THE ARENA
—THE ARENA—
—⟪⟫—
Chains rasped against stone as the Iron-clad ascended the stairwell toward the open doorway leading out of the dungeon below. From the darkness, throaty screams echoed—men and women suffering punishment for crimes against the empire. Above, the chant of an overexcited audience throbbed through the air.
The Iron-clad entered the arena, chains dragging behind them, binding a sword to their back. The crowd roared with an eagerness to see heads roll and blood soak the sand.
"Welcome our newest contender—a mysterious soldier from beyond the reaches of Seth-Helm, possessed by a bloodlust that can only be sated within this ring," Maldruid announced. He wore a red robe, gold bracelets circling his wrists, and a breastplate embossed with the empire's sigil—a lion's head—flashing in the sun.
He stood several steps below the emperor, who watched in silence. Gold and silver gleamed at the emperor's neck, wrists, and ankles. His expression gave nothing away as his gaze fixed on the Iron-clad.
The crowd surged as the gladiator stepped farther into the ring.
"Today, he faces someone you all know and love," Maldruid continued. "With three hundred victories, he stands at the pinnacle of all gladiators—a warrior who fights without restraint and draws blood as if it were hunting season."
"Introducing our reigning champion," He slowly turned to the second doorway across the Arena. "The berserker, Malek!"
The crowd erupted at the sound of his name.
Iron bars rose with a scraping groan. A low rumble rolled from the shadows as a massive figure emerged. Malek stood at least a meter taller than the Iron-clad, his body carved from muscle as though forged by war alone. His irises glowed red. His ears tapered into long, triangular points. He bared his teeth and gripped the haft of his axe as he advanced.
"Without further delay," Maldruid declared, lips curling, "let the battle begin."
Malek roared, and the crowd answered as one, the sound ritualistic. He locked his gaze on the Iron-clad and charged.
The Iron-clad did not move.
Malek cocked his fist and closed the distance in seconds, slamming it into the Iron-clad's helmet. They staggered back.
He followed with a barrage of punches, denting armor and driving them across the sand. Still, the Iron-clad did not fight. They rose after each blow, unshaken, staring ahead like a training dummy. No labored breath. No trembling limbs. Only silence.
The crowd began to quiet. Maldruid rose from his seat, disbelief etched across his face.
"Fight, you insolent buffoon!" he bellowed.
Malek answered with a roar and swung his axe. The blade crashed into the Iron-clad's side. Armor caved inward but held. The impact hurled them across the arena, smashing them into the wall. Stone and dust exploded outward as debris rained down.
The crowd chanted Malek's name.
The Iron-clad dropped to their knees.
Malek charged again as they rose, driving his head into their stomach and slamming them back into the wall. He pounded at the helmet, each blow blasting dust from the stone. Cracks spidered across the metal. Chips fell away, revealing pale lips beneath.
The arena fell silent.
Malek continued, fists hammering, trying to crush their skull as the wall behind them fractured.
The helmet finally broke free, clattering across the sand. A spill of silky black hair cascaded down. Crystal-blue eyes caught the sunlight. Fair skin gleamed with an otherworldly radiance.
"A woman," Maldruid rose again, stunned.
The king's eyes widened. The crowd gasped.
Malek hurled his fist at her. She caught it in her left palm.
The ground shuddered at the impact. The arena fell silent.
Her brows drew together as she tightened her grip, locking eyes with him. He tried to pull free. He could not. Pressure built until his bone snapped.
He screamed and dropped to his knees. With his free hand, he scrabbled at the sand and flung it toward her face.
She closed her eyes and squeezed.
His fingers collapsed beneath her hold, bone tearing through skin. Blood ran down his arm as he sobbed, childlike and broken. She did not relent—not until his hand was reduced to mangled flesh and shattered bone.
In a blur, she wrenched him forward and seized his face with her right hand.
She turned toward Maldruid, tightening her grip until Malek's skull began to splinter. Blood spilled from his eyes, mouth, and nose. His screams choked into wet gurgles as his throat filled. She did not look away from Maldruid, her fingers pressing deeper until Malek's jaw cracked apart.
Maldruid stared back, his throat bobbing as all color drained from his face.
With a final collapse, Malek's skull gave way beneath her palm. Blood spattered her armor and skin. She released him. He hit the sand, dead.
"Who are you!" Maldruid shouted.
She walked to the center of the ring and lifted her gaze. "I don't remember," she said calmly. "Only that you imprisoned me when I arrived—and forced me to fight for my freedom." Malice edged her every word.
Maldruid recoiled, stumbling back.
The king rose from his throne and descended a few steps. "Where do you come from, young warrior?" His voice was low.
"All I recall is the south," she answered. "And my name comes to me only faintly."
Maldruid whirled toward the king. "My king, that is where the elves dwell. That land is cursed."
"I know," the king said with a sigh. "But if she truly comes from the south, she may be useful."
He turned back to her. "What is your name?"
She hesitated, her gaze dropping.
A memory rose from the darkness of her thoughts—a man whose voice she had heard just before her memories went dark. Five decades ago, he had died fighting for her. "Daniel..." she whispered, the name heavy on her tongue.
The last word on his lips, before his head was torn from his body, had been her name.
She lifted her eyes to meet the king's. "My name is Aurelia."
"Aurelia Angelborne."
