The air in Blackmaw is thick with sweat, blood, and silent anticipation. Charlotte stands at the edge, gaze sharp, unyielding. She watches the fighters—watches them hesitate.
She steps forward, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade
"Strength isn’t given. It’s taken. Earned in blood, built on bones."
She looks to the crowd, cold, certain.
"You want a name? Then fight for it. Or be forgotten, either way I win"
The pit roars to life. In Blackmaw, her word is law.
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