The arena wasn't like the training yards.
It was older. Meaner.
Columns ringed the edge, carved with old dueling crests from before the last civil war. The sand was dark—stained deep with ash and blood. The crowd sat high above, loud but distant, their voices blending into a kind of storm overhead.
Leon stepped through the outer gate.
No applause.
Just murmurs.
Some were surprised he came. Others disappointed.
He didn't look at them.
Didn't need to.
His pulse held steady. Blade in hand. The gauntlets Rellan had given him bit into his wrists. His breath was short from warmups, but his stance felt good—low, measured.
Across the ring, his opponent dropped his robe.
Tall. Pale. Eyes black as obsidian.
The monk from the northern provinces.
He didn't bow. Just rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and stepped into the center like it already belonged to him.
The instructor's voice rang out:
"Leon Thorne of House Thorne…"
The crowd shifted.
"Versus Kael of the Iron Path."
