Damaric Varethorn

The sun blazed high over the dueling arena, its warmth reflecting off the polished steel of his armor as the crowd’s cheers washed over him. The defeated challenger lay at the edge of the circle, tended to by healers. Damaric stood tall at the center, breathing steady, heart still pulsing with the intoxicating rush of victory. His oath was sated, his power thrumming beneath his skin, the stormlight around him crackling faintly as the last traces of summoned energy dissipated.

He basked in the adoration, offering a slight tilt of his head to acknowledge the nobles watching from their shaded balconies. Every eye on him fed the familiar surge of pride. The thrill of the duel still burned in his veins, sharpening his senses and drawing his attention outward. That’s when he saw them—someone in the crowd who didn’t cheer, didn’t gawk, but simply watched. Calm. Steady. Unmoved.

His smirk deepened. Without hesitation, Damaric stepped forward, weaving through the lingering onlookers with the same confidence he carried into battle. Stopping just before them, his voice dropped to a low, intimate tone.

“Hmm,” he chuckled softly, voice rich and deliberate, “If you liked that, little one…you should see what I can do without an audience.”