The bell rang twice.
That was the first blade under the cloth.
The second problem was that no one screamed.
Screaming would have been useful. Screaming gave fear a direction. Screaming told witnesses where to look, which exits to block, which noble children had forgotten dignity in favor of survival.
Silence did worse things.
Silence made every student in the Spire of Trials turn their head at the same time.
Bronze lamps shivered against black walls. The arena sand still remembered the five exchanges I had given Marcell Rovain. A few drops of my blood darkened the chalk line where my left foot had almost failed. Across the ring, Marcell stood with his practice blade lowered, face pale beneath the insult of not understanding whether he had won, lost, or been allowed to continue breathing.
Excellent. The day had taste, if not mercy.
Confusion was safer than admiration.
Admiration grew teeth.
