Tempering one's skills

The night stretched on, the air thick with the heat of torches and the scent of sand scorched by magic. The arena had changed since Arthur had last fought here. It wasn't just the crowd that had swelled in number, it was the atmosphere itself. Leomaris had learned to harness the beastcore's power, weaving it into the arena's very foundation. The air vibrated faintly with contained energy, it hummed with an unnatural current, and the very ground beneath the fighters' boots seemed to pulse.

He could feel it, an invisible force pressing against his skin. It was no longer just an underground battleground. It was becoming a spectacle, a machine built to enthrall, to make legends out of those who stepped onto its sands.

The latest battle had only fueled that transformation. Melite had faced her third opponent of the night, a mage of Glaucus' elite.