Ellarine stood at the edge of the barracks rooftop, arms crossed, staring at the arena below where workers still scrubbed blood from the dirt.
The match had ended hours ago.
But she couldn't stop seeing it.
The moment Atheon's fist went through the halberd.
The crack of the axe-wielder's skull.
The way the Fist of Men had moved—not like a soldier, but like some caged monster unleashed.
"Still thinking about it?"
Ella turned.
Corporal Jace stood behind her—one of her squadmates, older by a few years, with the kind of tired eyes that came from too many patrols and too little sleep.
"Hard not to," Ella replied quietly.
Jace walked over, leaning against the railing beside her. "I've never seen an adept lose control like that. Not in Vester. Not anywhere."
"He didn't lose control," Ella said. "He *
chose to let go."
Jace raised an eyebrow. "That's a generous interpretation."
