The roar of the arena did not end all at once. It thinned gradually, like a tide drawing back from the shore, leaving behind echoes, scattered voices, and the sharp scent of blood and scorched stone. People lingered in their seats long after the elder had departed, long after Robert Osborn had been guided from the stage by his clan. No one seemed eager to be the first to leave, as if stepping away might break whatever fragile, unbelievable thing they had just witnessed.
Eventually, movement returned. Disciples folded flags. The elders rose stiffly from their seats. Vendors began packing up trays of untouched snacks. Conversations flared in groups—low, intent, filled with the kind of reassessment that followed a turning point.
"The Osborn Clan… won."
"I still cannot wrap my head around it."
"they are not strong. Not really. But that boy—Robert—he's dangerous."
"Dangerous does not mean dominant."
"No, but it means people will think twice."
