The roar of the stadium felt like a physical weight pressing down from the bleachers, a chaotic wall of sound that vibrated through the stone floor. Yet, as the final horn blasted, a strange, suffocating quiet settled over the center of the arena.
Amara Okoye didn't rush forward. She didn't raise her carved bone staff or shout a battle cry. She simply planted the base of her staff into the dirt, closed her eyes, and exhaled.
The air around her warped. The temperature plummeted, and a faint, collective whisper echoed in the minds of everyone in the arena—a sound like dry leaves scraping across a tomb.
"The ancestors are awake," Amara said, her voice entirely conversational, completely devoid of the usual pre-fight adrenaline. "They see the board. They see the pieces."
