"Next". The sharp bark of the instructor's voice snapped Zephyr out of his thoughts like a whip. His shoulders twitched slightly before he sat straighter, blinking at the loosely formed combat circle in front of him.
The instructor stood in the center like a weathered monument—stone-faced and built like one too. He was a member of the Vermilion Clan, and the distinct features made that fact impossible to miss— murky yellow hair that looked like burnt gold left out in a storm, sun-tanned skin crisscrossed with old battle scars, and an Aether presence so thick it made the air feel sluggish around him. Zephyr didn't know his name and wasn't interested in asking.
His eyes, narrow and dull like aging amber, scanned the crowd with quiet contempt, as if everyone here had already failed him before even lifting a weapon.
"Get in the ring," the man said again, and this time Oliver trudged over to Zephyr's side, wincing as he moved.
