The tunnel was cold. Dominic had been standing in it for ten minutes, Wobbly on his shoulder, the little creature's glow a steady blue pulse in the dim light. The roar of the crowd filtered through the stone above him, a constant, muffled thunder that vibrated in his chest.
He could feel the bond humming, two threads of warmth, Florence's restless crackle, Theresa's steady calm. They were in the stands, in the sea of black and gold that had spread through the arena since Phase One. They'd refused to stay home. They always did.
He checked his sword. The blade was sharp, the hilt wrapped in dark leather, the steel recently reforged by Florence's blacksmiths. His enchanted fighting clothes were black and gold, the Kane colors, the fabric shimmering faintly with Theresa's wards.
