The winter sun rose pale and cold over Lake Vereth. Its light skipped across the water in fragments, white and gold, then died against the stone of the ancient arena.
The arena sat at the lake's edge, half-carved into the hillside. Black granite rose in tiers, worn smooth by centuries of rain and blood. Pine trees crowded the slopes behind it, their branches heavy with snow. Their scent drifted down to the grounds, sharp and green, cutting through the smell of mud and horse sweat.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the field. His brother stood beside him.
The grounds were vast. A flat expanse of packed earth and gravel, still frozen in places where the morning sun had not reached. The lake stretched beyond the arena's broken outer wall, its surface grey as iron. Ice rimed the shore, cracking and reforming with each small wave.
