If I can't take your life, he thought calmly, then I'll take what gives it value.
He reached past her without a hint of urgency and yanked the sect insignia from her chest. The stitching tore loudly, ripping the fabric apart. The motion was smooth—almost casual—yet it made her gasp as the fabric and symbol were violently torn away in a single, fierce pull.
The emblem struck the stone and came to rest, its shape instantly recognizable.
Then his foot came down. The heel crushed fabric and metal together, grinding the insignia into the arena floor until threads split and the emblem warped out of recognition. When he lifted his foot, nothing remained but a flattened smear ground into the stone.
"Stage Nine," he said flatly, the words stripped of interest, let alone respect.
His gaze dropped to her for a moment—just long enough to take in her slumped posture, the blood soaking into torn fabric, the sword lying useless at her side.
