FORLA
My hands shake as I adjust the expensive rings Nazim procured for me. The gold feels cold and foreign against my skin, a costume piece in this sick theater we're performing. But it's necessary. Lady Mira of Greyhold wouldn't have callused fingers or bitten nails.
"Remember," Nazim murmurs as we approach the arena's private entrance. "You're inspecting potential investments. You have gold to spend and very specific tastes in entertainment."
The Dark Elf who greets us has the pale, sharp features of his kind, but his smile is all merchant—calculating and false. "Lady Mira! Gospar is delighted by your interest in our... accommodations. I'm Morwulf, his business manager."
"Charmed." I let ice creep into my voice, playing the bored noble. "I trust you have something worth my time? I've traveled quite far based on your reputation."
"Oh, we have several specimens that might interest you." Morwulf's eyes glitter with greed. "Fresh acquisitions, barely broken. Perfect for private matches or... other entertainments."
My stomach churns, but I force a predatory smile. "Show me."
The descent into the arena's bowels is a journey into nightmare. The stone walls weep moisture and worse things, and the air grows thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, old blood, and despair. Torches provide flickering light that makes shadows dance like demons.
"Here we are," Morwulf says, stopping before a row of barred cells. "Our current stock."
And there he is.
Thoktar sits against the back wall of the third cell, and my heart nearly stops. He's thinner than when I saw him last, his green skin marked with fresh bruises and a long scratch down his forearm. But he's alive. He's alive and those dark eyes are alert, scanning his surroundings with the focus of a warrior planning his next move.
"Ah, this one caught your attention?" Morwulf follows my gaze. "Excellent choice. Iron Tusk clan orc, fresh from yesterday's fight. Killed a madman with his bare hands—quite the spectacle."
"He looks... damaged." I force criticism into my voice when all I want to do is run to those bars, reach through them, touch him to prove he's real.
"Superficial wounds only. He's strong stock—they heal quickly." Morwulf moves closer to the cell, and I see Thoktar's muscles tense. "Show the lady your strength, orc."
Thoktar doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge us at all. His eyes find mine for just an instant—a flicker of recognition, of desperate hope—before he looks away.
"Defiant," I observe, proud of how steady my voice sounds. "That could be... entertaining. But what's his fighting record?"
"One match, one victory. Though Gospar felt his technique could use refinement." Morwulf's smile turns cruel. "Too quick, too clean. Our patrons prefer their entertainment more... prolonged."
In the next cell, a Naga with crimson scales watches our conversation with yellow eyes that miss nothing. Beside him, a woman who looks human but carries the subtle wrongness of magic about her—a Purna. They're studying me as intently as I'm pretending to study Thoktar.
"What about the others?" I ask, though I have to force myself to look away from Thoktar.
"The Naga is experienced but expensive to maintain. Highly aggressive, excellent for death matches. The witch..." Morwulf shrugs. "Magical entertainment. Very specialized market."
"And him?" I nod toward the fourth cell, where a broken orc cowers in the shadows.
"Worthless. We keep him around to demonstrate what happens to fighters who lose their spirit. Good for motivation."
The casual cruelty in his voice makes me want to claw his eyes out, but I school my features into bored interest. "I see. And when is the fresh orc scheduled to fight next?"
"Tomorrow, actually. Gospar decided to advance his schedule after yesterday's performance. He'll face two opponents this time—a pair of human criminals. Should be more challenging."
Tomorrow. My blood runs cold. We're not ready, don't have our plan finalized yet. But if Thoktar fights again so soon...
"I'd like to ensure my investment performs properly," I say carefully. "Perhaps some... incentive? I find that the right motivation can improve a fighter's enthusiasm considerably."
Morwulf's grin is genuinely pleased. "Lady Mira, I can see we're going to do excellent business together. What sort of motivation did you have in mind?"
Before I can answer, footsteps echo down the corridor. A larger Dark Elf approaches—Gospar himself, from the rich robes and the way Morwulf immediately straightens.
"My lady," Gospar's voice is smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "How delightful to meet someone with such... refined tastes. Morwulf has been showing you our current stock?"
"Indeed." I incline my head regally. "Though I confess I'm not entirely impressed. The orc seems promising, but if he's too soft for proper entertainment..."
