"I am not the one to ever miss a chance to fight."
He plucked the least offensive of the dull blades from the rack—narrow, single-edged, unbalanced—but not entirely cursed. He gave it a spin in his hand, as if greeting an old, tired friend with whom he'd once shared a war.
Then following that, he stepped lightly into the ring, his boots making only the faintest noise against the rune-carved stone floor.
The moment he passed the central threshold, the hum of the barrier began to awaken—a slow pulse building like a beast being stirred from sleep. Across the ring, Arcten gave him a look that straddled the line between pity and exhaustion.
"Youngsters these days," the man muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like this entire situation was a migraine dressed in boots and sarcasm.
With an effortless flick of the wrist, he tossed something through the air.
"Wear it."
