Eelry sprawls before us like an infected wound on the coastline, all ramshackle buildings and narrow streets that seem designed to trap anyone foolish enough to wander in.
I pull my hood up despite the heat, letting the expensive fabric shadow my face. The merchant disguise Nazim procured feels like wearing someone else's skin, but it's necessary. Wealthy northern trader seeking exotic fighters for private matches—it's a role that explains my interest in the arena without raising suspicions.
"Remember," Nazim murmurs beside me, his own disguise making him look like a successful slaver rather than the reformed man I know him to be. "You're Lady Mira of Greyhold. You have gold to spend and specific tastes. Act like the world owes you entertainment."
My stomach churns at the thought, but I nod. Three days of travel from the farm have given us time to perfect this charade. Three days of not knowing if Thoktar is alive or dead, if he's been forced to fight, if he's been...
I cut off that line of thinking. He's alive. He has to be.
The arena looms ahead of us, a massive stone structure that dominates the town center. Even from here, I can see the banners advertising tonight's matches, the crowds already gathering despite the early hour. The casual way people discuss which fighter will die first makes my skin crawl.
"There," Nazim points to a tavern across from the main entrance. "The Broken Blade. Gospar does business there between matches."
We push through the crowd, and I force myself not to flinch when a man shoves past me, his breath reeking of ale and his eyes already bright with anticipation of blood. This is what Thoktar faces—people who see him as nothing more than entertainment, a thing to bet on and discard.
The tavern is exactly what I expected: dim, smoky, filled with the kind of people who profit from others' misery. Nazim guides me to a corner table where we can observe without being too obvious about it.
"Wine," he tells the serving girl, then adds just loud enough for nearby tables to hear, "and information about tonight's matches. My lady has particular interests."
I let my gaze sweep the room, cataloging faces and conversations. At a table near the bar, three men huddle over a ledger, and one of them has the pointed ears and pale skin of a Dark Elf. Not Gospar—I memorized his description—but likely one of his lieutenants.
"The minotaur fights again next week," one of the men is saying. "Gospar's saving him for something special."
"What about the fresh orc?" another asks. "Worth anything?"
"Iron Tusk clan, if the tattoos are right. Strong stock. Gospar's thinking of blooding him against some of the weaker fighters first, build up anticipation before..."
Before feeding him to Rophan. They don't say it, but I can hear it in their tone. My hands clench under the table, and Nazim's foot finds mine—a gentle warning to stay calm.
The serving girl returns with wine that tastes like vinegar and information that's worth far more. "You're interested in the arena fights, my lady? Tonight's got some good ones. A naga against two humans, and there's talk of bringing out the witch for something special."
Vyra. From Nazim's description, she has to be the Purna who was taken the same night as Thoktar. If she's here, if they're planning to use her...
"What about fresh fighters?" I ask, pitching my voice to carry the bored tone of someone with too much gold and too little conscience. "I prefer... unseasoned meat."
The girl's eyes light up at the prospect of a good tip. "Oh, there's been talk. Big orc came in a few days back. Still got fight in him, they say. But he's not for tonight's matches."
"Pity." I sip the terrible wine and let disappointment color my voice. "I do so enjoy watching the first time they truly understand where they are."
Nazim shoots me a look—I'm laying it on too thick—but the girl just grins. "Well, if you're willing to pay for information, I might know when they're planning his first fight."
I slide a silver coin across the table. "I'm always willing to invest in quality entertainment."
She palms the coin with practiced ease. "Three days from now. They want to let him stew a bit first, get properly desperate. Then they'll blood him against a few weaklings, work up to the real show."
Three days. Three days of Thoktar in those cells, probably being starved and beaten to break his spirit. Three days of...
A commotion at the bar catches my attention. A man has stumbled backward, pointing at me with a shaking finger. "Iknow you," he slurs, ale sloshing from his mug. "You're that slave girl, the healer. From Korven's camp."
Ice floods my veins. Korven—one of the orc slavers who'd kept me for two years before I escaped. This drunk must have been one of his men, or a client, or...
"I think you're mistaken," I say coldly, but he's already lurching toward our table.
"No, no, I remember! You had that scar on your?—"
Nazim moves faster than I've ever seen him. His clawed hand wraps around the drunk's throat, not breaking skin but making his intent unmistakably clear.
"My lady," Nazim says in a voice like silk over steel, "is the daughter of Lord Greyhold, and if you continue to mistake her for some common slave, I'll be forced to defend her honor. Permanently."
