I watched Micah Ortiz approach the center of the arena with measured steps, his muscular frame radiating confidence. His eyes locked with mine, revealing conflicting emotions—respect mingled with unmistakable resentment.
The crowd's roar faded into white noise as I focused on my opponent. Everything else—Commander Wood's politics, the competition's stakes, even my concerns about Michael Ashworth—temporarily receded from my mind.
Micah stopped a few paces from me. "Liam Knight of Eldoria," he said, loud enough for only me to hear. "I've heard interesting things about you."
I met his gaze without flinching. "Is that so?"
"Commander Bellweather instructed me to let you win." His jaw tightened. "To 'return a favor,' as he put it."
I raised an eyebrow. "And will you?"
Anger flashed across his face. "I'm Micah Ortiz, direct disciple of Commander Ignazio Bellweather. I don't throw fights for country bumpkins who've gotten lucky."
