Balrog arrived with a steady, determined pace, his obsidian eyes glinting with a dark, eager energy. The call from his father, Basilisk, had broken through his quiet morning, stirring something fierce within him. The waves crashing against the shore echoed the thrumming in his chest as he approached the beach. He’d seen this training ring before, though he’d rarely stepped inside. Today, it seemed, that would change.
Standing alongside his siblings, Jamie and Iskandor, Balrog kept his gaze low, casting occasional glances at them. His brother's excitement was almost palpable, and Jamie’s presence added a comforting, familiar warmth to the moment. But today wasn’t for comfort. Today, Balrog could feel that primal need to prove himself, to earn his place.
As Basilisk spoke, Balrog listened intently, feeling each word sink deep into his bones. A prize from the blacksmith? That was tempting. His mind spun with the possibilities: a small blade, perhaps, or something else he could keep close. But the boon… the thought of having his father’s word on anything, without question or judgment, lit a fire in his heart. The promise of it made him feel almost powerful.
When Basilisk paused, Balrog squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. He wouldn’t speak, not yet. Talking wasn’t his strength, not like the quiet resolve he felt in moments like this. Instead, he gave a curt nod, acknowledging his father’s words, and finally looked directly at Iskandor, then at Jamie, sizing them up just as they would him.
There was no need for hesitation. When the match began, he’d give everything, each strike and dodge a testament to the training and resolve his parents had instilled. He was ready to see where he stood, and today he’d carve that answer into the sand.
"Balrog"
