The light was faint, weak—hardly daring to intrude into the grim confines of Ry's cell. A solitary beam stretched across the room, catching her face where she lay on the scratchy wool cot. It was thin and pitiful, offering no warmth but just enough light to confirm the arrival of another morning. The only other herald of the hour was the muffled boom of the coliseum crowds, their bloodlust simmering as they filed into the great stone amphitheater. Their distant roars echoed faintly through the labyrinthine halls, making her long, tapered ears flick and turn to catch the sounds.
Her cell was a mausoleum of damp stone, cold and unforgiving. In the far corner, condensation beaded and dripped with mocking regularity, its faint plinks drawing the desperate attention of rats. They scurried and squabbled over the fleeting moisture, scattering only as the young Cervalyn woman stirred. She sat up slowly, her muscles stiff from the chill and the restless half-sleep that never offered true respite. Her breath misted in the frigid air, mingling with the musty stench of mildew and rot that clung to the stones like a sickness. Her cell was not a place for the living, merely a waiting room for the condemned.
From the depths of the corridor came the jingle of manacles, sharp and deliberate, like a cruel symphony played for the damned. The steady thud of leather boots punctuated the air, their rhythm broken only by the wails of newcomers—a raw, desperate sound—and the guttural groans of those left to rot with festering wounds. The cacophony grew louder, closer, a grim overture to her waking dread. Each sound, each step, was a visceral reminder of her servitude—a life chained to debts not her own, bound by iron and circumstance.
Ry's gaze fixed on the thin viewing slot of the heavy wood and steel door, waiting for a familiar shadow to darken her threshold. She knew the sequence all too well: the scrape of the latch, the creak of rusted hinges, and then the cold, unyielding bite of steel around her wrists. It was routine now, a cycle as unrelenting as the sunrise and just as indifferent.
She rose with quiet resolve, brushing off her disheveled tunic—little more than tattered rags—and adjusted them into something resembling dignity. Standing mutely, she retreated to the corner of the cell, pressing herself into the shadows. There she waited, tense and wordless, her defiance reduced to a single act of stillness in the face of inevitability.
The narrow port in the door scraped open, metal grinding against metal, revealing a pair of cold, piercing gray eyes. They lingered on her for only a moment, detached and impassive, before the clank of keys echoed in the hallway. Tumblers clicked and shifted with mechanical finality, and the door groaned open on protesting hinges, the sound deep and oppressive, speaking of years of overuse. A shallow groove in the sandstone floor marked the passage of countless souls before her—an unbroken line of the forgotten and the damned.
Two figures stepped into the cell with the measured precision of men who had long mastered their grim trade. Their layered armor, dull and pitted with wear, clinked almost imperceptibly with each movement. Steel masks obscured their faces, leaving only their eyes visible—detached, unreadable, and cold as the stone walls. They moved not as brutes but as craftsmen, their motions calculated and deliberate, as though rehearsed in an unending dour routine.
Ry raised her wrists without a word; the ritual etched into her muscle memory. The guards worked with the same efficiency, clamping the manacles around her with a metallic snap. One of them stepped forward to pat her down, his hands methodical and impersonal, searching for hidden contraband. She stood still, her gaze fixed on the dim corridor beyond as though it offered some distant, impossible escape.
Without resistance, she stepped forward at their silent cue, the weight of the restraints dragging against her raw wrists. She passed through the doorway, out into the dim corridor, her footsteps falling into rhythm with the guards behind her. It was just like the dozens of times before, every step another small submission to the inevitability of her fate.
The echo of the crowd's insatiable screams swelled with each step, reverberating through the stone halls, the roar of a beast demanding to be fed. As the trio ascended from the dungeon's suffocating depths, the air grew warmer, tinged with the bitter scent of sweat, blood, and stale metal. Ry's gaze flicked to the other cages they passed—faces pressed to the bars, pale and hollow with exhaustion. Some bore the marks of countless battles, their bodies broken and scarred, their eyes dulled to the horror of it all. Others were fresh-faced, trembling in the shadows of their cells, their wide eyes wet with tears. Greenhorns. She had been like that once.
She averted her gaze. She didn't need to relive it. The fear was still there, coiled tight in her chest, but she had learned not to show it. Fear was a luxury she could not afford, an indulgence that only invited cruelty. She'd seen what happened to those who let their emotions show, how it painted a target on their backs. So she kept her face blank, her shoulders steady, even as her pulse raced beneath the manacles.
At last, they came to the heavy metal door that separated the cells from the world above. It loomed before them, a monument of cold iron etched with scratches and dents from ages of use. Beyond it lay the holding area—the liminal space between life and death, where combatants prepared for the arena's blood-soaked stage. The trio paused as one of the guards stepped forward, reaching for the lever. Ry's breath hitched. This door marked the end of the quarter's despair and the beginning of something worse.
Ry's gaze swept over the bloodstained chamber as they entered the room. The space was a box of stone and iron, the air heavy with the taste of old blood and sweat. Light spilled weakly through the slatted wooden gate that separated the holding cells from the long, ominous corridor leading to the portcullis beyond. The faint rays of sunlight offered no comfort here, only a grim reminder of the spectacle awaiting them.
The room teemed with motion. Attendants scurried back and forth with mechanical efficiency, some only children. Boys no older than ten hauled weapons—some pristine and gleaming, others slick with gore—across the room. Older stewards worked in silence, strapping battered armor onto combatants who stood immobilized by chains, their expressions resigned. The air buzzed with a tension that never left this place, a living, breathing dread that clung to every corner.
