Come on, Cas.
They move higher, weapons clutched in one hand while they haul themselves up with the other. The crowd follows their progress with growing excitement.
A sudden loud click has everyone in my box holding their breath. The mechanical sound echoes through the arena—gears turning, metal sliding against metal.
The Deathball appears.
It drops from a concealed chamber high above the scaffolding, rolling down a metal ramp that extends toward the fighters. The crowd goes absolutely wild, their voices reaching a fever pitch that makes the glass vibrate.
Everyone in our box surges forward, pressing against the windows. Even the others who’ve been trying to stay calm lose their composure at the sight.
I have a mad urge to grab Marco’s hand. Instead, I fold my arms tight across my chest.
Andreas reaches the ball first.
He grabs it—not effortlessly, but with the confidence of someone who’s trained for this. We’ve all had several turns playing with the thing. It’s a metal sphere covered in wicked spikes, with a hand grip that lets you wield it like a massive mace. The weight of it makes Andreas’s muscles strain, but he lifts it above his head.
No hesitation. He brings it down toward Cas’s face with crushing force.
I fall to my knees.
Cas saves himself by jumping off the scaffolding—a desperate leap that takes him away from the death blow but sends him crashing onto the arena floor. He lands hard on his burned arm, and his scream blares through the speakers.
Marco is suddenly right by me, his voice in my ear.
“Robin, get up,” he tells me. Not annoyed or even an order—more like a plea. “You’re being watched right now, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
I force myself back to my feet, legs shaking.
Below us, Andreas grips the scaffolding with one hand, the Deathball clutched against his chest with the other. The weight makes him swaydangerously. For one heart-stopping moment, it looks like he might lose his grip entirely—the ball tilting, his arm shaking with strain.
But he recovers. Muscles bulging, he adjusts his hold and starts his descent.
Cas scrambles to his feet on the arena floor, face streaked with sweat and ash. He backs away as Andreas drops down, landing heavily on the grating with the Deathball still secure in his grasp.
The crowd’s bloodlust reaches a fever pitch, as if they can smell the approaching kill.
Andreas advances, raising the spiked sphere above his head. Each step deliberate. Predatory.
But Cas doesn’t retreat in a straight line. He moves sideways, circling, drawing Andreas toward the arena’s outer wall where the furnace openings glow like hungry mouths.
I see what he’s doing a split second before it happens.
“Smart,” Marco breathes beside me.
Andreas brings the Deathball down in a crushing arc. At the last possible moment, Cas throws himself sideways. The ball smashes into the metal grating where his head had been, sparks flying from the impact.
And Andreas stumbles forward—directly into a furnace opening.
Fire erupts from the wall vent in a concentrated jet that engulfs Andreas’s left side. His scream pierces the arena as flames eat through his blacksmith's apron. The stench of burning hair and flesh reaches even our sealed box.
The Deathball tumbles from his hands, rolling across the grating.
Cas lunges for it.
“Yes!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Cas!”
A few of the others join in—René cheering, Max shouting encouragement. Though I can’t help but quickly glance at those who are friendly with Andreas. Their faces are pale, stricken.
