Rophan wheels around with surprising grace for something so large, already launching into another attack. This time Thoktar's ready, his shield coming up to deflect a crushing blow from the minotaur's fist. The impact sends him skidding backward, but he keeps his feet.
"Dance, little orc!" someone shouts from the stands. "Make it interesting!"
My nails dig into my palms hard enough to draw blood. This isn't entertainment—this is torture. Watching Thoktar fight for his life while a thousand voices cheer for his death is more agony than anything I endured as a slave.
Beside me, Nazim shifts slightly. His hood conceals his expression, but I see the tension in his coiled muscles. He's studying the arena, the guards, the crowd flow. Mapping our route for when the time comes.
Because it will come. Whatever happens down there, we're getting Thoktar out. Even if I have to burn this whole place to the ground.
Rophan swings a massive fist, and Thoktar barely ducks under it. The minotaur's follow-up knee catches him in the ribs, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying. He hits the arena wall hard enough to crack stone, then slides down into the sand.
"Get up," I whisper, too quietly for anyone to hear. "Please, get up."
He does, spitting blood but still moving. Still fighting. The crowd boos—they wanted that to be the end. Wanted to see bones break and organs rupture.
"Tough little bastard," the merchant's wife observes. "Might last six minutes after all."
Thoktar circles now, keeping his distance, using his speed advantage. Smart. But he can't run forever, and every exchange chips away at his strength while Rophan seems inexhaustible.
The minotaur charges again, and this time Thoktar doesn't dodge. Instead he drops low, sword flashing up toward Rophan's belly. The blade finds flesh, drawing a line of crimson across the champion's abdomen, and the crowd goes wild.
"First blood!" Gospar's amplified voice booms across the arena. "The orc draws first blood!"
But Rophan doesn't even seem to notice the wound. If anything, the pain just makes him angrier. He backhands Thoktar across the arena like swatting a fly, and this time my love doesn't get up quite as quickly.
I scan the arena's security layout while trying to look like I'm just caught up in the spectacle. Six guards at the main entrances, four more positioned around the arena floor, two flanking Gospar's box. During a normal fight, their attention would be on crowd control, watching for pickpockets and troublemakers.
But this isn't a normal fight. Half the guards are focused entirely on Rophan, clearly nervous about his earlier display of random violence. That leaves gaps. Opportunities.
Nazim catches my eye and nods almost imperceptibly. He's spotted them too.
Down in the sand, Thoktar rolls away from another crushing stomp that would have pulverized his skull. He's bleeding from a dozen small cuts now, his movements a little slower, a little less precise. But he's still fighting, still thinking, still refusing to just lie down and die for these animals.
"Come on, orc!" a drunk man yells. "Fight like you mean it!"
If only they knew. If only they understood what honor looks like, what real courage means. Thoktar is facing certain death and still he holds to his principles, still he fights clean while his opponent is a mindless engine of destruction.
Rophan's next charge catches Thoktar off-guard. Those massive arms wrap around the orc's torso, lifting him from his feet in a crushing bear hug. I can hear ribs creaking from here, see the pain etched across Thoktar's face as the minotaur's strength threatens to snap his spine.
The crowd is on its feet now, screaming for the kill.
But Thoktar still has his sword. He drives the pommel down between Rophan's horns, once, twice, three times. Not enough to seriously wound but enough to make the minotaur loosen his grip. Thoktar slips free and staggers back, gasping.
"Smart," I breathe. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised the entire arena can't hear it. "Stay smart."
They circle each other again, predator and prey, though I'm no longer entirely sure which is which. Rophan has the size and strength and unstoppable fury, but Thoktar has something the minotaur lost long ago—the ability to think, to plan, to adapt.
"Now?" Nazim murmurs, so quietly only I can hear.
"Not yet." I watch the guards, counting their positions, timing their movements. "Wait for..."
Rophan lunges forward with a roar that shakes the arena walls. Thoktar sidesteps, but this time he doesn't retreat. Instead he pivots, using the minotaur's momentum against him, and drives his shoulder into Rophan's knee.
There's a wet, cracking sound, and suddenly the unstoppable champion is limping.
The crowd's cheers falter slightly. This isn't going according to script. Their invincible monster is supposed to dominate, not struggle against some half-starved orc gladiator.
But Rophan's injury just makes him wilder. He swings his fists like clubs, no longer caring about technique or precision. Just raw, animalistic fury seeking something to destroy.