In one corner, a fresh-faced boy, wide-eyed with terror, struggled fervently against the guards chaining him in place. His movements were wild and panicked, his desperate attempt to flee as instinctive as a bird battering itself against a cage. The attempt ended quickly—one guard's armored fist struck his temple, and he crumpled to the floor in a heap, slipping an anguished groan as they finished securing him. No one in the room reacted. This was routine, just another part of the machinery.
Across the chamber, a cluster of veteran fighters lounged against the bars of a large holding cell. Scars weathered their bodies, their faces marked by years of battles survived, if not won. They were like Ry. They had learned the drill, their stony expressions betraying nothing, their empty gazes resigned to the endless cycle of violence. Their eyes found hers as she entered, locking on with quiet recognition. They didn't care about the boy's punishment, the attendants scurrying about, or the clamor of the stadium echoing beyond the gate. They saw only her, and in their unblinking stares, she saw herself reflected.
A hulking man waddled into view as the guards locked the chains tighter around Ry's arms and legs. His belly strained against the seams of his silk tunic, but his thick, burly arms hinted at a strength born of violence rather than discipline. He moved with the lazy confidence of someone with nothing to fear in this pit of blood and stone. His face was grotesque, his fleshy features drooping as though the heft of his jowls might drag his head downward. Small, piggish eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched the attendants strap mismatched armor onto Ry.
The pseudo-retainers worked fast but without precision, fumbling with ill-fitting scraps of steel and leather. Ry's tall, lean frame made it a thankless task; her long, powerful legs defied their crude designs, leaving her shins bare and vulnerable. Her muscular arms were offered little more than token protection; the pieces cobbled together from armor long worn out by its previous owners. She stood stoic as they worked, her gaze fixed beyond the wooden gate, beyond the corridor, as though trying to detach herself from the moment.
The large man stepped in front of her, his presence blocking the meager light filtering into the room. He grinned, his porcine face twisting into a mockery of delight. "The Monster of Magadan," he drawled, spreading his thick arms theatrically. His voice was slick and oily, carrying a tone of exaggerated reverence that made her skin crawl. "They love you! Hear them?" He tilted his head toward the rising roar of the crowd, his grin widening. "They know you're up. They know the real show's about to start."
He leaned in, his breath sour and heavy. "You'll give them what they want, won't you? The blood, the spectacle… their monster." His words lingered in the air like smoke, choking and oppressive. Ry didn't flinch, didn't react. She had nothing to say to him. She had learned long ago that monsters didn't need words. They just needed to perform.
The man's thick, calloused hand gripped Ry's chin, forcing her head upward as he inspected her like a craftsman admiring his handiwork. His thumb brushed against a fresh scar that carved its way across her cheek, a mark he hadn't noticed before. His hoggish eyes met hers, but where his gaze was calculating and hungry, hers was cold and distant as though his presence scarcely registered. A flicker of amusement tugged at his mouth as he spoke.
"Not the same girl that came to us all those months ago, are we?" he murmured, his voice low and almost fatherly though it dripped with mockery. "Oh, how you cowered and shook back then. Like a frightened little doe about to be slaughtered." His grip tightened for a moment before releasing her. He stepped back, spreading his arms in exaggerated triumph. "But now—look at you!" His hands settled on his hips, his chest puffing out in a heroic pose that only made his bloated frame more grotesque. "A real fighter! A beast!"
He turned and waddled toward the gate, clasping his hands behind his back with a showman-esque air. The crowd's roar surged again, rumbling through the stone like the growl of a starved predator. The man tilted his head, savoring the sound. "They're hungry," he said, his voice low and reverent, as though speaking of gods. "They know today's special. Today, we have a guest!"
He spun suddenly, his bulk moving with unsettling agility, and faced Ry again. His grin stretched wider, baring crooked teeth stained yellow from years of indulgence. "A special guest," he repeated, his tone slick and venomous. "And a special fight. Make sure you put on a good show, Monster. Your performances have been... lacking lately. I'll be watching." His final words dripped with malice, leaving a foul residue in the air as he turned and strode toward the only door in this room Ry had never been through.
Before removing the chains, an attendant approached Ry, carrying a small wooden bowl filled with a dark, viscous liquid. Without a word, he dipped his fingers into the mixture and smeared it across her face and ears in deliberate strokes, the cold substance painting streaks across her tan skin and velvet fur. The marks were crude but ritualistic, their purpose clear—to signal her transformation. The dead-eyed prisoner was gone. In her place stood the brutal savage the crowd demanded.
Her antlers, long and regal despite the grime of captivity, had been adorned with crude ornaments. Tattered strips of leather, small bones, and bits of twisted iron dangled from their branches, rattling hollowly as she moved. They turned her natural elegance into a savage mockery of itself, completing the illusion the crowd adored. The final touch was the unshackling. A faceless guard stepped forward, his armor scraping as he unlocked the heavy couplers around her ankles and arms. He shoved her forward without ceremony, and she stumbled for just a moment before regaining her balance.
Ahead, the wooden slats of the gate began to creak and groan, the ancient mechanisms lifting them inch by agonizing inch. A hot gust of air blasted down the narrow breezeway, carrying the stench of blood, sweat, and sand. It stuck to her skin, heavy and oppressive. The crowd's roar grew deafening, their voices melding into a singular, starved howl.
As Ry stepped into the arena, the light struck her like a hammer, blinding and merciless after the dim confines of the dungeon. She shielded her eyes momentarily, squinting at the chaos before her. The smells hit next—iron-rich blood baking under the sun, the reek of unwashed bodies packed into the stands, and the faint tang of burning oil from the lanterns lining the upper ring. The noise was everywhere, an all-consuming tide of screams and chants, punctuated by the distant wail of a wounded man being dragged through another gate.
