The silence that followed Runa's words was different from the silence that had come before. It was not frozen, not shocked, not suspended in disbelief. It was waiting—expectant, alive, charged with the weight of what was about to happen.
Runa stood facing me, her hand still clasping mine from the moment she had risen. Her eyes held mine for a long, breathless moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she released my hand and stepped back.
She bowed.
It was not the shallow nod of courtesy, not the quick dip of acknowledgment that passed between casual acquaintances. It was a deep bow, formal and absolute—the bow of a warrior to a worthy opponent, to someone who had proven themselves in the crucible of combat.
Her dark head dipped low, her arms extended slightly, her entire body an offering of respect. She held the pose for three full heartbeats, long enough for every person in the courtyard to see, to understand, to absorb the significance of what she was doing.
