The floating arena trembled under the roar of thousands of voices. Magic lights glared from every
corner, washing the marble floor in swirling blues and golds. Banners of each Tower rippled in
invisible currents of wind and mana.
Ethan stood alone on the bright marble stage, eyes narrowed, the distant echo of the crowd
somehow muffled in his ears. His dark cloak fluttered behind him as the wind swept through the
open coliseum.
From across the arena, Lyra—the Wind Tower's first-generation prodigy—strolled forward, hips
swaying with casual arrogance. She was tall, lithe, her jade-green hair whipping around her face
like living streamers. Her eyes were sharp and crystalline, glinting like knives as she regarded
Ethan with barely contained scorn.
"So you're the Dark Tower's great hope, huh?" she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You
don't look like much. Honestly… all that talk, and you're just another pretty boy with a sword."
