The Crucible shook with sound—a chaotic, boiling sea of voices that rose and fell with every clash. Stone quaked beneath the blows. Dust drifted in the air, tinged red from the old blood already soaked into the arena floor.
But none of it reached Ian.
Not the cheering. Not the fear. Not even the pain from the shallow wounds he'd allowed to linger on his side and shoulder.
His eyes were locked on Vorgan. His grip on Vowbreaker was steady. The Soulflame still hissed low along the edge of the daggers, hungering.
Vorgan charged again, blood smearing across one eye, his gait slightly off from the last strike—but still dangerous. Still defiant.
His hammer, cracked now near the base, whistled as it cut the air. It was heavier than before. Laden with his own burning mana, a final gamble.
Ian moved through the strike.
Not around it.
Through it.
He stepped inside the arc of Vorgan's swing like walking through fog, blades low, knees bent. One dagger knocked the hammer wide.
