The fight ahead of us wraps up with one combatant on his knees, blood running from his nose, the other lifting both arms to a crowd that screams approval. Spectators line up to bet on the next match.
Our match.
Rhayne walks toward the edge of the ring without speaking. The Cloaked Cape stays on—she'll drop it on the threshold the way the rules require, but for now the fabric hides her shape from anyone trying to read her stance early.
I keep watching the King Skeleton across the arena.
The drawn finger across the throat was theatrical. The man is hunting attention as much as a kill. But underneath the show, my eye catches what the show is built to hide.
He's favoring his left leg.
A fraction of weight he isn't putting through the left ankle. He stands flat on the right leg. He pivots on the right when he turns. The compensation has been running so long he doesn't notice it anymore.
And the right shoulder.
