The Solar-Forged Edge, The Royal Vanguard
The morning sun shone down on the Colosseum like a spotlight.
A hundred thousand fans filled every available seat. The air buzzed with noise, chatter, betting slips, and the smell of roasted meat from the vendor stalls. Banners fluttered from the upper rafters, half of them royal gold, half of them mismatched and homemade, scribbled with names like "TEAM SOUP" and "SLUM BOY."
Emric walked next to Holden. He had his shield ready on one arm, and his other hand twitching at his side.
"Statistically speaking, the Semi-Finals are where most non-Capital teams completely collapse," he said, his voice tight. "The mental pressure alone slows down your reaction time by about twelve percent. Not to mention the Crown Vanguard has a winning streak of forty-seven straight matches across three whole seasons."
