The nobles' viewing gallery overlooked the arena like a theater box designed for gods.
Rich carpets muffled footsteps. Crystal decanters caught the afternoon light, scattering rainbows across polished marble. Cushioned seats—far more comfortable than the stone benches the common soldiers sat on—were arranged in careful hierarchies, each position a statement of rank and influence.
This was where vassals came to hunt.
Not for beasts.
For talent.
Lady Corrine Veylin sat near the center, wine glass balanced delicately in one hand, eyes sharp despite her relaxed posture. She wore the colors of House Veylin—deep emerald trimmed with silver—and carried herself with the casual authority of someone born into power.
Beside her sat Sergeant Marcus Thane, broader and rougher around the edges. His armor was ceremonial but functional, the kind worn by someone who'd actually used it.
"Your Golden Spears performed adequately," Sergeant Marcus said, not quite a compliment.
