The smoke had nearly cleared, but the weight of tension still hung thick in the air.
In the middle of the training grounds, surrounded by the slow-dispersing black mist, a single image stole the attention of every onlooker—those peering in through narrowed eyes, those standing on edge behind the safety of the boundary line, and especially the generals who stood, unmoving, waiting to see what would become of this chaotic duel.
Luke had done it.
He was behind Commander Alec, both arms wrapped tight around the old man's shoulders, his right hand drawn in close to the commander's neck. There, pressed against the exposed skin of Commander Alec's weathered throat, a small but menacing blade gleamed faintly under the sunlight that now pierced through the fading smoke.
A simple flick of the wrist. That was all it would take.
