The arena had been loud since morning.
Another match was already underway—two academies no one cared to remember. A wind-user pushing back a spear-user with bursts of air that had more noise than substance. They fought with intensity… but not with precision.
Aramith watched quietly.
Every flare of Youm the wind fighter produced was wasteful.
His footing was sloppy, and his momentum leaked every time he pivoted. He could end the match in seconds if he compressed the gust and struck the core instead of the edges.
Inefficient, Aramith thought.
Predictable and wasteful.
That was all he saw.
Mozrael sat just beside him, chin on her fist, letting her gaze linger on him longer than on the match.
He was different today.
Yesterday's weight still lingered at the edge of her mind… but Aramith himself looked calm. Too calm, in fact.
He'd drawn a line somewhere internally and chosen not to show what side of it he stood on.