She paused, just for an instant, and looked upward. A hawk circled high above the coliseum, its wings cutting gracefully through the overcast skies. It was free, untethered, and far from this pit of suffering. She felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it threatened to break her composure. She inhaled deeply, swallowing the heat and the hatred, and stepped into the sand. The Monster of Magadan had a show to give.
The guard stepped in front of Ry, his gauntleted hands reaching for the manacles that bound her wrists. With a metallic clatter, they fell into the sand, kicking up faint puffs of dust. He stepped back without a word, his presence as detached as the iron mask he wore. Ry rubbed her raw wrists, feeling the grit of the arena against her calloused skin.
Her eyes scanned the coliseum. The crowd was a mass of shifting bodies and deafening voices, but her focus drifted to the figures being led into the combat pit from the other entryways. Three combatants. Two humans, both men, and a lizardfolk—a Terrasaurii. The humans were muscular, their movements precise, the sort of fighters bred for this cruel sport. Manageable, she thought, though her muscles tensed in quiet preparation. The Terrasaurii, however, was something else entirely.
Standing nearly a head taller than the humans and far broader, the Terrasaurii exuded a primal ferocity. Its scaled body rippled with muscle, its claws tapping against the pole-scarred ground with a disconcerting rhythm. The creature bucked with frenzied fervor against the guards who held it, the neck restraint attached to a long pole straining under its furious thrashing. Even with two men forcing it forward, the Terrasaurii moved with terrifying strength, jerking and twisting until, with one final shove, they threw it into the field. The restraint snapped free with a loud clang, and the lizardfolk stood upright, its chest heaving as it surveyed the battlefield.
The Terrasaurii's gaze shifted, sharp and predatory, scanning each opponent. When its piercing yellow eyes fell on Ry, they lingered. There was no mistaking the intensity of its focus, no denying the primal hunger that burned within its reptilian glare.
Outwardly, Ry held her ground. She remained poised, her expression unreadable, her shoulders squared against the pressure of that predatory gaze. But inside, the fear clawed at her mind, gnawing at the edges of her resolve. Her chest tightened, her heart hammering against her ribs as the thought of facing that raw, unrestrained fury pressed down on her like a physical weight.
The Terrasaurii's nostrils flared as it hissed, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down her spine. She took a steadying breath, taking in the sweet taste of distant rain and forcing the fear deep down where it wouldn't show. She couldn't afford to falter, not here, not now. But as the beast bared its jagged teeth, she couldn't stop the question from whispering in the back of her mind: How can you fight something so close to the savage truth of yourself?
The four combatants were ushered to their designated positions, each standing equidistant from the others in the bloodstained battleground. An attendant approached each fighter in turn, offering them weapons. He handed Ry a gladius and a spear, the familiar weight of the tools settling into her hands like unwelcome reminders of the violence to come. She watched as the others armed themselves with grim efficiency.
Then there was the Terrasaurii. It refused the offered weapons with a guttural snarl, batting them aside with disdain. The attendant flinched but quickly scurried away, leaving the beast to stride toward the center of the arena. It bent down with deliberate purpose, gripping the haft of a sparth axe that had been buried blade-first in the dirt. With a single motion, he tore it free, planting the butt of the axe against the ground as he surveyed the others. It was not a weapon chosen out of necessity—it was a statement. This was the instrument of a predator, and he wielded it like an extension of his will.
Above, the announcer's voice boomed across the coliseum, a slick and practiced cadence cutting through the crowd's roar. He spoke of glory, honor, and the spectacle about to unfold, each word stoking the crowd's bloodlust. The tension among the combatants thickened with every syllable. Ry's grip on her gladius tightened, her palms slick with sweat as she forced herself to remain still.
The announcer called out their names, one by one, each syllable punctuated by cheers or jeers from the audience. "Trajan!" A mix of shouts and applause echoed from the stands. "Delias!" Another ripple of noise, less enthusiastic but still charged. "Goz!" The crowd roared louder, some shouting in approval, others in visceral fear. The Terrasaurii raised its axe with a toothy grin, basking in their reaction.
Then, the announcer paused, his voice dropping to an almost theatrical hush before rising again in triumph. "And finally—Ry, the Monster of Magadan!"
The crowd's reaction was deafening, a chaotic mixture of chants, boos, and frenzied cheers. Across the arena, Trajan and Delias exchanged uneasy glances, their confidence wavering as they sized her up anew. Her reputation hung heavy in the air, pressing down on them as they adjusted their grips on their weapons.
But Goz... Goz was different. The Terrasaurii didn't flinch, didn't waver. His yellow eyes locked onto Ry with a primal, ferocious intensity, his impatience etched into every scale of his hulking frame. It wasn't fear she saw in his gaze—there was no hesitation, no doubt. It was the look of someone who lived for this moment, who wanted the fight. Wanted the kill.
Ry's stomach churned, but to the crowd, she remained composed, her face as unreadable as stone. She subtly shifted her stance, her muscles taut with tension as the announcer's words faded into the crowd's frenzy. The grit beneath her feet suddenly felt heavier, the distance between her and her opponents impossibly vast and suffocatingly close all at once. She didn't need to glance at the others to know that all eyes, human and non-human alike, would soon be on her.
The match began like countless others, steeped in ritual and routine. Prayers to the Imperial gods were intoned, their ancient names rolling off the announcer's tongue like a half-hearted plea for divine favor. Solis Invictus, Bellator, Domina Fatum, Umbra Nex. The crowd murmured in anticipation, their restless energy building as the announcer's booming voice gave the final call. A deep, resonant horn sounded, its tones cutting through the din like a herald of doom. It was all so... ordinary. Predictable. For everyone but Ry.
