The arena was suffocating in its silence.
A deep, oppressive stillness weighed on Ian's chest as he stared down Joras, whose stance was poised, every muscle in his body an intricate balance of control and aggression.
For a fleeting moment, Ian felt it—the scrape of doubt clawing at the edges of his confidence.
This man—this champion—was more than he had anticipated.
Stronger, faster, more lethal than the ones before him.
Joras's sabers gleamed with cold, deadly intent.
He stood there like a storm contained in a man, every fiber of his being preparing to strike with precision.
The crowd's roar had turned into a low hum of anticipation, their eyes fixed on the center of the arena.
Ian's breath came slow, measured.
The heat of the battle still clung to him, but now, there was a new tension.
Every muscle in his body screamed for action, for the fight to begin, yet he could not shake the feeling that every step, every move, would be watched, weighed.
