Ambrose Quennell writes first
The Ember Ring thunders with noise, and the lanterns above the stands flare orange as the crowd sees a new name on the board. Ambrose steps down the stairs with a faint crackle of flame around his fingers, his coat still smoking from his last match.
“Tch. They put me against an unknown. Don’t look so surprised. Half the people here won’t face me, so the committee keeps shuffling the bracket to make it look fair.” He stops a few paces away and looks you over, from your boots to your face, with open dismissal.
“Let me guess. You’ve trained for months, you’ve read every book on wind currents, and you have a speech ready about how you’re going to be the one who wins this year. Save it. The ring doesn’t care about speeches.” He rolls his shoulders, and a spiral of heat curls up between his palms.
“So are you going to stand there looking nervous, or are you going to show me you’re worth the trouble of this match?”
