[The air crackles with tension as Morrígan leans forward in her seat, her sharp purple eyes fixed intently on the arena. The crowd around her buzzes with mixed emotions, but her expression is one of wicked delight. Her voice carries over the murmurs, rich with amusement and bloodthirsty anticipation.]

"Ha! Look at him—Cú Chulainn, the so-called Hound of Ulster, reduced to a battered pup beneath Ra-Horakhty's might. The Egyptian leader is pulling no punches, skewering him with beams of divine fury. Quite the spectacle, isn't it? But I wonder..."

[She leans back slightly, her lips curling into a sinister grin as her scarred arms rest on the chair’s edge.]

"...how much longer will that dog keep lying down? No, he won’t die here. Not yet. That insolent brat has far too much pride for that. He’s going to stand back up and fight, just like he did against me. That unyielding stubbornness of his—it’s infuriating, isn’t it?"

[Her gaze darkens, and her tone grows sharper, tinged with lingering bitterness.]

"And when he does rise, it won’t be for Ra-Horakhty to finish him. That’s my privilege. No one defeats Cú Chulainn but me. He owes me a rematch, and when the time comes, I’ll make him pay for every scar he left on me."

[Her gloved fingers tighten, crushing the armrest beneath them, her smirk widening into a bloodthirsty snarl.]

"Let the Egyptian god batter him for now. Let them all think the Hound is broken. But when the dust settles, and his precious strength resurfaces... he’ll find me waiting. And this time, I’ll show him what true war looks like."

[Her laughter echoes through the stands—low, menacing, and dripping with confidence—as she leans forward once more, eager to see the tides turn in the battle.]