The arena froze.
For a heartbeat, everything held its breath.
Then—
It exploded.
The silence shattered like glass as the crowd erupted.
Cheers surged like a tidal wave slamming into the cliffs.
Thousands of voices roared all at once, the sound rising into the sky in a storm of wild, thunderous praise.
Brakka's mangled body had vanished into the abyss—and the spectators lost their minds.
Some fans screamed Sylen's name, fists raised high.
Others just yelled, the kind of wordless, explosive shout that came from watching something unbelievable.
In the middle of the chaos—
Sylen didn't move.
He stood at the arena's edge. One foot planted. The other still hovered in the air, mid-kick—the one that had sent Brakka flying.
His cloak rippled behind him, still caught in the aftershock.
Tendrils of shadow curled around his arms and legs, slow to fade, like they weren't ready to let go.
The wind howled past.
But Sylen was still.
Silent.
Eyes locked on the void.
