The doors at the top of the arena opened.
Tiberon Drakenfell descended the steps with the unhurried authority of a man who had been commanding rooms since before the people in them were born. His eyes moved across the arena floor in a single sweep: Serena, blade in hand, breathing hard, hair plastered to her forehead. Thane and Calder, both carrying the posture of men who had been working and were satisfied with the work. Hale against the wall. Elara in the front row.
He gave Thane a nod. Gave Calder the same.
Both captains returned the nod and stepped back from the floor.
Serena's grip tightened on the blade. Her red eyes widened by a fraction, the surprise visible before she could mask it, because King Tiberon Drakenfell walking into a secondary training arena and nodding her captains off the floor was a sequence of events she had failed to anticipate and was rapidly trying to interpret.
"Your Majesty, I—"
