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.