She tried to stand. Her arms shook, held her weight for two wobbling seconds, and then dumped her back onto the stone.
And that was when she understood, cold and total, spreading through her limbs like slow water.
'I cannot stand. My legs are not answering. My mana channels are burning. This is not the punch. This is poison. I have been POISONED. When? The water? The corridor? When?'
She turned her head, slowly, toward the marshal standing at the platform's edge.
"Poison..." she rasped, forcing the word out. "I have been... poisoned. Marshal. Call it. Foul. Call the match a foul."
The marshal looked directly at her.
The marshal looked away.
He did not move. He did not signal. He adjusted his sleeve and studied the far banner with the fascination of a man who had suddenly discovered a deep interest in heraldry.
And Elena, lying on her own blood on the platform stone, understood the whole architecture of the morning at once.
