Page 5 of Hunted By the Dragon Alien

“It depends.” Takkian crossed his arms once more. “They’re not all death matches. Those are rare, actually. They’re called final matches. Most typical matches are one-on-one. A few are group brawls. Sometimes they throw in animals—beasts from planets you’ve never heard of. Whatever gets the crowd screaming loud enough.”

Bruil snorted. “Don’t forget the spectacle games. They like those. Make you chase flags or weapons while something’s trying to gut you.”

Sevas’ jaw tightened. “How often?”

“Every few cycles there is a tournament,” Takkian replied. “They fill the stadium and hold many matches. Sometimes they make a victor fight twice, if the crowd’s hungry enough.” His eyes didn’t leave hers, and the weight of his stare felt heavier than the air in the cell. “They don’t care if you’re ready. They care if you bleed.”

Bruil tilted his head. A faint grin pulled at the corners of his scarred lips. “Win, and you earn some comforts, like these beds here. Lose enough times, and you’re worth less than the meat they feed the beasts.”

Sevas’ gut twisted again, but she refused to let it show. She’d grown up hard, but this was another kind of cruelty. Her nails dented the calloused flesh of her palms as her fists tightened. “And if you win enough times, will they…release you?”

Takkian’s lips curved grimly. “No one leaves the arena alive. You survive it—for a while.” He paused, his gaze raking over her like he was measuring her. Judging if she could handle theweight of the truth. “I used a favor to spare Bruil, here. He lives because I keep winning.”

But one day, I won’t.That was what was left unspoken. Everything was temporary.

“Don’t forget the armor,” Bruil interjected. “If you’re real lucky, they’ll toss you scraps of armor to keep you from spilling your guts too early. Not much, mind you. Just enough to make it all more interesting.”

“What horrible beings would enjoy watching something like this?” Sevas asked, more to herself than anyone in the room. She swallowed hard, her throat dry as ash.

“They pack the stadium,” Takkian replied wearily. “And it’s beamed on multiple frequencies over the quadrant.”

Behind her, Ulo whimpered. She resisted the urge to go comfort him. How had she thought she could protect the gentle soul who’d been sold with her? What a foolish idea. This was nothing like moving boulders.

But Takkian continued to study her, and something about that gave her a perverse confidence. He wasn’t counting her out. “Make no mistake, the arena is a game as much as it’s a fight. It’s about more than winning. It’s knowinghowto win. And you,” he said, looking at Ulo. “Your people are strong and your skin is as tough as most armor. You will have to put aside your gentle ways and use the power you were born with.”

“What does that mean?” Ulo asked quietly.

“It means you hit your opponent, youngling,” Bruil said, leaning back against his cot. “You hit them hard and you show no mercy.” His dark reddish scales caught the dim lighting, making him look even more weathered. “The crowd doesn’t just want blood. They want a story. They want heroes, villains, and long-shot winners. They want fighters who rise up only to be struck down at the perfect moment. Sometimes, taking a hitearns you more than dodging it. Play the crowd, not just your opponent.”

Sevas narrowed her eyes, her fists relaxing slightly. “So, it’snotjust survival. It’s performance.”

“Exactly,” Bruil said. “You’re learning already.”

Takkian didn’t appear to share in Bruil’s sudden amusement. His voice was grim, almost cold. “But don’t misunderstand. Performance doesn’t guarantee survival. The mechs—or worse, the handlers—decide most outcomes. You could fight like fire is in your bones, but if they decide the crowd would rather see you broken, then broken you’ll be.”

The weight of his words settled over Sevas like a dense fog, but determination burned through the haze. There was no escape from this, no negotiation, and no second chances. She would be made into either a survivor or a spectacle. And Sevas had no intention of being turned into someone else’s entertainment.

Her gaze flicked back to Takkian. “And you? How haveyousurvived?”

Takkian’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he didn’t answer, silence stretching taut between them. Bruil raised an eyebrow, his wiry fingers threading together as if he was betting on whether or not Takkian would even respond.

“I learned to adapt,” Takkian finally said. “I’ve lost parts of myself to this place. But what’s left is enough to tear through anything they throw at me.”

The words hit harder than Sevas expected. There was no boasting in what he said, no arrogance. He spoke like someone who had been honed into a weapon—something forged in pain and relentless use. Any softness he might’ve once had had been stripped away, melted down, and reforged into the hard, unyielding thing in front of her now. It gave her a pang ofsadness to know that he had once been something else. Perhaps someone who had smiled and laughed. Someone who had loved.

Bruil snorted faintly from his corner. “Adapt, he says. What he means is, keep your focus as sharp as his claws. Don’t trust anyone.”

Sevas studied the older fighter. His humor had an edge to it, but beneath the scars and wear, she sensed he carried more wisdom than he let on.Trust no one.The advice felt sour in her gut. Trust had been a fragile resource on her settlement—one offered sparingly, but still vital to survival. Here, though, it seemed trust could get you killed.

She shifted her focus back to Takkian. “And you?” she asked. “Do you trust anyone in this place?”

Takkian’s jaw tightened, the lines of his face hardening further. “Only Bruil,” he said simply. “I would heed his advice unless you want a knife in your ribs the moment the handlers decide you’re worth less than your blood in the sand.”

Bruil chuckled dryly. “He’s a real poet, isn’t he?” He stretched out on the cot, the metal frame groaning under his weight. “But he’s not wrong. Trust here is a luxury you can’t afford. Learn that quick, Terian, or you’ll end up as a footnote in some spoiled, backwater noble’s betting ledger.”

Sevas’ gaze didn’t waver. She let their words weigh on her. Every warning hardened her resolve rather than breaking it. She’d been uprooted—sold, stripped, and thrust into something entirely foreign. Yet here she stood, breathing, unbroken…for now. Whatever this place demanded of her, she was ready to learn the rules—and, eventually, how to bend them.

“Fine,” she said flatly. “No trust. No weakness. Just survival.”

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