Iyana stepped into the arena, her boots echoing lightly against the stone floor. The sight was as expected—only half of the audience was filled with spectators, their hushed murmurs barely filling the vast space.
It was a subdued atmosphere. As if the whole crowd anticipated a foregone conclusion, none more so than Iyana herself had until a few minutes ago.
Her eyes locked onto Commander Pembrooke. He stood before her—without the wheelchair he was often bound to. The only reason he was able to do so was that his legs weren't completely crippled, they were only weakened to the point they couldn't bear his weight for more than five minutes due to something along the lines of nerve damage or something.
But Iyana could see that his feet were already starting to tremble ever so slightly. He shouldn't hold for much long.
