Page 9 of Beast of Blood and Ash
And now he was being called a cheat.
Kith grinned, a feral display of teeth. "Center ring. No weapons. First blood or surrender."
"Surrender," Omvar replied. “First blood relies on luck.”
The crowd shifted, forming a loose circle around the central sparring area. Even the humans moved closer to watch, drawn by the spectacle.
I wanted to resist, to flee, but morbid curiosity rooted me in place. I wanted to know what Omvar was. What I was dealing with. I’d been locked below in the slave cages when he competed. I’d only heard about him in whispers. This was my chance to see.
The monster you know is safer than the shadow in the dark.
The two Drakarn stripped to their waists. Kith was a finely built Drakarn, even I could see that. But next to Omvar, he looked like a fledgling. I couldn’t stop looking at Omvar’s scars. They mapped his torso, his arms, his back under his wings. Old wounds. Battle trophies. Torture.
I knew scars like those. My own skin carried similar maps.
The two circled each other, Kith quick and taunting, Omvar steady and watchful. The crowd's murmurs swelled, and I heard the clink of coins changing hands.
"Begin!" someone called.
Kith struck first, a blur of green, claws extended. Omvar sidestepped, effortless, almost casual. Kith attacked again, faster this time. Omvar blocked, deflected, moved like water around stone. No wasted motion. No posturing.
The pattern continued, Kith throwing himself forward met with precise, minimal defense. It was like watching an animal play with its food. My heart hammered as I recognized Omvar's strategy. He was letting Kith tire himself out. Letting him make mistakes. It was the tactic of a seasoned warrior, not a trainee.
The crowd grew restless. "Fight him!" someone shouted.
Something changed in Omvar's posture. A subtle shift, a gathering of energy. When Kith lunged again, Omvar was suddenly elsewhere, behind him, beside him, moving with impossible speed for his size. His hand shot out, gripping Kith's extended arm. In one fluid motion, he twisted, using Kith's momentum to send him crashing into the stone floor.
The impact echoed. Kith recovered quickly, snarling, wings flaring in challenge. They clashed again, bodies locked together. This time, Omvar didn't retreat. He met strength with strength, and even from where I stood, the outcome was never in question.
Omvar was magnificent.
Terrifying, yes, but there was a brutal beauty in his controlled violence. He fought with precision, restraint—holding back enough to make the match last, but never enough to risk defeat. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath his scales, his movements deliberate, devastating.
I couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. My heart pounded, blood rushing in my ears. This had to be fear. It would be insane for it to be anything besides fear.
But fear had never made my blood thrill.
So of course my brain had to go and ruin it.
A memory bubbled up, unwanted: a dark cell, pain radiating through my body, the distant sound of fighting. A shadow filling the doorway. One of the guards, Draskeer. Dark scales. Darker eyes.
The cavern's noise surged back, too loud, too close. Bodies pressed around me, human and Drakarn alike. The air thickened, suffocating. My pulse raced, sweat slicked my palms. Too many people. Too much sensation.
"—did you see how he?—"
"—Ignarath scum, should never have?—"
"—could snap a youngling in half without?—"
The words blurred, twisted. The cavern tilted. Stone walls closed in, became an old cell. The crowd's voices rose, merging with the roar of arena spectators.
Watching. Betting. Cheering for blood.
Not here. Not now.
My breath came in shallow gasps. The memory of chains weighed my limbs. Of being helpless, watched, beaten. Of combat with no fair terms, no mercy, no escape.
Terra's face swam before me, concern etching her features. Her mouth moved, forming my name. I couldn't hear her over the roaring in my ears.
