There was a moment—only a breath's worth—where the crowd below stood still, caught in the silence that followed Ian's impossible command.
Then chaos.
"Is he mad?!"
"What the hell did he just say?!"
"Who does he think he is?!"
Shouts rang through Hollow Spine like arrows loosed from too many bows.
Figures leapt back, blades half-drawn, looking to one another in disbelief. Some laughed—nervous, brittle laughs that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Others didn't laugh at all.
They only stared at Ian's silhouette at the top of the stone ridge, unmoving, as if waiting for the punchline to a joke that never came.
One man—a tall mercenary bearing the crest of one of the imperial noble houses—stepped forward, scowling.
"This is the tournament of gods! Not a playground for lunatics!"
Few laughed nervously at his shout.
Another, dressed in the white and gold of the Sanctum's lower ranks, spat on the ground.
