The arena floor was cold stone beneath Vencian's boots. He flexed his fingers around the practice staff, testing its weight. Lighter than he expected. The wood was smooth, polished by countless previous matches.
Around him, his teammates moved through their own preparations. Rapheldor stood at the center, spine straight, already wearing the mantle of command like a second skin. Tor and Varon clustered near the eastern marker, voices low as they discussed angles of approach. Hamlen and Detar checked their Gage-rings, the ceremonial bronze bands gleaming on their upper arms.
Vencian touched his own rings. Two on each arm. Four points of failure. The metal was cool, thin enough to shatter under a proper strike but sturdy enough to withstand incidental contact. He'd seen matches before. Breaking them required precision, force, and the split-second vulnerability that came with close combat.
