The morning after the patrol, Bright found himself wandering the eastern market district—a sprawling maze of stalls, supply depots, and administrative offices where workers and soldiers mingled in the brief hours before duty called.
He wasn't looking for anything specific.
Just… walking.
Thinking.
Trying to make sense of what he'd witnessed in the arena.
"Bright?"
He turned.
Bessia stood a few feet away, holding a small bundle wrapped in cloth—rations, probably, or medical supplies.
She looked different than she had at Grim Hollow. Healthier. Less haunted.
But her eyes still carried that weight—the kind that came from seeing too much death too young.
"Bessia," Bright said, surprised. "I didn't know you were… here."
"Supply run," she replied, gesturing to the bundle. "My squad needed some bandages. Figured I'd handle it."
They stood in awkward silence for a moment.
Then Bessia stepped closer. "I heard about your next match. Crimson Fang."
