The voice came from the platform.
Abrian Ironhold had not moved from his stance. He had watched a royal bird be vaporized, the headmaster abandon the arena, and the entire structure of the morning rearrange itself around him, and his dwarven sense of occasion had concluded that all of it was somebody else's problem.
"Are we fighting, or are you shouting at balconies?"
"How dare you..." Leo breathed. "How DARE you..."
The prince's hand went back to his sword hilt. And this time, when he drew it, the blade that cleared the scabbard was not his tournament blade. It was long, black-edged, runed down the fuller, the ancestral sword of the royal line, the hero's blade that was never, ever drawn in a student tournament. His aura went from gold to something darker, and the temperature on the platform dropped.
The half-dwarf's eyes went wide. His hammer lowered an inch.
"Wait, what? That is... that is the royal..."
Leo teleported.
