"That is enough for today."
Tiberon's voice carried across the field with the finality of a man closing a book. His arms were clasped behind his back. His posture was unchanged from the first minute of the session. Thirty minutes of cat-slapping, seven takedowns, one gladiator speech, and a twelve-second spite-shift had produced zero visible wear on the King of Drakenfell's composure, which was either a testament to his discipline or evidence that he had stopped being surprised by anything decades ago.
"SHIFT, Serena."
White light. Six seconds. The last de-shift of the session hit her body like a closing tab on a bar bill that had been accumulating for an hour. Serena landed on her hands and knees, panting, nose bleeding again, every muscle filing its resignation simultaneously.
She stayed down for four seconds this time. Then stood. Her hands found her knees and she bent forward, breathing in ragged pulls, her hair hanging around her face in sweat-damp curtains.
