The arena floor had been freshly raked that morning, the sand and dirt mixture still damp from the night's rain. It gave the ground a darker color—almost rust-red—that made Silas think of old blood.
Appropriate.
He stood in the prep tunnel with the rest of Tyven's squad, listening to the muffled roar of the crowd above. The Bone Reapers were already in the arena, warming up, showing off for the nobles in their cushioned seats.
Silas could hear the announcer's voice echoing through stone:
"—SPONSORED BY THE ESTEEMED HOUSE DRAVEN, THE BONE REAPERS HAVE CLAIMED FOUR CONSECUTIVE VICTORIES—"
Garren spat on the ground. "Four victories against who? Farmers?"
"Does it matter?" Kael muttered, adjusting his chest guard. The leather was worn, patched in three places. Nothing like the gleaming armor the Reapers wore.
