They didn't speak as they approached the registrar's stone hall. The martial contest drew applicants from across the realm, from noble houses to wandering sellswords. Rhak (Nivak) handed over forged papers. Zhaqarin trader-retainers, traveling from the south. Well-versed in arms. Eager for coin and name.
No questions were asked. The registrar barely looked up. She stamped their scroll and waved them through.
Outside, the city roared. It was the first day of the Festival of Blades.
They took seats on the stone bleachers flanking the arena, the sun already high. Below, the ring was drenched in blood from the opening rites. The crowd cheered wildly. Brass gongs rang. The scent of sweat, steel, and roasted meat clung to the air.
A new voice echoed from the enchanted pillars. It was theatrical, flamboyant, shrill with delight. A fool's cap jingled faintly above the arena wall as a gaunt, paint-faced announcer pranced into view, robes jingling with copper bells and stitched motley. He bowed low with a twirl.
"Ladies and lords, bladebiters and blood-drinkers! Welcome! On this side," he gestured with a crimson-slick cane, "we have the so-called heroes from the West, Dazhum allies, Zhong loyalists, and oh yes, highborn silverbloods, stripped of their shiny pride!"
He spun, flinging both arms wide toward the gate opposite. "And on this side, well, you know them. The green-blooded horde! Five hundred howling beasts, fresh from their caves and pits! Hungry! And eager to feast!"
The crowd howled in reply.
From iron gates below, prisoners were herded into the arena floor. One hundred fifty in total, chained, filthy, gaunt but unbroken. Dazhum soldiers. Zhong loyalists. And high elves in silver-torn uniforms. They had fought five months ago in the northern front, where they marched but ended in defeat. Now they stood in the realm they tried to conquer.
Opposite them, the second gate opened. The floor trembled. Five hundred orcs and goblins poured in, snarling, roaring, blades raised. No strategy. Just hunger.
The jester's voice returned, booming with delight. "To keep things ever so sporting, yes, yes, fair as the coin of fate, our darling little guests will be fighting without their sparkly spells and whirling wonders. No magick. Only blood."
War mages, bound by rune chains. No magick. Only steel.
Rune chains wrapped around their arms and throats, inscribed with sigils that severed access to qi and suppressed all arcane flow. The chains did more than bind the body. They silenced the connection between mind, soul, and the greater arcane lattice. Any attempt to draw power through them would result in searing feedback, burning the nerves, fraying consciousness, leaving the caster crippled or dead. These were not shackles. They were execution sentences, worn alive.
A few prisoners broke from formation. Three darted toward the arena wall, one screaming as he ran.
The crowd gasped, but only for a moment.
From atop the ramparts, Stormguard archers loosed without hesitation. One fell with an arrow through the spine. Another was pinned mid-step, jaw snapped shut as steel pierced his throat. The third barely reached the wall before bolts punched through his chest. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.
Nask muttered under his breath. Drevi said nothing.
Nask leaned forward, knuckles white around the edge of the stone seat.
"We can't just sit here," he muttered. "That's our own down there. Dazhum, Zhong, even the highborn."
Drevi kept his eyes on the field. "And what would you have us do? Jump in? Break cover?"
"We could..."
"No," Rhak (Nivak) cut in quietly. "You want to throw away the entire mission because your conscience flared up too late?"
"They're not just strangers," Nask growled. "They're soldiers. Ours. They fought the same war we did."
"And they lost," Drevi said flatly. "So did we. But we're still in this game. If we blow our position now, they die for nothing and we go with them."
Silence fell again.
The bell rang.
It was slaughter.
The first clash sent limbs flying. Prisoners fought with spears scavenged from fallen handlers. Orc blades tore through soft bellies. High elf captains used broken pikes as polearms. Blood sprayed in arcs across the sand. Goblins leapt onto backs, biting into throats and eyes. Screams burst open like ruptured flesh. Cheers followed every severed limb.
One Dazhum lancer slammed a goblin to the ground and stomped its skull until it caved in. Bone and brains sprayed into the dust. A Zhong soldier disarmed an orc and used its own cleaver to hack it down the middle, spine snapping loud enough to echo.
A high elf spun wildly with a jagged pike shaft, driving it through the eye socket of a goblin. The creature's twitching corpse was thrown into another. But the elf was swarmed from behind. An orc cleaved into his ribs, and a goblin stabbed his gut again and again until steam rose from the opened belly.
One Zhong hoplite managed to rally a corner. He impaled an orc through the eye, twisted free, and drove into a second. His armor hung in strips, soaked through. An arrow caught him in the throat. He gargled and dropped, convulsing.
A high elf unleashed a silent war cry, swinging with the rage of a burned homeland. He split two goblins in one sweep before being dragged under by five more. They tore open his chest with crude blades, yanking entrails free like wet rope.
The crowd loved it. Chanted. Roared. Coins flew into the pit. Fingers pointed. Bets were placed mid-death.
Flesh tore. Bone shattered. There was no elegance, only desperation. Men slipped on blood, fell, and died screaming. Teeth clacked from hacked-off jaws. Arms twitched beside their owners. The scent of shit and iron was thick.
Rhak (Nivak) watched in silence. His expression was unreadable, hollow. He wore the mask of a Dazhum operative, not just in manner but in flesh. The transformation had taken hold weeks ago, rooted deep beneath the skin. He could join the roar of the crowd, even raise his voice if he wished, but the cost of showing emotion was too high. Those in the arena meant nothing to him now, not as allies and not as enemies. In another world, the roles could have been reversed. It could just as easily be the Eastern realm in the pit.
A Dazhum war mage, stripped of his sigils, held off three orcs with a shattered chain. He screamed as one drove a serrated dagger into his groin. Another bit into his shoulder and pulled away a hunk of muscle. He fell backward, throat torn, eyes wide.
One hundred ten remained.
The rest were butchered.
The last goblin squealed as a Zhong soldier crushed its skull with a dented helm. The crunch was final. The pit fell silent.
Then the jester bellowed again.
"Oh ho ho. Look at that. One hundred ten. Still standing. Not bad for invaders and broken legions."
He raised his cane. "You have bought your lives with blood. But you do not leave."
The crowd erupted.
"I congratulate you, survivors. You will enter the main event."
Steel gates slammed shut. The arena floor emptied of corpses but not of memory.
Rhak (Nivak) stood. "We've seen enough. Let's go."
The three slipped away from the crowds. Their papers were accepted. Their cover held. But their silence on the way back to the safehouse said more than any oath.
They had watched their countrymen die.
And they had done nothing.
Back at the safehouse, the shutters were drawn. The lanternlight was low.
Nask paced like a caged wolf, jaw tight. "I'll kill them all. Every eastern realm dog that steps into that arena tomorrow. I don't care who they are."
Drevi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes were sharp, not angry. "If you lose control, they'll know. If you die out there, it was for nothing. I'll be in the crowd, watching. If things go wrong, I'll move."
Rhak (Nivak) pulled a bottle of dark wine from the cabinet. "Then drink. Both of you."
He poured into tin cups. Nask grabbed his and downed it without pause. Rhak sipped.
Drevi hesitated, eyeing the cup. He waited. Only after the others drank did he follow suit.
"We strike when it matters," Rhak (Nivak) said. "You'll get your chance, Nask. Just not today. Hold your fury for tomorrow and wear that mask until it breaks."
The room fell quiet again. A silence thick with rage, calculation, and something colder.
Tomorrow, blood would be spilled again.