Fighting Arena of Competition,
Ron and Maera's clash shook the arena.
Ron went in first—low, controlled, precise—his spear a blur of dark blue fire as he thrust straight for Maera's center of mass. It was the kind of attack meant to force distance, to dictate the rhythm.
Maera refused to let him.
Her dark red aura roared out like a wild beast breaking free, eyes narrowing with sharp, predatory focus. She didn't dodge—she stepped in. Her gauntleted arm snapped forward, claws scraping and screeching against the heated metal as she smacked the spear aside with brute force. Sparks scattered across the stone floor.
The redirected thrust slid past her ribs—close, but not close enough—and she used the recoil to drive her shoulder straight into Ron's chest.