The moment the horn's echo faded, her world narrowed to a single, terrifying sight: Goz. The Terrasaurii didn't hesitate or even glance at the other combatants. With a guttural roar, he turned and charged directly at her, his massive frame moving with a feral speed that belied his size. The sand beneath his clawed feet flew up in sprays as his muscular legs propelled him forward, his sparth axe held low, ready to cleave upward in a brutal arc.
Anxiety bloomed within Ry, raw and all-consuming. Her body rebelled, her muscles locking in place as every primal instinct screamed at her to run, flee, and survive. The Terrasaurii's approach embodied a predator's hunger, and for a fleeting moment, she felt like prey.
Through the haze, Ry forced her legs to move. The first step was agony, her body fighting against her will. The second came easier, and her powerful legs found their rhythm by the third. She was running now, faster and faster, until the ground blurred beneath her feet. The crowd roared louder as their impending collision loomed, their paths barreling toward one another like storm fronts destined to meet.
The speed was dizzying, unnatural—only a Terrasaurii and a Cervalyn could reach such a blistering pace. The gap between them closed in heartbeats, each step bringing the inevitable closer. Ry's grip tightened on her gladius, her heart hammering in her chest as she adjusted her stance mid-sprint. Goz's predatory eyes gleamed with savage delight, his axe swinging forward in anticipation.
Their destinations were set, their paths colliding in a singular moment of brutal certainty. The crowd's chants faded into a distant hum, the world narrowing to the sand beneath her feet and the killer hurtling toward her. The carnage would begin in mere moments, and when it did, there would be no room for hesitation. Only survival.
Less than thirty feet separated them when it happened. Ry and Goz felt the change simultaneously. A shift in the air, an unnatural vibration rippling through the earth beneath. Their eyes locked, both combatants sensing the threat but unwilling to look away from each other. Then, the ground betrayed them. The sand at their feet trembled, bouncing upward in tiny, chaotic bursts as a pit began to open beneath them. The once-solid dirt and loose stones shifted like water, revealing an ominous, yawning chasm.
Ry's almond-shaped eyes widened nearly to circles as realization struck. Her body reacted instinctually, flinging itself to the side just as the pit trap revealed itself, dragging a thin layer of dust into its dark, gaping maw. She hit the ground hard, her shoulder slamming against the coarse gravel before momentum carried her into a roll. Her gladius tumbled from her grip, but she almost didn't notice, too focused on scrambling away from the growing void.
Goz, however, was not so fortunate—or so restrained. A roar of fury erupted from his throat, reverberating across the arena as his expression twisted into something unrecognizable. What had once been the focused glare of a predator now seethed with raw, unfiltered rage. His eyes burned with hatred at something having tried denying him his kill, his instincts overwhelming any caution he might have had. With a feral snarl, he hurled himself forward, aiming for Ry in a reckless leap.
But the sand betrayed him as well. His powerful legs carried him high but not far enough. He missed his mark, and for a heartbeat, time stretched as his massive frame hung suspended over the pit. Then, without a sound, he vanished into the dark abyss.
Ry lay sprawled on the ground, her chest heaving as she pushed herself upright, her wide eyes fixed on the edge of the pit. A deafening cacophony of growls and wet, slurping sounds erupted from below. Compelled by morbid curiosity and caution, she forced herself to her feet, slowly approaching the edge. What she saw froze her in place.
The pit teemed with life—or what passed for it. Writhing within the darkness was a mass of Cavernaculi—better known as Cave Crawlers to those who ventured too deeply into the caverns and mountains of Paxoria. Animalistic troglodytes with pale, slimy skin stretched over emaciated frames, their eyeless faces twisted in primal hunger, needle-like teeth snapping as they clawed and gnawed at one another in their desperate desire to feed. At least a dozen of them filled the hole, their grotesque forms squirming over each other like maggots in a wound. The stench was overwhelming, a mix of decay and rot rising like a tangible force.
She stepped back instinctively, bile rising in her throat as the realization of her mistake came too late. A shadow loomed from below. Goz, clinging to the jagged wall of the pit, let loose a guttural roar as he hurled himself skyward. His scaly legs propelled him out of the darkness, his axe held aloft as he soared into the air.
For an agonizing second, Ry's gaze locked onto his. Hunger and determination burned across his face; his teeth bared in a savage grin. His body arced in the air, and in that moment, Ry knew—he wasn't coming for the crowd's approval. He wasn't coming for the arena's spectacle. He was coming for her.
Ry threw herself to the side just as Goz's massive axe came crashing down, splitting the rocks beneath with a force that could have easily cleaved her in two. The sound of the blade striking the earth echoed like a drumbeat, sending grains of sand flying in all directions. Scrambling forward on instinct, her fingers closed around the hilt of her gladius, her body rolling past the still-quivering haft of the buried axe. As she came to her feet, her spear was gripped tightly in her other hand, wedged firmly beneath her arm in a defensive stance.
The sunlight glinted off the bronze of her blade, its finish catching the morning light and flashing a fleeting brilliance across the arena as if mocking the blood that would soon stain it. Across from her, Goz stood tall, his hulking frame casting a long shadow. He ripped his axe from the ground with a low growl, his predatory eyes fixed on her as he readied for another strike. But then, his gaze drifted—casually, almost leisurely—toward the far side of the coliseum, as though surveying a market square rather than a battleground.
Ry hesitated, following his gaze. Her stomach turned at what she saw. On the opposite end, Trajan and Delias fared no better—perhaps worse. Two monstrous creatures, Gorvestra, circled them like wolves toying with cornered prey. The beasts were grotesque hybrids of bull and predator; their curved horns angled forward to gore, their muscular front legs ending not in hooves but massive pawed arms with claws that raked the gravel as they stalked. Wide, gaping maws lined with jagged teeth dripped thick saliva as they growled and snapped, testing the humans' defenses.
