A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Every head turned.
The warriors entered through the opposite entrance in a loose group—maybe fifteen of them total.
Most were high-ranking warriors, commanders, people powerful enough to participate in a Blood Moon hunt.
And there, at the front, walked Hyrin.
He wore a sleeveless hooded vest, black with silver markings, the zipper left open like a deliberate defiance, exposing his smooth, hard torso to the world.
His grayish-silver hair was pulled back from his face, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut stone.
Even from this distance, Wish could see the predatory gleam in his mismatched eyes as he surveyed the arena.
He looked dangerous. Hungry. Like the Blood Moon had already started working on him.
The moment Hyrin stepped fully into the arena, the candidates reacted.
They scattered.
