The instant I let the bow vanish back into the floor, the pressure on my shoulders lifted—only to be replaced by sothing sharper, heavier, like the air itself had thickened with expectation.
Iskanda gestured sharply for to follow.
I scrambled after her, trying to keep my footing, my ego, and my rapidly disintegrating sense of dignity all in one precarious balance as we ascended the stairs. Each step trembled underfoot, a subtle vibration that ran up the marble walls like a pulse, a heartbeat for the universe’s private amusent.
Eventually, the stairs leveled out into a dim hallway, the kind of passageway that felt like it existed between worlds, caught in so liminal space where the torchlight flickered weakly against walls that seed to absorb more light than they reflected.
At the far end, a warm glow pulsed and danced, flashing with the rhythm of an open fla, and with each step closer, the sound began to filter through—voices, dozens of them, hundreds maybe, layered over one another in a cacophony of excitent, anticipation, and pure bloodlust.
My heart stuttered in my chest, a sharp, irregular beat that made my ribs ache, and I had to focus on breathing through my nose to keep the panic from crawling up my throat and strangling . Iskanda walked ahead of with that infuriating calm of hers, shoulders relaxed, stride confident.
We approached the threshold together, and I swear the air changed—thickened, vibrated, humd—as though it recognized before I’d even stepped into view. When the arena finally revealed itself, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The space was massive—no, massive didn’t even begin to cover it—it was a circular pit of warm, golden sand that stretched impossibly wide, the kind of arena you read about in old texts where heroes fought beasts and died with their nas on the lips of poets.
The walls rose high around us, carved from that sa oppressive black marble that seed to be the tower’s signature aesthetic choice, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the blazing torches lining the periter in streaks of molten gold.
The seats—gods, the seats—rose in tiered rows that climbed toward the vaulted ceiling, each one packed, absolutely cramd, with bodies dressed in black, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
I’d known there would be spectators, of course, but this... this was beyond anything I’d imagined, beyond anything I was remotely prepared for.
Nearly the entire Velvet staff occupied those seats, glittering in their customary finery, alongside a vast assembly of nobles dressed head-to-toe in deep, ceremonial black, like obsidian carved into human shape, each one radiating authority, curiosity, or the faint, imperceptible twitch of impatience that only sharpened the air of expectation hanging over the arena.
I spotted a handful of lesser slaves scattered throughout the lower tiers, their presence almost jarring against the opulence surrounding them.
My attention snapped toward the very front where I spotted Brutus—his massive fra impossible to miss even in the crowd. He raised a hand in a lazy wave, grinning at with that wild, reckless energy I’d co to associate with him.
I grinned and blew him an exaggerated kiss, if only because it made his eyes widen half an inch, which for Brutus counted as collapsing in shock.
My gaze drifted to the right then, drawn by the sheer presence of power radiating from a massive viewing platform cut directly into the seating, a private viewing box of sorts.
Director Thalen sat there in his wheelchair, his skeletal fra draped in his usual robes, his expression unreadable as always, though his eyes tracked my every movent with the cold precision of a predator cataloging prey.
Tora stood dutifully beside him, or at least he tried to, given that he was currently being hoarded by a swarm of noblewon, their hands reaching for him, tugging at his robes, giggling and cooing as he flailed in protest, his face a brilliant shade of crimson that rivaled the torches blazing around us.
Saints above, that poor boy. I considered helping him for a whole two seconds before deciding the universe clearly intended this for my entertainnt. I couldn’t help the small, delighted giggle that bubbled up in my throat at the sheer absurdity of it.
But it was the figure seated beside the Director that truly caught my attention, a man I’d never seen before but who radiated importance like a bonfire radiates heat—a fat man, obscenely so, draped in purple robes so rich and decadent they practically scread wealth, his fingers laden with rings, his neck heavy with golden chains, his face flushed and gleaming with sweat despite the coolness of the chamber.
He lounged with the languid confidence of soone who believed the world owed him rent, his thick fingers lazily tapping on the armrest of his throne-like chair.
The chatter in the arena picked up as more eyes found , voices rising in a wave of excitent, shouting things I couldn’t quite make out over the roar of blood pounding in my ears.
I caught fragnts however—bets, jeers, encouragent, insults—all of it blending into a chaotic symphony that made my skin prickle.
I turned back toward Iskanda, who still stood at the threshold, her expression calm but her eyes bright, a faint grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she watched take it all in.
"Who’s the fat one?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the fat man in purple, my voice barely audible over the noise.
"That’s Elvina’s patron," she said simply, her tone laced with dark amusent.
Of course, I thought, the pieces clicking into place with an almost audible snap—of course he would be here, perched up there like a bloated vulture waiting to see if his investnt paid off.
