"The witch fights first," one of them grunts, rattling keys against the bars. "Get up."
Vyra rises with fluid grace, no fear in her movements despite what we all know this likely means. She catches my eye for a moment, and there's something almost like a smile on her lips.
"Survive, orc," she says quietly. "Someone should."
Then they're dragging her away, her footsteps echoing down the stone corridor until the sound fades to nothing.
The three of us left behind sit in tense silence. Kresh coils against the far wall, his yellow eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he can see through the stone to the arena above. The broken orc whimpers softly, rocking back and forth. And I... I listen.
The sounds filter down to us—muffled but unmistakable. First the roar of the crowd as they announce her entry. Then Gospar's voice, magically amplified, building excitement for the spectacle about to unfold. I catch fragments: "...mystical powers of the mountain witches..." and "...never before seen in our arena..."
The crowd cheers, bloodthirsty and eager.
Then the fighting begins.
Even through layers of stone, we hear it. The clash of weapons, yes, but other sounds too—crackling energy, the hiss of magic unleashed, strange serpentine noises that make my skin crawl. At one point there's an explosion that shakes dust from our cell ceiling, followed by screams that might be pain or might be ecstasy from the crowd above.
"She's giving them a show," Kresh hisses softly.
The battle sounds continue for what feels like an eternity but is probably only minutes. Magic versus steel, witch versus whatever poor bastard they've thrown against her. The crowd's reactions rise and fall like waves—cheers when blood flows, boos when the action slows, gasps at spectacular displays of power.
Then, suddenly, silence.
We wait. All three of us straining to hear something, anything, that might tell us the outcome. The crowd noise continues—discussion, excitement, the sound of bets being settled—but no announcement of victory, no triumphant return.
When the guards' footsteps echo back down the corridor, they're alone.
"Clean up's going to take a while," one of them says to his companion as they pass our cells. "Witch turned half the sand to glass before the naga got her. Spectacular death though—crowd loved it."
My hands form hard fists. Vyra. Gone. Just like that, another life snuffed out for entertainment. Another warrior reduced to a stain on the arena sand.
The broken orc's whimpering gets louder.
"She fought well," Kresh says quietly, and there's genuine respect in his voice. "Better than most."
I touch the hidden charm against my chest, thinking of Forla somewhere up there in the crowd, forced to watch these horrors while maintaining her disguise. How is she bearing it? How isshe keeping herself together while people she might have called friends are dying for sport?
The guards return an hour later.
"Orc!" The key rattles in the lock. "You're up!"
This is it. The main event. Not some preliminary match against broken criminals, but the real thing. Against Rophan, the legendary minotaur who's killed dozens of fighters and never lost a match.
I stand slowly, my joints protesting after days of confinement. Kresh watches me with those unreadable yellow eyes.
"Remember what I told you about his fighting style," the Naga says. "Low charges, uses his horns like spears. And he feels no pain—the madness has taken that from him."
"I remember."
The broken orc looks up at me with hollow eyes. "Don't die brave," he whispers. "Die smart."
The guards chain my wrists, but loosely—they need me able to fight. The corridor leading up to the arena stretches before me like a throat leading to some great beast's belly.
In the staging area, they give me weapons—a proper sword this time, not the rusted blade from my first fight, and a small shield. Better than I'd hoped for, but still nothing compared to my lost axe.
"Special treat today, orc," one of the guards grins. "You're fighting the champion. Crowd's been waiting weeks for this."
Through the gate, I can hear Gospar's voice building the spectacle. "...undefeated champion of our arena... forty-three victories and counting... the beast of legend himself..."
