"Ah, but that's easily corrected." Gospar's smile is a blade. "Sometimes fresh fighters need to understand the consequences of holding back. A few lessons in motivation, and they become much more... enthusiastic."
"What sort of lessons?"
"Well, for example—" Gospar nods to one of his guards, who produces a thin, flexible rod. "A few strokes across the back often helps a fighter remember that survival requires commitment."
The guard approaches Thoktar's cell, rod raised, and my entire world narrows to that moment. I can see Thoktar's hands clench, see him preparing to fight back, which will only make things worse.
"Wait," I say quickly. "If you damage him too badly, won't that affect his performance tomorrow?"
"Just a taste," Gospar assures me. "Enough to motivate, not enough to cripple."
The guard unlocks the cell door.
"Actually," I say, my mind racing, "might I suggest an alternative? Sometimes psychological motivation is more effective than physical punishment."
Gospar raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"The threat of consequences can be more powerful than the consequences themselves. Perhaps... defer the lesson until after tomorrow's fight? Let him know that poor performance will result in severe punishment?" I'm improvising desperately now. "It adds anticipation. Dread. Very entertaining."
Gospar considers this, then laughs. "Lady Mira, you have a wonderfully twisted mind. Yes, I think that approach has merit. The uncertainty will eat at him."
The guard steps back, and I see Thoktar's shoulders relax slightly. Our eyes meet again, and this time he holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer. In that look, I see everything—recognition, hope, love, and a desperate question:Are you really here?
I give the tiniest nod, so small it could be mistaken for adjusting my hood. But his eyes close briefly, and I know he understands. Help is coming. He just has to survive a little longer.
"Excellent," I say aloud. "I do so enjoy fighters who truly understand the stakes. Shall we discuss terms?"
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking out of the arena complex with a receipt for my "sponsorship" of Thoktar's next fight, detailed knowledge of the underground layout, and a promise from Gospar that he'll personally ensure the orc provides "proper entertainment" tomorrow.
The moment we're clear of the arena district, I stumble into an alley and vomit until my stomach is empty. Nazim holds my hair back and says nothing until the shaking stops.
"That was well done," he says finally. "Risky, but well done."
"He's hurt." My voice comes out raw. "They're starving him, beating him, and tomorrow they're going to make him fight again."
"But he's alive. And now he knows you're here. That will give him strength."
I straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of bile is nothing compared to the memory of Gospar's smile, of having to stand there while they discussed torturing the man I love.
"Tomorrow," I say, my mind already working through what I learned. "We'll be in the audience for his fight. I need to see what we're up against, map the arena layout from the spectator side."
"And if he's badly hurt? If they?—"
"Then we act immediately after." I meet Nazim's eyes. "But if he can survive one more fight, if I can get close enough during the chaos... Gospar mentioned something about bringing out their champion soon. Rophan."
Nazim's hood flares slightly. "The mad minotaur."
"What if that's our opportunity? When they bring out their biggest spectacle, security might be focused on the main event. And if Thoktar is meant to fight Rophan eventually..." I trail off, pieces of a plan beginning to form.
"You're thinking of using the chaos?" Nazim asks.
“It is our only friend right now.” I reply.
15
THOKTAR
The guards come for Vyra at dawn.
