The Deathball smolders with heat. Cas’s gloved fingers close around its grip. He lifts it, muscles straining against the weight. Andreas staggersbackward, beating at the flames on his apron, his left side a mass of angry red welts and charred leather.
But he’s still standing. Still alive.
Cas doesn’t hesitate.
The training takes over. All those hours Marco drilled into us about not showing mercy, about finishing what we start. The Deathball swings in a vicious arc.
It catches Andreas across the face with a wet, crushing sound that makes my stomach lurch. Blood explodes across the arena floor—more blood than I’d have thought possible. Andreas’s left eye disappears in a spray of crimson and something darker.
He stumbles backward, hands flying to his ruined face, but he’s still on his feet.
The commentator shouts over the crowd, but the words blur together into meaningless noise. All I can focus on is the blood streaming between Andreas’s fingers, the way his remaining eye rolls white with shock.
Cas kicks out hard, sweeping Andreas’s legs. The man crashes to the grating, his back hitting the metal with a sharp clang.
Cas lifts the Deathball again.
This time he brings it down on Andreas’s skull.
The sound—fucking hell, the sound. Like a melon dropped from a great height. Wet and final.
But Cas doesn’t stop. He raises the ball again, muscles shaking with the effort.
Another blow to the head.
My legs almost give out again. I grip the glass wall to keep from falling, bile rising in my throat. I knew it would be brutal. I knew someone woulddie. But seeing it—watching Cas’s face as he brings that spiked metal down again and again—
“You’re okay,” Marco’s voice whispers in my ear, so quiet only I can hear it. His hand hovers near my back, not quite touching. “Keep watching. It’s almost over.”
One more blow. Andreas’s body stops twitching.
Cas staggers backward, the Deathball hanging from his grip—a dead weight. Blood drips from the spikes, pattering onto the grating below.
This is it. This is the moment he’s supposed to run around the arena, arms raised in triumph. The commentator is already building toward it, his voice reaching crescendo about Cas’s “magnificent victory” and “the glory of Victora.”
But Cas just stands there. Swaying slightly. Looking down at what he’s done.
Then his legs buckle. He sits down hard on the arena floor, the Deathball rolling from his numb fingers.
Beside me, Marco groans, clearly pissed Cas isn’t going to perform like he’s been instructed to.
I want to punch him.
The commentator falters for just a moment before recovering. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears our victor needs a moment to… absorb the magnitude of his achievement…”
Two guards appear at the arena’s edge, their blue uniforms stark against the bloodstained sand. They haul Cas to his feet—not gently—and start marching him toward something being wheeled into view. A platform. Purple velvet draped over carved wood, like a throne pulled from some ancient palace.
The sight of Cas being forced onto that ornate seat, still wearing the blood-spattered blacksmith costume, makes the whole thing feel even more grotesque. Like some sick parody of a fairy tale.
Marco sighs heavily, the sound cutting through my focus. Our box door swings open. A guard stands in the doorway, looking at Marco expectantly.
“Duty calls,” Marco says to us, straightening his shoulders as he walks away.
The door clicks shut behind him.
“What? Where’s he going?” I ask, not taking my eyes off Cas.
“Marco has to give a speech,” Max explains. “Champion’s duty. He introduces the winner, talks up their performance, that sort of thing.”
