The arena floor had been reset.
Fresh stone compound filled the cracks Drex's final pressure strike had left behind, the spiderweb fractures sealed and smoothed until the surface looked clean again from the stands. The crew had been efficient—four minutes, same as before—and the crowd had spent those four minutes doing what crowds did between fights at a tournament like this. Talking. Arguing. Replaying the moments that had already happened and building predictions about the moments that hadn't.
The name Azula was moving through the neutral sections with a particular energy.
Not the heavy territorial energy that Dravenfall names carried. Not the warm home-crowd energy that Aurelius names produced. Something more electric—the energy of a name that had been anticipated, that people had arrived today specifically wanting to see, that carried expectation rather than loyalty.
The announcer felt it from his position above the floor.
