Cerys limped back into the chalk ring, fingers still tingling from the earlier bout. She wiped a sleeve across her brow; sweat smeared with the faint smear of blood where a feedback rune had split the skin. The barracks smelled different now—less of pine-pitch, more of hot metal and her own ragged breath. Somewhere water dripped, a slow metronome that reminded her heart to keep beating.
"Rodion, mismatched combat trial," she ordered, forcing her voice to steady. The syllables echoed off stone like thrown pebbles.
Light bled outward, gathering grit and color until five hulking shapes solidified. No polished breastplates here—just rag-stitched tunics, spiked clubs, blades chipped like shark teeth. Their faces were half animal: snarling lips, nervous eyes, the kind of men who fought for coin and cruelty, not honor.
