Sylvie’s POV:
Unlike number ten, who had surrendered with a tap-out, number nine was feisty, a wiry man in a blue tunic. He spun and parried, seemingly unwilling to tap out at any moment. His movements, though less refined than Hawke’s, were fueled by a desperate, almost feral energy. He snarled, lunging with his spear, forcing Hawke to move with quick, precise dodges.
In the meantime, my peripheral vision caught a blur of movement. A blue team member, number twelve, had cunningly outmaneuvered his own opponent, and was now sprinting across the arena. He lunged, his spear spearing through number two in the green team with a sickening wet thud. Number two crumpled, a lifeless heap on the blood-stained earth.
Shit. What is he doing?! My internal shout was a desperate plea. Hawke was so fo
