A fist the size of a boulder came crashing toward Thorwin, the air itself screaming as it displaced it. For a heartbeat, death felt certain—close enough to taste, heavy enough to crush thought. Instinct, honed by pain and repetition, saved him where reason could not.
He rolled hard to the side.
Ash and grit coated his leather armor as the ogre's blow pulverized the ground where he had stood moments before. The impact sent a tremor through the arena floor, cracking stone and drawing a thunderous roar from the orcish crowd. Thorwin barely had time to rise before the creature lumbered forward, its massive silhouette blotting out the firelight.
The ogre was monstrous—taller than a lamppost, broader than a guard tower, its skin a thick, mottled hide scarred by countless battles. A club as large as a felled tree hung in its grip, streaked with old blood and splintered bone. Too slow to think, Thorwin raised his sword, knowing even as he did that the steel would not hold.
The club came down.
Steel rang—then screamed.
Falstad hurled himself into the blow, axe raised high. The clash shook the air, sparks bursting outward as the weapons met. Falstad's boots skidded across the sand, knees buckling under the sheer, brutal weight of the strike. The dwarf dropped to one knee, beard bristling as he snarled through clenched teeth, muscles straining to keep the axe from being driven into the earth—and into Thorwin with it.
"Get yer arse movin', lad!" Falstad bellowed. "We strike 'im from all sides—don' let yerself get cornered again!"
Thorwin did not hesitate.
He sprinted hard to the ogre's flank, heart pounding, breath burning in his lungs. The crowd howled above him—orcish voices thick with bloodlust, jeering and chanting for the trio's destruction. Spittle flew from tusked mouths as they banged fists against iron railings, demanding a reckoning.
The ogre roared, a sound like stone grinding against stone, spinning clumsily as it tried to keep all three of them in sight.
Cedric moved first.
The knight darted in low, blade flashing as he slashed at the ogre's legs, aiming for tendons, for weakness—any opening at all. Steel bit into flesh, but the blade barely sank. The creature's hide was too thick, too calloused by violence. The ogre barely seemed to notice, save for an angry bellow as it stomped down, forcing Cedric to leap clear.
Thorwin skidded to a halt, eyes racing, mind sharpening.
The body was too protected, with its steel armor coating its vitals.
The legs too thick.
Then he looked up.
The head loomed heavy atop a thick neck, poorly armored, its small eyes burning with rage but dull with stupidity. The beast swung wildly, power without precision, strength without thought.
The head, Thorwin realized.
His grip tightened on his sword as the thought crystallized.
That's where it ends.
Thorwin did not waste words at first, knowing that every second spent speaking was a second stolen from survival. He caught Falstad's eye across the churned sand, waiting until the dwarf's axe dipped just enough for their gazes to meet. In that instant, Thorwin lifted his hand—not hurried, not obvious—his fingers tight with intent. He pointed once, briefly, toward Falstad's axe, its blade nicked and blackened but still deadly, still hungry. Then his finger rose, slow and deliberate, angling upward toward the ogre's massive head, where thick muscle met a skull far less protected than the rest of its monstrous frame.
Falstad followed the gesture without hesitation. His eyes narrowed, not in doubt, but in calculation. Years of battle had trained him to read plans without words, and the dwarf understood at once what Thorwin intended. A crooked, grim smile tugged at the edge of his beard as he shifted his stance, boots grinding deeper into the sand for purchase. His grip on the axe tightened, muscles bunching beneath scarred skin.
"Aye," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "That'll crack it."
Thorwin turned then to Cedric, stepping close enough that the roar of the crowd swallowed their words. He spoke in Common, low and controlled, his voice stripped of all hesitation. "Pierce his legs," he said. "Again and again. Don't look for the kill—just make him hurt. Make him slow. Make him angry."
Cedric met his gaze, sweat and blood streaking his face, eyes steady despite the chaos around them. He did not question the order. He never did. Instead, he nodded once, sharp and resolute, adjusting his grip on his sword as he repositioned himself. "I'll keep him busy," the knight replied.
Thorwin inhaled deeply, forcing air into lungs that burned from smoke and exertion. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his mind was clear—sharper than it had ever been. He knew this moment. He had learned it in blood and pain and observation. Strength alone would never fell a creature like this. Fear would not save them. Only control.
This was his role.
He stepped forward into the ogre's line of sight, boots crunching against ash and broken stone. His feet spread wide, grounding himself, knees bent slightly to absorb the shock that was sure to come. Then he opened his mouth and dragged a sound from deep within his chest—a guttural, rasping bellow, ugly and raw. It scraped his throat as he forced it out, shaping it carefully to mimic the war-cries he had heard from the ogres who guarded the prison gates. He had heard those sounds countless times, always followed by violence, by crushed bones and screams.
The cry tore through the arena.
For a single heartbeat, even the crowd seemed to pause.
Then the ogre answered.
It threw back its massive head and roared, a thunderous sound that rattled iron railings and sent vibrations through the ground itself. Spittle flew from its tusked mouth as its small eyes snapped toward Thorwin, bloodshot and burning, veins bulging along its thick neck. Rage swallowed whatever dim thought the creature possessed. It beat its chest with a meaty fist, dragging its club through the sand as it turned fully toward him, every ounce of its attention locked on the boy who dared challenge it.
The orcish crowd erupted—howls of laughter, fists slamming against metal, voices screaming for blood. They sensed what was coming. They always did.
Thorwin held the ogre's gaze and did not flinch.
Good, he thought, cold and focused. Look at me.
The beast lumbered forward, rage fully kindled, blind to anything but the promise of crushing him beneath its bulk.
