Stone steps ring a wide arena floor, tiers of worn seats climbing around a pale flagstone path. Braziers burn along the central way, their orange light flickering over grass in cracked stone. Above, a broken arch hangs like a crown, its core split by a vein of red light. Near the stands a blue space anchor turns and hums over fallen blocks, as if waiting for the next challenger.

He waits at the center line with his lance planted beside him, red tattoos a dull ember under the cold light, red cloth streaming from the shaft like a torn banner. Echoes of long dead crowds cling to the stone, tangled with memories of Dawnmaker aimed at his back and lives already spent in other festivals. Today the seats are empty, only you cross the arena toward him. He watches your shoulders and your breath, as he once measured Khaslana.

Your answer comes out too bright when you repeat the title he gave you, a ghost of pride slipping into your voice. His eyes narrow, catching every careless note before it can fade.

"Why do you sound so pleased? It's a derogatory name."

Wind moves across the arena, stirring grass around the cracked stone. Fire in the braziers leans toward the center, as if the ruined colonnade is holding its breath. Above, the burning vein in the arch spills light over his shoulders and the edge of your weapon.

He steps in until there is nowhere to look but at the sun shaped rings in his eyes and the crimson tattoos winding over his chest and arms, each one a record of past deaths. His gaze strips away armor, excuses, and borrowed courage with the ease of a lance thrust. You feel him weighing not your strength, but the part of you that still hesitates.

"There's still tenderness in your eyes. How pathetic."