Trajan and Delias stood back to back, their spears raised in trembling hands as they tried to keep the creatures at bay. Delias limped, blood trailing from a deep gash in his leg, staining the sand beneath him. The Gorvestra sensed his weakness, their movements growing more calculated, more eager. The crowd roared its approval, their cries drowning out the panicked yells of the men. This wasn't a fight—it was a massacre in the making. Ry could see it, feel it. This wasn't about glory or spectacle. This was about blood.
Her thoughts lingered too long. The moment stretched, and then it snapped. The sickening feeling of distraction caught her like a whip, and she spun back just in time to see Goz closing the distance. Somehow, impossibly, the massive Terrasaurii had moved with an eerie silence, his hulking frame carrying him forward like a shadow. His axe came sweeping in a brutal arc, its edge aiming to carve her in half.
She barely had time to drop. Her knees buckled, her body collapsing like a ragdoll as she threw herself to the ground. The blade whistled over her head, slicing through the air where she had stood just seconds before. The force of the swing stirred the sand around her, stinging her exposed skin. Heart pounding, she rolled to her side, gripping her spear tighter as she scrambled to her feet.
Goz turned to face her again, his grin widening with savage glee. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes said everything—he was enjoying this. For him, this wasn't survival. This was sport.
The next ten or more minutes of his relentless assaults drove Ry to the brink. Their clash was a chaotic rhythm of swinging blades, dodges, and narrowly avoided death. Ry's movements were sharp and fluid, like a dancer moving to the tempo of survival. Every step, every twist, every strike was calculated and deliberate, an expression of training honed by necessity. Fear coursed through her veins, but it was a cold, focused fear that sharpened her instincts and pushed her forward.
Goz, by contrast, was chaos incarnate. Each swing of his axe came with unbridled ferocity, his massive body thrown into every strike. It was the wild recklessness of a predator too certain of its dominance—or perhaps the desperation of a beast backed into a corner. His attacks were raw, almost primal, and where Ry's precision kept her alive, Goz's sheer force and unpredictability made him impossible to read. They were as different as fire and stone, and yet, for all their efforts, neither had landed a decisive blow.
Ry could feel the fatigue setting in, her breaths coming faster, her muscles burning with exertion. The grit beneath her feet felt heavier with each movement, dragging her down like the arena itself conspired against her. She knew she couldn't keep this up. Goz's strength felt endless, his towering frame barely showing signs of wear. She had to act, and soon.
As they circled the pit again, Ry's sharp eyes caught the beginnings of an opening. Goz lunged, too bold, his massive foot kicking up a spray of sand near the edge. From the shadows of the pit, a Crawler emerged, its pale, slimy form sloppily dragging itself upward. The blind creature reacted instinctively to the disturbance, its gaping maw snapping toward the sand's source. Its needle-like teeth latched onto Goz's leg instantly, anchoring itself as it began to claw and bite.
Goz roared in rage, a guttural sound that shook the very air. He swung his axe at the creature, hacking at its sinewy form with a pained frenzy. But at that moment, Ry moved. She surged forward, her gladius aimed with deadly precision at Goz's exposed torso. Her heart thundered in her chest as she closed the gap, ready to end it.
But Goz was faster than she anticipated. Ignoring the Crawler's relentless assault on his leg, he dropped his axe and twisted, his massive hand shooting out to seize her wrist in an iron grip. The gladius halted inches from his chest, her strike frozen in midair. His claws dug into her skin as he yanked her towards him, forcing her to look him directly in the eyes.
His eyes seethed with malice. The sheer intensity of his stare hit Ry like a physical blow, a visceral force that churned her stomach and threatened to crush her resolve. There was no empathy in those eyes—only hunger and hatred, a primal need to dominate and destroy. For a moment, Ry felt her strength falter as her body trembled under the weight of his presence. A creeping shadow in the depths of her mind began to slither upwards, ensnaring her in both panic and a feeling that could not be so easily explained. She knew this sensation well; past experiences she couldn't recall at the moment danced fleetingly on the edge of her memory as the metallic tang of copper settled onto her tongue.
The Crawler tore deeper into his leg, its teeth ripping through scales and muscle, but Goz didn't flinch. He didn't care. His focus was singular, his malice suffocating, and Ry realized with chilling clarity that, in his mind, she was already dead.
She acted on pure instinct, her leg driving forward in a brutal kick. Her bare foot connected with Goz's uninjured knee, and the joint buckled with a sickening crunch that reverberated through Ry's whole body. Goz dropped, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as Ry wrenched her arm free from his iron grip.
Before she could retreat, his claws lashed out in a desperate swipe, his rage blinding him to preservation or strategy. Ry twisted, narrowly avoiding the full force of the strike, but her gladius gleamed in the sunlight as it arced upward. The blade met flesh with a flash of bronze, and Goz let out a thunderous, hate-filled roar as three of his grotesque fingers fell to the dirt. The severed digits twitched briefly, staining the sand dark with blood.
Goz's bellow was not one of pain—it was raw, visceral contempt. The sound was animalistic, a primal promise of vengeance. For the first time in their fight, Ry had drawn blood, and it had only fueled the Terrasaurii's fury. But his moment of reprisal was cut short as the Crawler latched onto him again, sinking its jagged teeth deeper into his mangled leg. Another pale, writhing figure emerged from the ground, dragging itself onto Goz with insect-like precision. The two Crawlers swarmed him, clawing and tearing at his scales with inhuman ferocity.
