Arena Match
The arena wasn’t a cave with torches but a training dome—glass ceiling, LED rings, cameras hidden in the rafters. The mat was striped: white yield circle, blue weapons lane. A med team waited behind the plexiglass. A referee in black stood midline, mic in hand.
Talia rolled her shoulders, still feeling Aunt Amalia’s crash course in her bones: tap, listen, feel for seams. Across from her, Mira stretched like a gymnast trained for an audience. She picked a saber and a hooked knife—sharp, stylish, mean.
“Rules are simple,” the referee intoned. “First to yield loses. No killing. Weapons are allowed. Cameras rolling.”
Lucian takes the high bench with the elders; Casius stands a step behind his right shoulder. Alina slides into the row below beside Aunt Amalia. Without looking do
