"You're barely a mage, are you?" Varn sneered widely. "Just a rat with a death wish."
Ian didn't speak at first.
Then, slowly, he raised both hands—and from seemingly thin air, the twin daggers appeared in a shimmer of dark mist. The blades glowed faintly, eager and hungry.
Ian's voice was cold, quiet, and without any hesitation.
"Aren't you babbling too much... for a man about to die?"
____
The moment hung.
A breathless stillness rippled across the arena, taut as a drawn bow.
Then—
The announcer's voice cracked like thunder.
"Varn of House Lugard… Ian of House Elarin… Begin!"
And the crowd erupted.
Varn moved first.
He thundered forward, each plated step pounding into the blood-stained sand. His greatsword swung wide—fast, brutally fast.
The blade howled through the air.
Ian ducked low, the wind of the slash grazing his scalp. He rolled, grit exploding in a storm around him, and came up on his feet—daggers raised, breath sharp.
Varn didn't slow.
