"Pretty orc! Pretty green skin! Going to peel it off in strips!"
Behind him, the baker has curled into a ball, sobbing. The smell of his terror fills the arena, and I catch sight of children in the stands, their parents lifting them up to see better. Thisis entertainment to them. This horror, this degradation—it's a show.
The madman rushes me, sword raised, and I barely dodge the wild swing. The blade whistles past my ear, close enough to part my hair. I grab a handful of sand and fling it in his eyes, buying myself a moment to think.
Don't become what they want you to become,Forla's voice whispers in my memory.There's always another choice.
But what choice do I have here? The madman is already gone—there's nothing left to save in those wild eyes. And if I don't fight, if I don't give them the show they want, they'll make the next fight worse. They'll bring in more innocents like the baker, more victims to die for sport.
The madman wipes the sand from his eyes and grins, showing teeth he's filed to points. "Going to eat your heart while it's still beating! Going to?—"
I hit him like a landslide. All my rage, all my fury at this place and what it's done to him, to all of us, pours into the tackle. We go down hard, rolling in the bloody sand, and I hear ribs crack under my weight.
He tries to stab me with the sword, but the angle is wrong. I grab his wrist, slamming it against the ground until he drops the weapon. Then I wrap my hands around his throat.
He doesn't fight it. For just a moment, his eyes clear, and I see the man he used to be. Someone's father, probably. Someone who had a life before this place broke him.
"Thank you," he whispers.
I squeeze, quick and clean. His neck snaps with a sound like dry wood breaking, and the light goes out of his eyes.
The crowd roars its approval, but the sound feels hollow in my ears. I stand slowly, blood dripping from my clawed forearm, and look toward the baker. He's stopped sobbing, staring at me with a mixture of terror and gratitude.
"You saved me," he whispers.
“Kill him or you die orc!” The Ring Master yells.
I look at the baker, “Please, no.”
I squeeze my eyes and swing the sword, I feel cut through flesh and bone. When I open them the Baker’s head lies on the sand, his eyes wide open and staring at me.
The crowd roars and I throw down the sword.
The guards are already marching onto the sand, their expressions satisfied. A good show, a proper death. This is what they wanted from me.
They drag me back to the cells, my boots leaving furrows in the bloody sand. As the gate slams shut behind me, I catch a brief glimpse of workers hauling away the unconscious baker. At least he lived. At least I didn't become what they wanted.
But the beating cost me. My ribs scream with each breath, and I taste blood where my teeth cut my cheek. In the cell, Kresh's yellow eyes gleam with what might be respect.
"Clever," the Naga hisses. "But stupid. Gospar doesn't like his entertainment watered down."
"I noticed." I slump against the wall, trying to find a position that doesn't make my ribs feel like broken glass.
Vyra looks up from her corner. "He'll make the next fight harder. And the one after that. Eventually, you'll have to choose—kill or be killed."
"The madman was already gone," I say, touching the spot where his neck snapped. "I gave him peace, not entertainment."
"Peace is expensive here," she observes. "And Gospar doesn't like to pay for it."
The broken orc whimpers in his corner. "They'll bring worse ones next time. Ones you can't save. Ones that'll make you choose between your honor and your life."
I shield my eyes and lean back against the cold stone. My forearm throbs where the madman's claws raked across it, andevery breath sends fire through my ribs. But I'm alive. I survived my first arena fight.
The question is: how many more can I survive before this place breaks me like it broke him?
I touch the hidden charm against my chest, drawing what strength I can from Forla's memory. Somewhere out there, she's looking for me. I have to believe that. I have to hold onto something, or I'll end up like the madman—grateful for death when it finally comes.
14
