Chapter 111: The Vampire Tournament (3)
In front of us, already, several vampires had rushed into the arena, as if sprung from the shadows themselves, their movements quick but precise, almost choreographed, bearing that ancient knowledge that can only be learned through the silent transmission of forgotten castes. They were minor spell-wielders, builders of night, those who go unseen, but without whom no confrontation could take place.
Using glyphs engraved directly onto their arms, and living stones extracted from the circle’s depths, they began to mend the damaged surface. The ground, wounded by Gayar’s rune and Lysara’s destructive spirals, was cracked, broken in places — a battlefield that had retained the memory of the clash.
But slowly, stone by stone, the debris began to rise into the air.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
With that strange gentleness unique to mastered magic — the kind that does not seek to impress, but to restore order. They floated, twirled slightly, then settled back into the original structure, as if drawn by a logic only they could understand. In less than a minute, the circle returned to what it had been: black, smooth, ready.
Then, in a single, barely perceptible breath, two men stood.
No surprise.
No announcement.
Their eyes had already met — up there, between two benches — and something invisible had passed between them. Not a provocation. Not a fear. An agreement. An ancient pact that only those who have known duels without audience know how to recognize.
They descended the steps side by side, without speaking, without ever slowing down.