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Both times before, when Julian had entered the arena, she had done so with calm, if not with bravado. She had felled first a mountain of a young man, then a skilled incanter -- one through sheer anger, the other through trickery.

But the opponent she was facing in the third round was a different sort. A noble. Not just that, but a proud master of the blade. He must have been important, whoever he was -- she'd guessed as much when she heard his name called. The cheers from the crowd had been deafening compared to the others, save only for the one whose name was called shortly after him. 

But whoever "Elidthianis Hawke" was didn't matter to her. What mattered was the brown-haired boy standing in the arena across from her. What mattered was the rumbling in her stomach. What mattered was the cloak that had been stripped away from her, depriving of one of her few weapons against those bigger, stronger, and more skillful than herself. What mattered was the sword gripped tightly in her trembling, white hand. What mattered was the sun shining above her, and the dark place she'd left behind, never to return to.

She slipped a hand into her pocket, and held it there until the trembling stopped. But the rest of her body didn't seem to get the memo -- or rather, she didn't let it.

When Julian Baker entered the arena for her third match, she entered it with her head low, her teeth gritted, and her eyes darting about like a cornered rat. She entered it looking for all the world like a weakling, about to be crushed, grasping at straws in hopes that something, anything, might turn the tables in her favor. She looked like she had nothing left to offer, and everything still to prove.

As though realizing it only too late, she gave a stiff, awkward bow -- a barely-adequate attempt at formality from one whose mind was clearly preoccupied entirely by things other than the match she was about to lose, and lose badly. Then, she slowly, jerkily raised her sword, and waited for her opponent to approach and claim an easy victory. The crowd booed and jeered, but then, all at once, seemed to just... forget about the blonde's existence. After all, there were much more interesting matches afoot than some street urchin getting crushed, right? In the very next arena over, two nobles were going at it in a glorious showdown of magic and swordplay. Even her opponent's gaze was liable to wander, dazzled by such a spectacle. And why wouldn't it? His own opponent was practically beaten already, without him having to so much as lift a finger.

...But what was important hadn't changed, no matter how much her outward aspect had.

What was important, you see, was that no matter the odds, and no matter what it took... Julian Baker was still going to win.