Cedric moved the instant the ogre's attention fixed upon Thorwin. He darted in low and fast, boots kicking up ash as his sword flashed in tight, controlled arcs aimed not for glory, but for ruin. The first strike bit into the back of the ogre's knee, steel grinding against thick hide before finding purchase. The creature bellowed in pain and fury, its roar tearing through the arena as it stomped down blindly, missing Cedric by inches. The knight rolled clear, already rising, already striking again—another slash, then another—each blow carving shallow but meaningful wounds into muscle and tendon alike. Blood began to seep, dark and sluggish, matting coarse hair and slicking the sand beneath its feet.
The ogre tried to turn, club sweeping wide in a brutal arc meant to pulp anything in its path—but Cedric was already moving. He ran hard, boots pounding against stone and sand, weaving just beyond the reach of the massive weapon. He kept his distance carefully measured—not too far to lose his blade's reach, not too close to be crushed by its bulk.
Thorwin's every shout, every feint, every sudden change in direction continuously pulled the ogre after him, dragging its wounded legs through the arena floor. Thorwin could feel its rage behind him like heat at his back, hear its labored breath growing heavier with every step.
"Come on," Thorwin muttered under his breath as he ran, voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. "Come on, you ugly bastard."
Behind the ogre, Falstad went to work. The dwarf waited—not rushing, not wasting strength. He watched the ogre's movements with a practiced eye, noting how its stance grew wider, more desperate, how its balance faltered each time Cedric struck true. Falstad adjusted his grip on the axe, testing its weight, rolling his shoulders once as though shrugging off years rather than moments.
"Keep bleedin' him, knight!" Falstad barked. "A big'un like this only falls when he forgets how ta stand!"
Cedric obliged with grim determination.
He lunged again, driving his blade deep into the ogre's calf this time, twisting as he withdrew. The creature howled, staggering as one massive leg buckled beneath it for a brief, precious moment. Cedric barely escaped the retaliatory stomp, sand exploding where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. He came up coughing, blood streaking his cheek, but he did not slow. Pain was irrelevant now.
The ogre's movements grew erratic.
Its club slammed into the ground again and again, each strike slower than the last. Its legs trembled visibly, muscles spasming as blood loss and damage took their toll. The crowd sensed it too—their roars shifting from gleeful mockery to fevered anticipation.
Thorwin saw the opening forming.
He cut sharply to the side, forcing the ogre to pivot hard on its wounded leg. The creature obeyed, rage blinding it to everything else. Its knee buckled with a sickening crack, and the ogre crashed down onto one knee, shaking the arena floor beneath it.
"Now!" Falstad roared.
The dwarf surged forward.
With a bellow of his own, Falstad leapt, planting one boot against the ogre's massive back for leverage. His axe came down in a brutal, two-handed arc, burying itself deep into the creature's neck—just below the jaw, where muscle gave way to something softer. Blood sprayed hot and thick as Falstad tore the blade free and struck again, driving the ogre fully off balance.
The beast collapsed forward with a thunderous crash, its massive body slamming into the sand, legs finally giving out beneath its own weight. The ground shuddered as the ogre sprawled helplessly, its roars devolving into wet, choking gurgles.
Thorwin did not hesitate.
He sprinted forward, every ounce of his strength focused into that single moment. He vaulted onto the ogre's fallen body, boots slipping briefly on blood-slick hide as he climbed. The creature thrashed weakly, one massive hand clawing uselessly at the ground.
Thorwin raised his sword.
For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed—no crowd, no screams, no fire. Just the rise and fall of the ogre's chest, just the knowledge of what must be done.
Then he drove the blade down.
Steel punched through the ogre's eye socket with a sickening crunch, plunging deep into the skull. Thorwin leaned into the strike, twisting the blade as he had been taught—by Falstad, by Cedric, by the arena itself. The ogre convulsed once, violently, then went still.
Silence fell.
Then the crowd erupted.
Thorwin wrenched his sword free and staggered back, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arms and blade alike. He stood over the fallen giant, ash swirling around him, heart pounding not with triumph—but with certainty.
…
Winning was not always rewarded.
The ogre's death, rather than earning favor, had ignited fury—fury that radiated from the highest tier of the arena. Thorwin felt it before he understood it, a sudden tightening in the air, a subtle but unmistakable shift in the mood of the crowd. The roar of celebration faltered, excitement draining into a wary hush as a massive figure rose from the iron-shadowed stands.
Orgrim Doomhammer stood.
He was immovable, like a monolith carved from war itself. Whiskers framed the brutal angles of his scarred face, and long white hair was drawn back tightly, stark against skin darkened by ash and blood. His armor was forged from foreign metal—dense, dark, and scarred by countless battles—absorbing the firelight rather than reflecting it. Steel spikes crowned his shoulder plates, each one dulled and stained, trophies of violence rather than decoration. At his side rested the weapon that bore his name, a hammer so heavy it seemed to bend the space around it, a symbol of conquest carried without ceremony.
Thorwin felt Doomhammer's gaze sweep across the arena and settle upon him.
It was not curiosity.
It was not respect.
It was judgment.
When the warchief roared, the sound thundered across the arena like a breaking storm. It was not the roar of approval the crowd craved, but a declaration of displeasure—one that silenced even the most blood-maddened orcs. The cheer died in throats. The atmosphere shifted from revelry to command.
Almost immediately, armored guards poured into the arena.
Thorwin barely had time to steady his breathing before rough hands seized him, Falstad, and Cedric. They were dragged away from the corpse of the ogre, away from the blood-soaked sand that moments ago had borne witness to victory. No explanation was offered. No acknowledgement given. Only barked orders and iron grips as they were forced through the gates and out of the arena, swallowed by shadow and smoke.