The locker room was usually a cacophony of post-combat adrenaline. Boastful shouting, the sizzling of healing salves on bruises, and the sharp cracks of snapping towels filled the air.
Today when Vane walked in the noise died down to a murmur.
He moved to his corner. His muscles screamed from the residual strain of the Silver Mana coating he had used in the arena. He stripped off his sweat-soaked jacket and tossed it into his locker. He could feel eyes on his back. Not the usual sneering dismissal of the elite eyeing the commoner trash. This was different. It was the wary calculating gaze of predators sizing up a new unfamiliar threat.
Vane ignored them. He grabbed a towel and headed for the showers walking with the new heavy gait that Senna had beaten into his bones.
As he passed a row of lockers he heard the whispers. They were meant to be quiet but in the sudden hush they carried like shouts.
"Did you see the wrist on the golem?"
"Clean cut. It wasn't a crack."