The implication alone made grin wickedly. If Elvina fell today—if she lost in front of him—oh, saints, the drama would be exquisite. Delicious, even.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the funnier it beca—my lips twitching into a slight snicker.
Iskanda straightened, placing a hand on my shoulder, her grip firm and grounding. "Rember," she said, her voice low but steady, carrying the weight of every lesson she’d drilled into over the past few days, "Keep your focus. Trust your instincts. The rest is up to you. You know what you’re capable of."
I nodded, but before I could thank her, the noise of the crowd swelled again—harsher now, sharper, edged with anticipation. I turned instinctively, drawn by the shift of attention, and when I saw what—or rather, who—was erging from the opposite tunnel, my jaw clenched with a mixture of disgust and incredulous disbelief.
Elvina stepped into the arena.
Her hair was done up in those atrociously pompous twin curls she insisted on wearing like so deranged pastry attempting a fashion statent.
She walked with the exaggerated sway of soone who thought the world rose and fell according to the rhythm of her hips, her dark outfit, a delicate princess line dress this ti, clinging to her figure in a way that scread theatrical vanity rather than actual competence.
Behind her trudged Quentin, poor, sweet Quentin, whose expression was twisted into a scowl so aggressive he could’ve curdled milk from fifty paces away.
Elvina blew kisses with both hands, her erald eyes sparkling with manufactured warmth as she waved at the spectators like they were her devoted subjects rather than a pack of bloodthirsty gamblers waiting to see which one of us would leave the arena in pieces.
The cheers intensified, washing over her in a wave of adulation that she drank in like wine, her smile widening into sothing sharp and predatory.
I had to resist the urge to gag at the sheer theatricality of it all. Saints above, she was milking this for everything it was worth, playing the crowd like a maestro conducting an orchestra, and judging by the way they roared her na, it was working beautifully.
Then her gaze snapped to , and the warmth evaporated from her expression so completely it was like watching a mask crack and fall away, revealing the cold, vicious contempt beneath.
The noise of the crowd faded into a dull hum as she raised one hand with theatrical slowness, her fingers splayed wide, and I watched as a dark spill of condensed shadow swirled around them like living smoke, twisting and coiling in patterns that defied physics, the tendrils writhing with a life of their own.
The air around her hand seed to darken, to thicken, as though the shadows were drinking in the light and leaving nothing behind but a cold, oppressive void.
It was beautiful in a horrifying sort of way, the kind of magic that made your instincts scream at you to run, and judging by the murmurs rippling through the crowd, I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
I crossed my arms, tilting my head with an exaggerated air of casual curiosity, and raised one brow in what I hoped was a perfectly infuriating display of nonchalance.
"Really?" I called out, my voice cutting through the noise with just enough volu to carry across the sand. "Showing off your magic already? Isn’t that a little premature, Elvina? I an, aren’t you worried about, oh, I don’t know... soone uncovering that vile lineage of yours?"
My tone was light, teasing, laced with just enough venom to sting, and I watched with no small amount of satisfaction as her hand froze mid-flourish, the shadows stuttering and flickering like a candle caught in a sudden gust of wind.
Her smile didn’t falter, not imdiately, but sothing in her eyes shifted—a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the perfect veneer she wore so carefully.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into a sharp, hissing whisper that sohow carried across the space between us with perfect clarity. "How do you know about that?"
Her gaze bored into , searching, calculating, trying to piece together how I could possibly know sothing that should have been buried so deep it would take an archaeologist and a miracle to dig it up.
"Oh, you know," I said airily, waving a hand in a vague, dismissive gesture, "I read about it. Fascinating stuff, really. Very educational. I had no idea your family was so... creative. Though I suppose ’creative’ is putting it lightly given the cris they’ve committed. ’Horrifying’ also works, but that doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the sa way."
Elvina’s body went rigid, her shoulders locking up, her breath catching audibly even from where I stood. She leaned back slightly, her expression twisting into sothing caught between disbelief and panic. And then she scoffed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed across the sand.
"Impossible," she spat, her voice rising just enough that the crowd nearest to us began to lean forward, straining to hear. "All public records of my family were destroyed years ago. Every single one. And anyone who knew about them—anyone who could have talked—they were dealt with. Permanently."
Her eyes narrowed, her lips pulling back into sothing that was almost a snarl. "So unless you’re claiming to be a ghost, there’s no way you could know."
A low murmur of confusion began to ripple through the crowd, spreading outward from the closest spectators like a stone dropped in still water, voices overlapping as people turned to each other.
"Wait—what are they talking about?" a woman near the front hissed to her companion, eyes darting nervously.
