The crowd's roar rolled over the arena like a tide, fists pounding against anything nearby, savages leaning forward with bloodlust plain on their faces.
Meanwhile Ilya circled, dagger low.
Ragul rolled his shoulders, and the ground seemed to shift under the motion. Up close, his bulk wasn't just fat. Corded muscle ran beneath the layers, thick as rope, coiled tight around a frame built to end things in one blow.
He swung the club sideways this time, a horizontal arc meant to catch her mid-step.
Ilya dropped.
The club passed above her head, close enough that she felt the wind of it tug at her hair, and the momentum carried him a little forward.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
She used the drop to drive forward, blade flashing across his exposed forearm as she rose.
A shallow cut, barely more than a scratch, but blood welled up dark against his skin.
Ragul grunted, more surprised than hurt.
