The day of reckoning had arrived—at least, that was how the narrative had been sold.
The arena had never been this full.
Every seat—stone bench, wooden plank, cushioned chair—was occupied. Soldiers pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along the upper rails. Fledglings crowded the lower tiers, craning their necks for a better view. Even the administrative staff had abandoned their desks, drawn by the magnetic pull of what was about to happen.
This wasn't just another Trial match.
This was a declaration.
Adept versus Adept.
Atheon versus Vaelith.
The Fist of Men versus the Silver Tongue.
The atmosphere thrummed with tension so thick it felt like breathing through cloth.
-----
Bright stood in the mid-tier section with his squad, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the arena floor below.
Duncan leaned against the railing beside him."You think Atheon can win? I mean… he's called the Fist of Men for a reason."
"I don't know," Bright admitted quietly. "But I hope he does."
