She settled onto the irregular stone.
Found her footing. Adjusted. Found it again.
The broken section was exactly as it had been left—the cracks, the gaps, the separated lower surface, the irregular edges that Sevon had attached new lines to in the final exchange before the pause. Standing in it required ongoing management rather than the automatic stability of flat ground. Every shift of weight was a small decision.
The crowd looked at both fighters.
At the floor between them.
At the bracket on the screens showing Fight 7 — In Progress.
The referee raised a hand.
Sevon looked at the floor ahead of him—at the broken section, at the path between his intact grid and Cintra's position, at the irregular terrain that separated them and the lines he had attached to the broken edges last night.
Cintra looked at Sevon—not at the floor, at him. At his feet and his hands and the dark shimmer that moved along the stone beneath his feet as the lines refreshed with his presence on them.
