Chapter 110: The Vampire Tournament (2)
Two figures now stood facing each other in the exact center of the black circle.
One, my daughter. Motionless, yet tense with an almost invisible concentration. Her bare feet barely touched the smooth surface of the stone, as if she still refused to belong to that ground, as if she didn’t quite recognize the arena as her own. There was something strangely fluid in her stance — neither frozen nor rigid — like a dance yet to begin, but whose every step her muscles already knew.
The other, Gayar.
Tall. Slender. With a calm as impressive as her presence. She carried the bearing of ancient lineages, that discreet nobility which doesn’t seek to show itself, yet emanates from every detail — the tilt of the head, the measured breath, the way her hands rested alongside her body, ready without being threatening. Her combat attire was simple, effective: a fitted robe, unadorned, light bandages wrapped around her wrists, and not a single trace of jewelry. Nothing sparkled. Everything was designed for precision, rigor, movement.
Her eyes, black and deep, fixed on Lysara without hostility, but with almost surgical attention. The gaze of a hawk about to dive — not out of cruelty, but because that is its nature.
They stepped toward the center.
Then, in a shared motion, without anyone needing to give the order, they presented themselves aloud, as required by the old rite, the one even forgotten lineages had never dared to break.
— Gayar Astralis, descendant of the Great Naraphin, Keeper of the Oaths.
Her voice resonated, deep but smooth, like metal polished over centuries. She placed her hand on her heart, then raised it to the sky, palm open, an ancient gesture of loyalty known to all present.
— Lysara Thalaris Von Eskarionh, Daughter of Lust, Lysara replied, upright, proud, unwavering.
Her tone no longer bore any youth. It carried a new nuance, difficult to define, between defiance and recognition. It was the voice of an heiress. Of a warrior. Of a will matured too soon.