Ry didn't linger to watch the macabre scene unfold. The arena's chaos clawed at her senses, pulling her attention toward a sound that pierced through even the roaring crowd—the screams of Trajan. She turned, her breath catching in her throat as her gaze fell on the opposite side of the battlefield.
Trajan was bleeding, his battered form barely holding itself upright against the relentless onslaught of one of the Gorvestra. The creature snarled, its horned head low and ready to gore, but its movements were slower now, blood matting its fur from wounds Trajan had managed to inflict. Still, it pressed forward, determined to end him.
The other beast was no longer hunting. It lay sprawled out, its massive body basking in the sunlight as it fed on what remained of Delias. The mangled remnants were barely recognizable, a grisly testament to the savagery.
The scene before her was a slaughterhouse—raw and unbridled chaos. The Crawlers swarming Goz, the Gorvestra gorging themselves, the crowd roaring with savage glee. It was as though the entire arena had been designed not for combat but for carnage. The air was thick with bloodlust, the cheers of the masses vibrating through her very bones.
Ry's chest heaved as her gaze darted between the carnage. Her mouth hung slightly open, trembling on the verge of a scream that clawed its way but died stillborn in her throat. Her mind teetered on the edge, her sanity fraying as the madness of the arena threatened to consume her. Every instinct screamed for her to move, to fight, to survive, but for a moment she stood frozen, staring into the heart of the butchery.
Another scream from Trajan shattered Ry's paralysis, jerking her back into the moment. Her eyes locked on him as the Gorvestra bit down on his spear, its powerful jaws snapping the weapon in two as though it were kindling. Trajan stumbled back, his hands trembling, his face pale with the sickening knowledge of what was coming. He was an opponent, another combatant like her, someone she was expected to outlast. By the laws of the arena, his death would only increase her odds of survival. But no one deserved to die like that. Not the way Delias had.
The thought ignited something deep within her, an unrelenting need to act. Her legs moved before her mind caught up, carrying her forward into a mad sprint. Across the ring, sand flew in her wake as she ran, the crowd's roar fading into a dull hum in her ears. The Gorvestra loomed over Trajan, its massive maw opening wide, ready to tear him apart. She had no plan—only instinct and desperation.
Ry leaped over a barrier that had risen at some point during the chaos, her movements fluid, driven by the primal need to save him—or perhaps to defy the slaughter that surrounded her. Her gladius left her hand mid-run, tumbling toward Trajan. "Pick it up!" she bellowed, her voice cutting through the cacophony.
With her spear gripped tight, she let out a scream—a raw, guttural cry filled with anger, fear, and determination. She crossed the distance like a primeval huntress, bearing down on the Gorvestra with the fury of desperation. The beast turned toward her just as she lunged, her spear poised for a killing blow, its lethal point aimed for the vulnerable flesh beneath its throat. Inches away, victory was within her grasp.
But the blow never landed.
A shadow loomed, and in an instant, Ry felt the brutal impact of a massive force slamming into her side. The air left her lungs as her feet left the ground; her body launched like a ragdoll through the air. Time slowed, her vision blurring as she saw the second Gorvestra, its blood-soaked maw twisted into a snarl. It had finished its feast, or simply grown hungry for fresh prey. Either way, it had charged with terrifying speed, its thick skull finding its mark before she could react.
Ry hit the ground with a sickening thud, pain exploding through her body as she rolled across the sand. She came to a halt, sprawled and gasping, her mind swimming in a haze of adrenaline and terror. Something cracked—a rib, a finger, maybe more. She couldn't tell. The adrenaline coursing through her veins dulled the pain, muting her body's screams even as her mind reeled.
She tried to push herself up, her fingers clawing at the blood-soaked ground. The crowd's cheers thundered around her, a cacophony of savage delight at the spectacle. But all she could feel was the crushing burden of inevitability pressing down on her, suffocating and inescapable.
The beast charged again, its massive form barreling toward her relentlessly. Ry barely had time to claw herself out of its path, rolling through the coarse gravel as its horned head tore through the space she'd occupied moments before. Pain flared in her torso with every movement, sharp and unrelenting, but she forced herself onward, gasping as the creature thundered past.
From the corner of her vision, she caught a glimpse of Trajan. He had somehow managed to bring the other Gorvestra down, plunging the gladius into its thick neck repeatedly. The beast thrashed violently, its death throes shaking the arena as its blood sprayed in crimson streaks. With one final shudder, it collapsed, its massive weight knocking Trajan to the ground beneath it. The crowd erupted in frenzied applause.
Ry's ears rang, her head spinning from the blow she'd taken, but she staggered to her feet. Blood dribbled from her split lip, trailing down her chin and mixing with the sand as she fought for breath. Her ribs screamed in protest, but she forced her body to crouch, ready to dodge as the remaining Gorvestra charged once more. Its snarls filled the air, its bulk bearing on her like an avalanche.
Then, in an instant, the beast's momentum halted. Its head like a gory bird, floating free of its neck, severed cleanly in one savage blow. The massive body toppled forward, tumbling end over end before crashing to the arena floor, blood pouring from the open wound. The head rolled to a stop, its lifeless eyes staring blankly at the cheering crowd.
A deafening roar tore through the coliseum, silencing even the most frenzied spectators. Ry turned, her chest heaving, and froze. Goz lumbered into view, dragging his sparth axe behind him. He was a nightmare made flesh. His leg was a mangled ruin, torn and bleeding from the Crawlers that had swarmed him, chunks of his torso missing where their claws had raked deep into his flesh. His skull was partially exposed, his left eye socket an empty, bloodied void that glared at her with unrelenting fury. Yet he moved, his hulking frame swaying but unstoppable, his every step defying the death that should have claimed him.
