A furnace vent erupts directly beneath Andreas’s feet. He leaps backward, cursing, but the flames catch his left boot. He stamps frantically, beating out the smoldering leather.
Cas uses the distraction to grab his own weapon—a shorter hammer with a spiked head. He tests its balance while Andreas recovers.
They clash again near the center. Metal rings against metal as Cas blocks a crushing overhead blow. The force drives him to one knee, but he rolls away before Andreas can follow up.
Then disaster strikes.
Cas misjudges a flame pattern. He steps left just as a massive jet erupts from the grating. Fire engulfs his right arm from elbow to wrist, and his scream cuts through the crowd’s roar like a blade.
“No!” The word tears from my throat before I can stop it. I slam my palms against the glass, pressing my face to the surface.
Cas staggers backward, clutching his burned arm. On the screens, the cameras pan in on the wound—angry red welts already forming on his skin. Smoke rises from the leather that didn’t quite catch fire as he flings off the metal brace that was surely scorching hot against his wrist.
Marco’s hand touches my arm. Gentle. Hesitant.
I feel the warmth of his fingers for exactly one heartbeat before he pulls away as if I’m the one on fire.
Cas stumbles, wisps of smoke still curling from his scorched apron. The crowd’s bloodlust grows louder, feeding on his pain. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright despite the agony written across his face.
Andreas circles him like a wolf, hammer raised. He knows he has the advantage now. Though he can only maim Cas, at this stage. He can’t kill him—he needs the Deathball for that. If Cas dies beforehand, Andreas will be forced to fight next week, despite the injuries he will probably sustain today.
An alarm blares through the arena. Harsh, electronic, cutting through even the crowd’s roar.
“What’s that?” I ask Marco, not caring how desperate I sound. “What’s going on?”
“A sponsor is giving them something. One of them, anyway.”
“What? Who?Which one?”
Marco replies softly, “I know as much as you.”
That’s not quite true. He has five years’ experience of this. He can likely guess exactly how this is going to go.
The commentator bellows, “Ladies and gentlemen, we already have our first sponsor drop of the season!”
Something shoots across the sky above the arena. A tiny metal thing, moving as fast as a bird. It hovers for a moment before diving toward the fighters.
“What’s that?” I’m starting to feel like a child, asking question after question.
“That’s a drone.”
The thing drops a small package directly above Cas’s head. He catches it awkwardly with his good hand, then tears it open with his teeth.
Relief floods through me. It’s for Cas. Someone’s helping Cas.
“Fire-resistant gloves for Caspian Blake, courtesy of Viktor Hartley of Hartley Steel Works!”
My heart sinks. Gloves. Nothing for his burn—he’s just going to have to fight through that pain. But at least he can handle metal now without the fire singeing his palms.
Cas pulls the gloves on quickly, flexing his fingers to test the fit. Andreas doesn’t wait for him to finish. He charges again, using Cas’s momentary distraction.
But Cas is ready. He sidesteps and raises his spiked hammer up. Andreas barely gets his weapon up in time to block when he smashes it down.
The impact sends vibrations through both their arms. They break apart, circling again.
Andreas suddenly changes tactics. Instead of staying on the scorching floor, he leaps onto the scaffolding that runs along the arena’s edge. Metal pipes and platforms create a maze above the flame vents.
Cas follows close behind, his burned arm clearly hampering his climb. Each grip makes him wince, but he doesn’t fall back.
