Althea stepped from the shadows into the glaring light of the arena. She drew in a steady breath, feeling the polished stone floor through her boots. Around her, the stands were packed with hooded nobles and shouting commoners, all eager for blood. A torchbearer flitted past, and Althea's cloak flowed in the hot draft of flame-licked air. She smoothed back the hood of her black cloak, carefully keeping her pointed ears buried beneath its folds.
The horn blew a single, resonant note. From behind a drape of carved oak came her opponent: a hulking man in gilded plate armor, scars crisscrossing his face. He bore no heraldic crest, only the wounds of countless wars. The crowd roared, lusting for a quick kill. Althea's fingers itched around the hilt of her dagger.
Without warning, Althea struck. She moved like a panther unleashed—silent, fast, nearly without form. Her dagger flared with a silvery gleam as it buried itself just below the man's ribs. She twisted her body, driving all her momentum into the blow.
A thunderous crack split the air as his ribs shattered under her strike. A gout of dark blood sprayed upward like a twisted blossom. The man's eyes went wide with shock.
Spectators fell silent at the sound, their cheers strangled. Althea's dagger still quivered in the wound. A hush fell over the crowd as they processed the impossible: one slash had mortally wounded the armored warrior before he could even draw his sword. She waited only a moment, then jerked the blade free and shoved the body aside, stepping away from the crumpled figure. For a heartbeat, the warrior gasped a ragged breath. Then he slumped heavily to the ground as a dark stain blossomed beneath him.
Then Althea vanished. With a flick of her cloak she slipped through the collapse of the broken wooden drapes like smoke. For a single heartbeat, only the wreckage of shattered oak remained in the ring. When it fell still, no assassin remained to claim the kill.
A stunned silence hung heavy. Some in the crowd gasped, pointing at the tangle of splintered wood. Noblemen staggered to their feet, raising fists in fury or fear. "A demon!" shrieked a priestess in gilded vestments, as others shouted, "Elf-sorcery!" The only sign of the fight was the dying man on the ground, gasping in his own blood.
High above on the dais, Leonhardt caught sight of a faint flicker at the edge of Althea's cloak. He clenched his teeth in relief: no pointed ear pricked out, only darkness held tight in her shadowed hood. A chill ran down his spine, but pride and fear warred in his chest. In that moment, he knew the tournament had truly become deadly.