The drunk's eyes widen as he takes in Nazim's hood, his fangs, the subtle threat in his posture. "I... sorry, I was... the wine..."
"Leave. Now."
The man stumbles away, and conversations resume around us, but I can feel eyes lingering. We need to get out of here before someone else recognizes me.
"Time to go," Nazim murmurs, but I shake my head.
"Not yet." I force steel into my voice, into my spine. The old Forla would have fled at the first sign of danger. But that woman couldn't save anyone—not herself, not Talia and Brom, and certainly not Thoktar.
I stand and walk to the Dark Elf's table, every step an act of will. "Gentlemen," I say, letting my merchant persona drop just enough to show the predator underneath. "I couldn't help overhearing your discussion about upcoming matches. Perhaps we could discuss a private arrangement?"
The Dark Elf looks me up and down, calculating profit margins. "What did you have in mind, Lady...?"
"Mira. And what I have in mind is very simple." I lean forward slightly, close enough to see the greed in his eyes. "I want to sponsor a fight. Specifically, I want to ensure that fresh orc gets proper... motivation before his debut. Nothing permanent, you understand. Just enough to make the eventual show more entertaining."
It takes everything I have not to vomit saying those words, but the Dark Elf's smile tells me it worked.
"That," he says, "can definitely be arranged."
Twenty minutes later, we're walking away from the tavern with a wealth of information about the arena's layout, security rotations, and Gospar's schedule. More importantly, I now have a legitimate excuse to visit the holding cells tomorrow—to "inspect my investment."
"That was risky," Nazim says once we're clear of the crowd.
"Everything about this is risky." I pull my hood back up, hiding the tears that threaten to fall. "But I'm done being careful. I'm done being safe."
I look back at the arena, its stone walls rising like a fortress between me and the man I love. Somewhere behind those walls, Thoktar is probably wondering if I'm even looking for him.
Hold on, I think as fiercely as I can. Just hold on a little longer.
13
THOKTAR
The roar of the crowd hits me like a physical blow as the gate clangs open. Sunlight burns my eyes after days in the dim cells, and for a brief moment I'm blind, stumbling forward on legs that shake from hunger and confinement.
"Fresh meat!" someone screams from the stands. "Kill the orc!"
The arena floor is sand mixed with old blood, and it shifts under my boots as I try to get my bearings. The walls rise thirty feet on all sides, packed with spectators who lean forward like vultures scenting carrion. In the ornate box overlooking the pit, a Dark Elf in expensive robes watches with calculating eyes. Gospar.
A rusty sword gets shoved into my hands—not the balanced weight of my axe, but it'll have to do. Across the sand, two figures emerge from the opposite gate. One human man, maybe thirty summers, moves with the jerky twitches of someone who's lost his mind to this place. His eyes are wild, foam flecking his lips as he snarls and snaps at the air. The other, older and still sane, takes one look at me and his face goes white as bone.
The stench hits me a moment later—the sharp, acrid smell of piss and terror. The older human has soiled himself at the sight of me, his body betraying what his mind knows: he's about to die.
"Please," he whispers, backing against the arena wall. "I have a wife. Children. I was just a baker, I never hurt anyone."
The mad one laughs, high and broken. "Children!" he shrieks. "Had children too! Fed them to the rats when the voices got too loud! Want to hear them scream?"
He launches himself at the terrified baker with his bare hands, fingernails grown long and sharp during his captivity. The crowd roars approval—they love it when the prisoners turn on each other.
"Begin!" Gospar calls, but the fight has already started.
I move without thinking, intercepting the madman before he can reach the cowering baker. His claws rake across my forearm, drawing blood, but I catch his wrists and twist. He's stronger than he looks—the mad often are—and he fights with the desperate savagery of someone with nothing left to lose.
"Orc flesh!" he hisses, trying to bite my throat. "Tastes like iron and hate! Want to wear your tusks as a necklace!"
I slam my knee into his stomach, doubling him over, but he recovers faster than expected. His elbow catches me in the ribs—exactly where the guards beat me yesterday—and pain explodes through my chest. The rusty sword skitters across the sand as I stumble.
The crowd is on its feet now, screaming for blood. The madman scoops up the fallen blade and swings it in wild arcs, foam flying from his mouth as he laughs.
