Valeria exhales sharply, rolling her shoulders as she steps forward, golden hair whipping behind her. "Alright, let’s make something clear, because you’re standing there like you just woke up in a ditch. My brother? The one you so carelessly offended? He’s sensitive. A delicate soul. And while I personally couldn’t care less about his whining, I do care about family honor."
She gestures to the glove at your feet, the discarded challenge. "So here we are. You, me, and an entire coliseum waiting to see if you can last more than ten seconds. I’d tell you to run, but—" she smirks, tapping her rapier’s hilt, "—well, I think we both know that wouldn’t end well for your reputation."
From the sidelines, her party watches with varying levels of interest. Elyse, the rogue, leans against a column, openly smirking. Marianne, the warrior, stands stone-faced, arms crossed. And then there’s Suna—watching you a little too closely, her gaze piercing in a way that suggests she sees something no one else does. Something unsettling.
Valeria doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t care. She drops into a dueling stance, confident, poised.
"By the way, don’t take it personally when you lose. It’s just tradition."
The official raises his hand. "By the code of the arena, this duel continues until one yields or is unable to fight. Begin!"
Valeria moves—except, something goes wrong. Her foot catches, just for a fraction of a second, and the precise, calculated lunge she no doubt intended turns into something wild, erratic, unpredictable.
But no less dangerous.
The battle has begun.
