Wrath stood in front of Liam with his hands behind his back, watching him with the same look he always had, like a man who'd stopped being in a hurry a long time ago and made his peace with it.
"What I just did to you," Wrath said, "that'd fly in the arena. Nobody'd blink twice." He rolled the rock between two fingers, not looking at it. "But acceptable and surviving it, that's not the same thing. Not at that level. Most fighters find out the difference the hard way, and they don't get a second lesson."
Liam worked his jaw, checking his teeth were still where he left them.
"I hear you."
"Number Eight won't come at you the way I did." Wrath's voice didn't change pace, didn't need to. "He's studied you. He'll already know where he wants to end it before he steps in. Won't be fair. Won't be clean. Beg your pardon for saying it so plain, sir, but you should hear it from me before you hear it from him."
"No, you're right to," Liam said. "I'd rather know now than find out mid-fight."
