The priest's final benediction hung in the air like the last note of a funeral dirge. Then—nothing. No cheers, no murmurs, not even the hiss of the wind. The arena had become a held breath, a coiled spring waiting to snap.
Gone were the colorful banners, the raucous laughter, the cheering nobles . What remained was something primal—the raw, ugly anticipation of violence.
Across the soon to be blood-red sands, two men stood beneath the pitiless sun.
Talek looked like a boy playing at war. His armor—scuffed, ill-fitted, the pauldrons sitting awkwardly on his narrow shoulders—seemed borrowed from some older, broader knight.
Rage had carried him here. White-hot, righteous, blinding rage. But rage was a flame, and flames burned out. Now, standing before the man who had butchered his father, Talek felt the fire gutter. In its place rose something colder, heavier.
Fear.
And worse—shame.
