Below them, Yise stood at the center of the arena, dust and sunlight clinging to him, the crowd chanting his name.
Metheea remained seated for a moment longer.
The arena had risen around him. Men shouted from the lower stands. Women waved handkerchiefs and ribbons from behind carved railings. In the noble section, approval came with more restraint, but restraint did little to hide interest. Heads bent together. Fans lifted.
Several young lords who had cheered for their own champions now clapped with the stiff courtesy of those who understood when a result could no longer be disputed.
Yise lowered his sword.
Blood marked the side of his armor, and one shoulder plate had shifted from the last blow. Sand clung to his boots and the torn edge of his cloak. Even so, he turned toward the high dais with care, chin raised, spine straight, his breathing controlled beneath the damage done to him.
When he knelt, the crowd answered at once.
