The commentator’s voice booms across the arena, amplified and distorted until it seems to come from everywhere at once.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the forty-eighth Annual Deathball Championships!”
The crowd roars its approval. Thousands of voices blend into something inhuman, hungry. The sound makes my teeth ache.
“Today’s opening match takes place in our very own Hell’s Forge arena, where our brave and worthy contestants will face not only each other, but the very fires of damnation itself!”
More cheers. More screaming for blood.
“All of our gladiators are Victora’s finest, here to demonstrate their valor, their courage in the face of death, and how tremendous our city truly is. Introducing our firstfighter—Andreas Voss!”
A gate opens on the far side of the arena. Andreas emerges, squinting against the harsh lights. I almost can’t believe my eyes. He’s dressed like some fantasy of a blacksmith—leather apron stretched tight across his bare chest, thick straps crossing his shoulders. The apron barely reaches mid-thigh, leaving his legs exposed except for heavy work boots that lace up to his knees. Metal braces circle his forearms, polished to catch the firelight, and a tool belt hangs low on his hips.
Andreas moves forward with a cocky swagger, already playing up the whole sexy blacksmith angle. We’ve been told many times that the more impressive a performance we put on, the better chance we have of gaining the most generous sponsors. It’s one of the many things I’m dreading about my turn.
Andreas grabs a hammer from a pile of metal debris near the wall, testing its weight with quick, sharp movements. When he grins at the crowd, they cheer.
The arena floor is a maze of death. Metal grating stretches between furnace vents that belch flame in irregular patterns. Scattered anvils and hammers create obstacles and weapons. The walls themselves are lined with furnace openings that glow red-hot, making the air shimmer with heat waves. The acrid smell of metal and smoke seeps through the viewing box’s ventilation system.
“And his opponent, Caspian Blake!”
My chest tightens as Cas steps through the opposite gate. He’s wearing the same ridiculous blacksmith getup as Andreas, and somehow it looks even more absurd on him—the leather apron swallows his leaner frame. He’s going to hate every second of this. I’ll have to give him hell about it later. If there is a later.
Cas moves carefully across the metal grating, testing each step. Smart. Always thinking. He stays light on his feet, dodging a sudden jet of flame that erupts near his boots. I watch him map the pattern, timing the intervals between bursts. He’s trying to find the safe zones.
Andreas charges forward, hammer raised. No strategy. No patience.
I suddenly realize something’s wrong with this picture.
I can’t help myself. I turn to Marco. “Where’s the Deathball?”
Marco blinks like he’s shocked I actually spoke to him. For a moment, something flickers across his face—relief, possibly.
“This is what I was talking about last week. Sometimes the ball is obvious from the beginning,” he explains. “Players immediately rush for it. But often, like today, it’s hidden somewhere in the arena. Or gets introduced after a set amount of time.”
Right. Can’t have someone getting bludgeoned to death after one minute when these people traveled all this way for entertainment.
Below, Andreas and Cas circle each other on the scorching grating. Both men are drenched in perspiration already, the heat as much an enemy as each other. Flames erupt between them, forcing constant repositioning.
Andreas rushes first, swinging his hammer in a wide arc. Cas dances backward, using a furnace vent to force Andreas into an awkward angle.
“And people have bet on this today?” I ask. “Bet on them?”
“Of course.”
The casual way he says it makes my stomach turn. Like this is perfectly normal. Like Cas and Andreas are horses in a race instead of men fighting for their lives.
“Who’s favored to win?”
Marco glances at me. “The betting is wild at the beginning because nobody has actually seen the players fighting yet.”
“So Andreas, then?”
Marco shrugs apologetically. “He’s got more of a charismatic face.”
More charismatic.Fuck.I want to punch something.
On the arena floor, Cas feints left, then rolls right as Andreas’s hammer smashes into the grating where his head had been. Sparks fly from the impact.
