The arena burned beneath the late afternoon sun. Heat shimmered across the polished stone floor, bending the air into wavering distortions that made everything seem slightly unreal. The walls glowed faintly from the trapped warmth, and the scent of sweat and steel clung heavily in the air. It was suffocating, but familiar.
I tightened my grip around my sword.
The leather hilt pressed against my palm, worn smooth in some places and rough in others, molded by months of relentless use. It steadied me, anchoring me in the present, reminding me that I was still standing—even if every part of my body begged me not to be.
Pain pulsed through me in slow, deliberate waves. My muscles screamed from overuse, bruises layered beneath my skin like fading shadows, and even the smallest movement tugged
