The arena is not ornamental.
It is carved from the hull of a dead dreadnought that drifts in the heart of Badlands core space, its shattered superstructure reforged into a circular platform open to vacuum but shielded by a thin atmospheric lattice. The air tastes metallic and dry, recycled from the carcass of war. Light from a nearby red dwarf bleeds across the platform in long, rust-colored streaks, painting every scar in sharper relief.
Every clan is watching.
Their vessels form a loose, uneven ring beyond the transparent barrier, hulls bearing the scars of generations of survival. The broadcast drones hover in disciplined arcs overhead, feeding the ritual across Reaper territories in real time.
Elara stands behind the designated boundary line at the platform’s edge. She does not touch me as I step forward, but I feel her presence the way one feels gravity—constant, anchoring.
Rethan walks at my right shoulder until we reach the center. He stops there.
“You bleed through the second binding,” he murmurs quietly.
“I know,” I reply.
“You can still withdraw.”
“No.”
He studies my face for a moment, then nods once. “Then finish it quickly.”
The challenger steps onto the platform from the opposite side.
Clan Drae’s chosen champion.
Tall. Broad. Younger than Vorthan but heavier, built for crushing force rather than calculated strikes. His armor is dark and ceremonial, etched with clan sigils that shimmer faintly under the dwarf’s light.
“You should not stand,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the charged air. “Not like this.”
“I stand,” I reply.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to the bandage at my ribs.
“You risk the clans’ future for pride,” he says.
“I risk it for direction,” I answer evenly.
The elder officiator steps forward between us, his voice resonant and steady.
“Ritual combat is declared,” he intones. “Leadership contested. Outcome binding under blood.”
He steps back.
Silence tightens.
The challenger moves first.
He lunges with brute force, blade arcing toward my injured side. He aims where he knows I am weakest. It is not subtle, and it is not dishonorable.
I pivot instead of meeting him head-on. The movement pulls at my wound like a hook dragging through flesh. I feel heat bloom beneath the bandage, but I keep my breathing measured.
He swings again, heavy and direct.
I give ground, forcing him to overextend. He is stronger at full commitment than I am at this moment; therefore, I do not commit.
“You bleed already,” he says, pressing forward.
“You talk too much,” I reply.
