At first, Abigail walked—measured and composed, her steps echoing faintly across the silent arena.
Then something changed.
Her pace quickened.
A heartbeat later, she was sprinting—cloak fluttering behind her, eyes locked onto Nero with focused intensity. Her feet barely touched the ground as she launched herself into the air, closing the distance in a single, arcing leap. Her blade came down like a guillotine, a deadly stroke meant to test him from the start.
But Nero was already moving.
Even before her blade fell, he felt it—the subtle tremor in the air, the disturbance of intent. The entire arena unfolded before him like a living diagram. Every shift of weight, every flicker of breath, every strand of motion was laid bare. He didn't see Abigail's blade as a threat—he saw it as a pattern, a thread to be unraveled.
And in that moment, his gaze wasn't on her at all.
It was on Asher.
