[Sunfire Field—Final Tournament—Continuation—Zeramet's Tent]
The canvas walls of the Malik's tent shuddered faintly with the roar of the arena beyond.
Steel rang, the crowd howled, and blood met sand.
Zeramet stood unmoving at the open mouth of the tent, tall and still as a carved god, his shadow stretching long across the rugs beneath his feet. Through the slit of fabric, the arena was visible—Rakhane's spear flashing cruelly in the sun, his movements sharp, predatory, and deliberate.
Zeramet's jaw tightened.
"…He is not fighting to win," Zeramet murmured, voice low and edged like obsidian. "He is fighting to break."
Arkhazunn, sprawled lazily on a carved chair, watched with narrowed eyes.
"Brutal," he agreed. "Efficient and calculated."
He tilted his head slightly, following Rakhane's movements. "Since there is no law forbidding strikes to the head in Sunfire," he added casually. "So he aims there. Shock wins faster than strength. Pain ends resistance."
