On the walk to the bookmakers' stand, I start to notice something different.
Glances, frequently fixed on us.
I can't pinpoint who or how many, but I feel them. Eyes resting on my back like fingers. Some near the western pillar of the Oathring. Others are up in the third tier of the bleachers. A pair somewhere behind me, moving when we move.
Surveillance.
Patient, professional, organized. The watchers aren't curious civilians—they're distributed by training. Guild people, holding formation while pretending they aren't holding one.
On the south side of the Oathring, a structure built higher than the others—taller than the aerial bleachers themselves—I can clearly see Rahul Sharma. He's seated under an awning of dark fabric, the glass cane resting across his thighs. The woman who pushes his wheelchair stands behind him, motionless. He probably decided to watch our next fights personally.
He wants to see what he just bought.
I lean toward Oliver and lower my voice.
