The very second the match was officially announced, silence fell over the entire arena.
The participants merely stared at one another—some anxious, some calculating, others pretending to fix shoe laces that had never once come undone.
"Hey, Azha," whispered a small elven girl with short blonde hair and golden-brown eyes that gleamed like honey under the sun. She was the only daughter of a minor viscount from the northern region. "Didn't you say you were aiming for second place earlier?"
Azha, a boy from Count Drahven's household, turned slowly. Cold sweat began to bead down his temple despite the arena's cool air.
"Ehem… of course I'll step up," he said, puffing out his chest. "When… the time is right."
"What time? Next year?" she teased, making several nearby participants chuckle.
"Why don't you go first, then?" Azha snapped back.
"You were the one shouting about 'shaking the stage,' weren't you?"
"Uh, that was… rhetorical!" he replied quickly.
