The air in the bustling square crackled with excitement as Verion's sharp gaze flicked back to the two contestants in the arm-wrestling match.
The tension in the crowd was palpable, every murmur and shuffle a prelude to the action about to unfold.
A man with a scruffy beard and mismatched coat approached Verion, a burlap pouch jingling with glems slung over his shoulder.
His gait was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes gleamed with the practiced sharpness of someone accustomed to street deals.
He stopped in front of Verion, his gaze sweeping him up and down. His lips twisted into a smirk as he took in Verion's disheveled appearance—the torn cloak, the faint stains of dried blood.
For a moment, the man hesitated, about to walk away. Then his eyes fell on the bronze glem in Verion's hand.
"Little brother," the man said, his smirk widening into a broad grin. "You looking to bet?"
