Late
The Marquis Ventor watched the conclusion of the fight with unblinking intensity, his wineglass untouched as the echoes of the arena roared in his ears. He leaned forward slightly in his seat, his sharp eyes locked on Lucavion, who stood in the center of the battlefield, his presence a mixture of quiet calm and overwhelming dominance. The young swordsman didn't bask in the glory or look to the crowd for adulation—his victory spoke for itself.
Ventor exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with deliberate care. His lips curved into a faint smile, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his thoughts. This kid… no, this young man…