The crystal displays flickered. Victor Harwick versus Doran.
Doran walked into the arena with his spear across his shoulder and his buckler on his arm, a fifth-year veteran who'd pushed Kellan to his limits and earned his place in the quarter-finals through patience and precision. The crowd gave him a respectful applause, a quiet acknowledgment of a fighter who'd earned his spot through years of disciplined combat.
He'd watched Victor's matches. He knew about the blink. He knew about the lightning. He knew he was outmatched, but he walked to the center of the platform with his head up and his spear planted on the stone.
Victor walked in with his blade already drawn, golden light flickering along the steel. His easy smile was in place, but it was tighter now, more deliberate, the smile of a man who needed to prove something.
