The crowd roars its approval, a sound like thunder that seems to shake the very stones.
"And challenging him today, fresh from the northern wastes, Iron Tusk clan warrior..."
My turn. The gates swing open and I step into blazing sunlight, sand shifting beneath my feet. The arena is packed, every seat filled with people hungry for blood. And there, in the expensive boxes, I catch a small glimpse of a hooded figure who makes my heart skip.
Forla.She's here. She's watching.
I have to survive this. Whatever it takes, I have to live through what's coming.
The opposite gate opens with a grinding of metal, and Rophan emerges.
He's massive—even bigger than I expected. Eight feet of muscle and horn and barely-contained rage, his bull-like head swinging back and forth as if seeking something to destroy. His eyes... gods, his eyes are completely mad. There's nothing left in them but endless fury and bloodlust.
The crowd goes absolutely wild, chanting his name, screaming for violence.
And then, without warning, Rophan turns toward the stands.
His massive fist lashes out, catching a spectator in the front row—some merchant who'd leaned too far forward, eager for a better view. The man's head simply... disappears. Blood sprays across the crowd, and his body topples forward into the arena.
For a moment, there's stunned silence. Then nervous laughter from some sections, confused murmurs from others. Many in the crowd seem to think it's part of the show, some elaborate piece of theater.
But the guards know better. I can see them scrambling, shouting orders, trying to figure out how to regain control without getting close enough to become the minotaur's next victims.
Rophan licks the blood from his knuckles and turns toward me.
Our eyes meet across the sand—mad beast and desperate warrior—and the arena holds its breath. This is no longer entertainment. This is life and death in its purest form.
The minotaur lowers his head, horns gleaming in the afternoon sun, and stamps once with his massive hooves.
I raise my sword and shield, muscles coiled to spring.
16
FORLA
The arena holds its breath.
Below in the sand, Thoktar and Rophan face each other like statues carved from violence itself. The minotaur's massive frame dwarfs my love, all eight feet of muscle and horn and barely-contained madness. Blood still drips from his knuckles where he casually murdered that spectator, and his eyes... gods, his eyes hold nothing but endless rage.
Thoktar looks so small beside him. Too thin, too wounded, too human despite his orcish strength. The sword in his hands might as well be a toothpick for all the good it will do against that monster.
"Magnificent, isn't he?" The woman beside me—some merchant's wife—leans forward eagerly. "Forty-three kills and counting. I've got fifty silver on him finishing the orc in under five minutes."
I force myself to nod, to smile like I'm not watching the man I love prepare to die. "Quite the spectacle."
My hands clench in my lap, hidden beneath my expensive cloak. Every fiber of my being screams to run down there, to throw myself between them, to dosomethingother than sithere playing the role of entertainer while Thoktar faces this nightmare alone.
But Nazim's plan requires patience. Timing. And trust that Thoktar can survive long enough for us to act.
Around me, the crowd grows restless. They want blood, want action, want to see their champion tear apart fresh meat. The betting is fierce—most backing Rophan for a quick kill, a few optimists wagering on the orc lasting more than ten minutes.
None of them bet on Thoktar winning. Why would they? He's facing a legend.
In Gospar's box, the arena master raises his hand. "Begin!"
Rophan moves like a landslide.
The minotaur's charge shakes the ground, his hooves thundering against the sand as he lowers those massive horns. Thoktar dives aside at the last possible moment, the horn tips missing him by inches. The crowd roars approval—they love it when prey fights back.