"What lineage? Are we missing sothing?" another voice piped up, sharper, tinged with suspicion.
No one seed to have an answer, and the uncertainty only made the murmurs grow louder, more insistent. I laughed then, a sharp, genuine sound that burst out of before I could stop it, and I had to take a mont to compose myself because the look on her face—the dawning realization, the sheer horror—was almost too delicious to bear.
"Oh, Elvina," I said, practically purring the words, "you said all public records, right? Public. That’s an important distinction, don’t you think?" I paused, letting the words hang in the air, watching as her brow furrowed in confusion. "What about the private ones? You know, the kind that might be, say, locked away behind a very specific gate to the third floor of this very library? The kind that only a handful of people are authorized to enter?"
Her eyes blew wide, pupils dilating so sharply I could see the mont the realization hit her like a hamr to the skull.
Then her gaze snapped to sothing behind , or maybe to a mory, and her voice ca out strangled, barely more than a rasp. "That to! The one you were carrying this morning."
I gave her a slow, mocking bow, one hand flourishing outward in a gesture that was equal parts theatrical and deeply satisfying. "Ding ding ding! Ten points to the lady in the creepy shadow dress! Yes, Elvina, that to. The one you so kindly brought to my attention by being such an insufferable nightmare that I had no choice but to dig up every scrap of dirt I could find on you. Really, I should be thanking you—without your constant harassnt, I never would have stumbled across such... enlightening reading material."
I straightened, my grin sharpening into sothing feral. "Turns out your family has quite the legacy. I’m sure your patron over there would love to hear all about it. Maybe I’ll give him a summary after this is over. You know, just in case he’s not fully inford about what kind of bloodline he’s investing in."
Elvina’s expression twisted, her features contorting into sothing dark and hateful. For a mont I thought she might lunge at right then and there, rules and spectators be damned.
But then she flipped the switch again, her face smoothing out into a smirk that was all teeth and malice, her voice dropping into a low, venomous purr.
"None of it will matter," she said, "after I’ve killed you anyway. Dead n tell no tales, as they say."
She let the shadows around her hand flare again, darker this ti, more aggressive, as if to emphasize her point, and the crowd roared in response, sensing the shift in energy, the promise of violence finally about to be delivered.
Before I could fire back with sothing equally cutting, a voice bood across the arena, so loud and commanding that it cut through the noise like a blade.
Director Thalen’s voice, amplified by whatever magic he employed, rolled over the crowd in a wave that demanded silence, and within seconds, the roar faded to a hushed, expectant murmur.
I glanced up toward the viewing platform and saw him rising from his wheelchair, his skeletal fra straightening with effort, and beside him, Tora flicked his wrist in that delicate, precise way of his, summoning the Director’s cane out of thin air and placing it neatly in his waiting hand.
The old man gripped it firmly, planting it against the marble with a sharp tap that echoed across the arena, and the crowd fell completely silent, every eye fixed on him as he surveyed the space with the air of a king addressing his court.
"Ladies, gentlen, esteed guests," he began, his voice warm and smooth despite the rasping quality it carried.
I couldn’t help but notice the faint smile tugging at his lips, as though he were genuinely enjoying himself.
"Welco, welco, to an event that has not graced these halls in nearly a decade. Tonight, you bear witness to a spectacle of skill, of will, of raw, unadulterated ambition."
He paused, letting the words settle, his gaze sweeping across the crowd before landing briefly on , then on Elvina, and finally on the fat man in purple seated beside him.
"The rules, as always, are simple. The match continues until one combatant yields, is rendered unconscious, or is otherwise unable to continue. Lethal force is permitted, though not required—after all, where is the entertainnt in a swift death?"
The crowd chuckled at that, a low, dark sound that made my stomach twist. "Magic, weapons, enhancents—all are fair ga. Fight with honor, or fight without it. I care not, so long as you fight well." He raised his cane slightly, the gesture almost playful, and his grin widened. "Now then... positions, if you please."
I exhaled slowly, forcing my hands to unclench, and set myself into position—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of my feet, every muscle coiled and ready to spring.
Across the sand, Elvina mirrored , her stance predatory and loose, shadows still writhing around her fingers like eager pets waiting to be unleashed.
I could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into , could feel the weight of Iskanda’s expectations, of Tora’s faith, of the crew’s trust, all of it piling onto my shoulders until I thought I might collapse under it. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Not now. Not here.
Director Thalen raised his hand, holding it aloft for a long, agonizing mont, letting the anticipation build until I thought the crowd might riot from sheer impatience.
Then, with a flourish that was almost theatrical, he brought it down sharply, his voice ringing out across the arena with gleeful finality.
"You may begin."
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