The Terrasaurii threw his head back and bellowed a raw, blood-soaked scream that drowned out the roaring crowd. It was the sound of hatred made manifest, of a being too stubborn, too furious to die. His remaining eye locked onto Ry, burning with an intensity that tried to pierce her soul. He lumbered forward, dragging the axe through the sand, his snarl twisting into a grotesque mockery of a grin.
To Ry, it felt as though not even death could stop him.
Goz stopped ten paces from Ry, his massive frame heaving with ragged, labored breaths. Blood oozed from his countless wounds, pooling at his feet in the sand, but his mutilated body quivered with anticipation. His eye, the one that remained, burned with hatred, and his ruined face twisted into a feral sneer. When he spoke, his voice was raw, a guttural snarl filled with venom.
"Thra-urrakh-ak norakh ki-ak uth-zor," he growled, the first words he had uttered since the fight began. They carried through like a death knell, silencing the chaotic din of the crowd. Goz kicked a spear toward Ry, the weapon skidding through the dirt before resting at her feet. His gaze never left her as the haft sank beneath the sand, half-buried. "Grok-thal, Thrakk. Urrakh-thor grak."
Ry couldn't understand what he said, but she didn't need to. Her heart thundered in her chest, the ball of fear in her throat choking her thoughts, her courage. She couldn't think—only act. Without hesitation, she reached down, her trembling hand gripping the spear tightly. The weight felt foreign, unwelcome, as though the weapon itself knew what was coming. She stood, her breath shallow, her body aching from exhaustion and pain, as she stared at the hulking Terrasaurii.
They began to circle each other, two predators caught in a grim dance. Both hitching and limping, their movements slow and labored, punctuated by the occasional spasm of pain. Goz's axe dragged across the sand with every step, a dull, ominous scrape that set Ry's nerves on edge. Her heart pounded like a war drum.
How can I fight something that won't die? The question ate at her mind, a whisper that gnawed at her resolve. The ball of fear lodged deeper, suffocating her with thoughts of her own death. Ripped apart and gutted. Mangled by this creature's unrelenting fury. Her grip tightened on the spear as though it tethered her to life.
Then Goz roared a primal scream that shattered her thoughts. His body lurched forward, his charge slower than before but no less terrifying. The axe rose high, every ounce of his remaining strength behind the swing as he bore down on her. Ry's wide eyes followed the weapon's arc, her survival instincts screaming at her to move and act.
She lunged forward, her legs straining, forcing herself into his space—too close for the axe to reach her in time. The tip of her spear drove upward, finding the soft flesh of his abdomen. Her hands pushed with every ounce of strength she could muster, feeling the weapon bite into his scaled belly, piercing through skin and muscle.
As the weapon found its mark, the Terrasaurii lurched forward, his massive jaws clamping down on her shoulder. The pain was immediate and searing, like molten iron tearing through her flesh. His sharp, reptilian teeth sank deep, ripping through muscle and into bone as his bloodied face pressed against hers, his breath hot and rancid.
Ry screamed—a raw, primal cry of pain—as her vision blurred from the shock. The spear trembled in her hands, her grip faltering as she struggled to hold her ground. Goz growled against her shoulder; his rage was palpable, his blood mixing with hers as it dripped onto the sand below. The crowd roared louder, the sound of their savage glee filling the arena like a storm, drowning out her agony.
She was trapped, locked in his maw, his teeth tearing into her as his body bore down on hers. How do you kill something that refuses to die? The question burned in her mind as she fought to keep the spear in place, desperation surging through her with every ragged breath. The shadow returned to its nest in the deepest recesses of her mind. It clawed at her like a caged animal, lusting for freedom.
Ry, consumed by the primal terror roaring within her, let out an anguished scream that tore through the arena like a wounded animal's cry. Her hold on the spear tightened as she twisted it deeper into Goz's abdomen, her muscles trembling with effort and desperation. She pushed harder, shouting out in dread, her voice raw with the need to survive as she drove the creeping dread in her thoughts deeper. The haft groaned under the strain before finally snapping in her hands, the jagged wood splintering against her grip.
Darkness clawed at the edges of her vision, the primal need to live consuming her entire being. Her mind narrowed to the singular goal of ending him. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, blurring her sight, but she didn't care. With a guttural shriek of desperation, she raised the jagged remnants of the spear and drove them upward straight into Goz's throat. The jagged wood tore through scales and flesh, puncturing with sickening force.
Her hands didn't stop. Fueled by terror and rage, she drove the shaft deeper, the wood splintering against his skull as she slammed it upward. Goz's teeth wrenched free of her shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, sending a fresh wave of agony through her body. Blood—hers and his—poured onto the sand in a gruesome torrent as he staggered backward, clutching at the haft embedded firmly in his throat.
The Terrasaurii fell, his massive frame crashing to the ground as his body convulsed violently. He writhed in the muddy, blood-soaked dirt, his claws scratching at the air, his once-mighty roars reduced to wet, gurgling rasps. Blood spewed from his mouth and the ragged wound in his throat, pooling beneath him as his life slipped away.
Ry stumbled, clutching her mangled shoulder, but her eyes remained fixed on him. Tears streamed down her blood-smeared face as a guttural, hate-filled roar erupted from her lips. She screamed at his dying form, the raw sound carrying every ounce of rage, fear, and defiance she had left. She watched as his writhing slowed, his body twitching one final time before falling still.
Her chest heaved with exhaustion, her breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps as if the air itself might be torn away from her at any moment. Her vision blurred with tears and pain, but she remained upright, her legs trembling beneath her.
