The training yard lay just beyond the roar of the arena, a place of sweat, dust, and repetition where spectacle was stripped away and only skill remained. Here, under the watch of the lanista and his trainers, even the most celebrated fighters were reduced to discipline and routine. Wooden weapons clashed, sand was churned underfoot, and the scent of oil and effort hung thick in the air.

Zalika stood at the edge of the yard, chest rising steadily as she rolled her shoulder, the last echoes of sparring fading. A thin sheen of sweat traced along her skin, catching the light as she set her spear aside with deliberate care.