(Winter's POV)
She turned from the empty window where Zulan had stood, from the rage that still simmered in her chest like banked coals, and walked toward the ring that dominated the courtyard's center. The structure rose from the stone like a physical assertion of power, sand-colored walls enclosing violence that would be witnessed and sanctioned by the gathered packs. Up close, the scale became apparent in ways that distant observation couldn't capture.
The platform stood three feet high, walled with pale granite that had been polished smooth by generations of combatants' shoulders and blood. The stone would prevent escape but allow spectators clear sightlines from every angle—no blind spots, no privacy, no place to hide weakness or fear. Above, the afternoon sun angled through the gap
