fists. His lip curled into a sneer, blood spilling over his teeth. "Then why the hell… are you still standing?"
