One of those wild swings connects with Thoktar's shield, shattering it completely and sending him sprawling. The minotaur follows up immediately, trying to crush his opponent beneath those massive hooves.
Thoktar rolls desperately, sand flying, each stomp missing him by inches. But he's tiring, slowing, and Rophan is relentless despite his injured knee.
A hoof clips Thoktar's shoulder, spinning him around and leaving him stunned for a crucial moment. Rophan sees the opening and pounces, tackling the orc to the ground with bone-jarring force.
The crowd explodes in bloodthirsty celebration. This is what they came to see—their champion pinning his prey, preparing for the killing blow.
But something's wrong. As the seconds tick by, Rophan doesn't deliver the final strike. He just holds Thoktar down, his massive chest heaving, those mad eyes staring down at his captive with something that almost looks like confusion.
"What's he waiting for?" the merchant's wife demands. "Finish him!"
That's when I see it. Thoktar's lips are moving, saying something only Rophan can hear. The minotaur's head tilts slightly, as if straining to understand words that should be impossible to comprehend.
"Now," I whisper to Nazim.
He nods and stands abruptly, shoving the drunk man beside him. "Watch where you're putting your hands, you pig!"
"I didn't touch you!" the drunk protests.
"Liar!" Nazim shoves him harder, and the man stumbles into the row behind him, spilling wine across an expensively dressed woman.
"My dress!" she shrieks, turning on the drunk with fury. "You clumsy oaf!"
"It wasn't me, it was the snake!"
And just like that, the carefully orchestrated brawl begins. Fists start flying, voices rise in anger, and within moments half the section is embroiled in chaos. Guards start moving toward the disturbance, shouting for order.
Perfect.
I rise from my seat and begin moving toward the arena floor, just another concerned patron trying to escape the violence. No one notices me slip past the distracted guards, down the service stairs that lead to the holding areas.
But as I reach the edge of the arena level, I pause for one last look at the sand below.
Thoktar still has Rophan pinned beneath him somehow, the massive orc's struggles growing weaker.
17
THOKTAR
"Inever thought I'd meet an orc enslaved to the dark elves."
The words crack something behind Rophan's eyes—a flash of recognition, of memory breaking through madness like sunlight through storm clouds. His massive fist, poised to crush my skull, trembles and slowly lowers.
"What... what did you..." He shakes his head violently, as if trying to dislodge something. Then his eyes clear, and for the first time, I see the warrior he used to be. "No. NO MORE!"
The orc explodes off me with a roar that shakes the arena walls. Guards rush toward us, and Rophan meets them like a landslide. Bodies fly, bones crack, and suddenly the sand is painted red with more than gladiator blood.
I roll to my feet as chaos erupts. The crowd screams, not in bloodlust now but in terror as their champion turns on his masters. Spectators trample each other racing for exits while Rophan carves a path of destruction toward Gospar's box.
"THOKTAR!"
Forla appears at the arena entrance, blood splattered across her merchant disguise, Nazim beside her with his claws extended and dripping. "MOVE!"
No time for reunions. Guards are already regrouping, crossbows raised. I sprint toward them as bolts whistle past my head, one so close it burns the air by my ear.
Behind me, Rophan's roar cuts off abruptly—Gospar's death cry following a heartbeat later.
Kresh emerges into the arena holding the head of a dark elf guard, yellow eyes blazing with murderous joy. He hurls the head a guard running toward him, it strikes him on his forehead and the guard drops unto the bloody sand.
