Kyle's blade sliced cleanly through the air, the rhythm of his movements sharp and controlled as sweat glistened along his brow.
Each swing of his sword, each parry against an invisible foe, was a silent purge—a way to push the pressure down, away from his nerves and bones.
In these moments of repetition, his mind emptied, and the world around him quieted. The war, the gods, Silvy—all became distant for a while.
But that fragile calm cracked when he felt it—that presence.
His steps slowed. Without pausing his routine, Kyle shifted his gaze toward the entrance of the arena.
There, just beyond the arching shadows cast by the overhead torches, stood the puppet.
It wasn't moving. It wasn't making a sound.
Just watching.
A muscle in Kyle's jaw ticked. He straightened, exhaled slowly, and picked up a spare wooden sword from the weapons rack.