And then, through the crowd's deafening roar, she heard it. The rough, uneven wheezes of someone else—a sound that didn't belong to Goz. It came from behind her, faint but unmistakable, like the final breaths of someone clinging to life.
Ry froze, her bloodied hands trembling at her sides. She turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she searched for the source of the sound. The arena's chaos seemed to fall away, the crowd's frenzy fading to a dull roar in her ears. She moved toward the sound, each step dragging her closer to another reminder that survival was never guaranteed.
She saw him lying there, pinned beneath the hulking mass of the Gorvestra. Trajan was a broken, bloodied mess, his body crushed under the girth of the monstrous beast like a tomato beneath a collapsed building. His chest rose and fell with shallow, irregular breaths, each weaker than the last. He didn't struggle. He didn't scream. There was no fight left in him—just the slow, agonizing crawl toward death.
Ry limped toward him, her body protesting with every step. Blood dripped from her shoulder and smeared across her side, but she didn't stop until she reached him. Easing herself down to her knees beside him, she stared at the wreckage of a man who, only moments ago, had fought for his life with all the strength he could muster. His eyes met hers, and she saw the truth he could no longer voice: the pain, the despair, and the quiet acceptance of the end.
Without a word, Ry lifted his head and rested it on her lap, her trembling hands brushing the blood-matted hair from his face. She tried to remember the way her mother used to ease the suffering of the dying, her movements slow and deliberate, as though trying to summon a forgotten warmth. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, faint but steady: It's not the sting of pain that fills the soul with dread, but the cold embrace of solitude in death's final hour.
She felt tears start to fall with an uneven rhythm, the salty drops landing softly on Trajan's battered face. She tried to be comforting and emulate her mother's gentle touch, but her hands shook, and her breath snagged with every sob she silently swallowed. She wasn't her mother. She couldn't bring peace to this moment, regardless of how desperately she wanted to. His suffering loomed over her. Trajan wouldn't die quickly, and the thought of him enduring hours of agony twisted her heart. She shrunk as she held him, hiding her face from the crowd.
Her eyes fell on the gladius embedded in the Gorvestra's throat, the blade still slick with blood. She reached for it, her fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt as the weight of what she had to do settled over her like a shroud. With her free hand, she cupped Trajan's cheek, her thumb brushing away the blood and grime smudging his face.
"I'm sorry," she whispered softly, almost silently, her voice breaking as a single tear that only he could see traced a line down her cheek.
Before he could respond—or even flinch—she drove the gladius deep through his throat. The blade severed his life with brutal efficiency, silencing his shallow breaths in an instant. He died with his head in her lap, his wide eyes staring at her for one final, haunting moment before they dulled.
Ry sat frozen for what felt like an eternity; her teeth gritted as she fought back the sobs clawing at her throat. Her hands were covered in blood—his, hers, Goz's—and the metallic stench filled her nostrils. She let out a trembling breath, forcing herself to her feet as the gladius fell from her hand and sunk into the sand. She took her arm and drew it across her face, covering the tear streaks with a coat of blood.
Above her, the announcer's booming voice declared her the victor. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, their cheers shaking the arena.
Ry stood there, trembling, her chest heaving as she looked up at the sea of faces. They screamed for her, cheered for her, and adored the blood she had spilled. But their praises were hollow, a mockery of the life she had pointlessly snuffed. She clenched her fists as she turned away from Trajan's body, her heart heavy with the cost of survival.
Among the writhing mass of bodies in the stands, a sea of screaming faces soaked in the bloodlust of the arena, one figure stood apart. Ry saw her in one of the private boxes, hidden from the sun's oppressive glare and cloaked in shadows. A solitary woman, her blonde hair catching the faint light like spun gold, sat draped in a stunning purple dress that seemed almost unnatural in this place of carnage.
Her hands came together in slow, deliberate applause, each clap echoing in Ry's mind as if meant for her ears alone. The woman's lips curled into a smile—sinister, predatory, and far too pleased with what she had witnessed. Their eyes met, and it was as though the rest of the world had vanished for a fleeting, chilling moment. Ry couldn't look away; her breath caught in her throat as she stared into eyes gleaming with malice. It was a malice she recognized, the same dark hunger she had seen in Goz's gaze just a short time before.
A shiver ran down her spine, her heart thundering in her chest as she swallowed hard. The bellowing of the crowd faded to a dull thrumming, drowned out by the silent power of that gaze. Ry felt trapped again, not by chains or manacles but by the bindings of something far more sinister. She wanted to look away, to run, but her body refused to move. She was lost in those eyes, drowning in the sea of cruelty and intent they held.
The sharp, sudden smack to the back of her head yanked her violently back to reality. She stumbled forward, her shoulder screaming in pain as the guard barked at her.
"Arms, now," he ordered, holding up the manacles.
Ry blinked, the spell broken, and nodded wordlessly. It took only a second for her to comply, her arms outstretched as the cold steel clamped around her wrists once more. The feel of the chains was familiar, almost grounding, but the lingering sensation of those eyes on her back made her skin crawl.
They marched her across the blood-soaked arena, the sand gritty beneath her bare feet. Her gaze swept across the carnage she had left behind—Trajan's lifeless body still pinned beneath the Gorvestra, Goz's corpse curled in a pool of gore. The crowd's cheers were deafening, but they felt distant and unreal, like an echo from another world. She shuffled onward, her legs heavy with exhaustion as her shoulder throbbed with every step.
As she passed through the gate and back into the breezeway, the arena's noise began to fade, drowned out by the oppressive quiet of the dungeon. The air grew colder, damp, and thick. With every step deeper into the confines of her prison, the mundane procedure of her bleak reality settled over her like a shroud, attempting to comfort her by means of an unyielding routine.