Orion's boots hammered against the cobblestones, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He rounded the corner of the shop, the knife heavy in his hand, and skidded to a halt.
There, bathed in the flickering orange glow of a nearby streetlamp, were Devon and Sekar.
"Devon!" Orion's shout was a mix of fury and relief. "Are you dumb? Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Devon turned around, his expression shifting from a guilty startle to a defiant pout. "To the tournament. What does it look like?"
"Do you seriously trust this guy?" Orion pointed the knife toward Sekar, though the big man didn't even flinch. "You're going to get us killed, or worse, sold off."
Sekar let out a long, weary sigh. In the distance, the low roar of the crowd and the rhythmic boom of ceremonial drums began to swell, shaking the very air of the Skirts.
"We're late," Sekar said, his voice flat. He didn't look at either of them; he simply adjusted his vest and checked the darkening sky. "I'm going whether you follow or not. That's up to you. But the gates won't stay open for the cleaning crews forever."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking toward the source of the noise—the heart of Iron City, where the light was brightest.
Orion grabbed Devon by the arm, his grip tight. "Devon, stop. Let's just go back. Os is going to lose his mind if he finds out we're gone."
Devon didn't budge. He looked Orion dead in the eye, and for a second, the playful kid was gone. "I'm not going back, Orion."
"Why?"
"Because I'm tired of it," Devon said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "Do you really want to do shows all your life?"
Orion stared at him, his mouth opening to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked at the direction of the stage they had left behind, then at the glowing horizon of the Coliseum. He sighed, a heavy, defeated sound, and tucked the knife into his belt. He couldn't let Devon go alone—not with that stranger.
Devon's face instantly split into a wide, triumphant grin. He took off, running to catch up with Sekar's long strides. Orion hesitated for only a heartbeat before following, damn it.
Both of them disappeared into the shadows of the city, chasing a light they weren't supposed to touch.
As they drew closer to the Coliseum, the air began to vibrate. The clashes from within weren't just sounds; they were rhythmic concussions that rolled over the city like thunder.
Sekar led them into a narrow, stone-ribbed tunnel that felt like the throat of a great beast. Just inside the shadows, he signaled to a hooded figure leaning against the damp wall. Without a word, the figure handed over two tattered red coats.
"Put these on," Sekar commanded, tossing the heavy fabric to the boys.
"Why aren't you wearing one?" Orion asked, squinting as he pulled the oversized coat over his shoulders. It smelled of lye and old sweat.
"The guards recognize me," Sekar replied shortly. "You two just need to look like you belong to the crew."
They approached the inner checkpoint. Sekar didn't slow down; he simply made a sharp, practiced gesture with his fingers toward the armored sentries. The guards looked at the two small figures in red coats, then at Sekar, and gave a curt nod, stepping aside to let them pass.
The deeper they went, the worse the atmosphere became. The tunnel was suffocatingly humid, and a horrid stench clung to the back of Orion's throat.
They kept moving until the sound of the crowd wasn't just a roar anymore; it was a physical mass pressing down from above.
Finally, they reached a set of heavy iron bars at the very edge of the arena floor. They were at ground level, standing in the shadows of the entrance tunnels.
Above them, tens of thousands of fans screamed and stomped, their voices echoing in Orion's mind until his head throbbed.
Suddenly, the opposite gate groaned open.
A man cloaked in black stepped onto the sands, dressed incongruously in grey cargo shorts. Two enormous, curved sickles hung loosely at his sides, their blades glistening with an oily, unnatural light.
He looked ordinary. That was the problem.
The weight of his presence crushed the arena in an instant, the air thickening, sound dying. Orion reached for his senses and felt only a void. No Aegis. Nothing to grasp.
Silence followed him like a law of nature.
"Where's Sinco?" Devon whispered, his voice trembling as he gripped the bars. "I thought he was fighting."
"We missed his warmup," Sekar said, his eyes fixed on the figure in black. "Now it's his turn."
Before Devon could ask who "he" was, a second gate on the far side of the arena began to rumble. The earth shook as the heavy portcullis rose, and a giant serpent slithered into the light. Its hiss was a sharp, predatory sound that seemed to cut right through the space between them.
The serpent's massive head locked onto the man, its slit pupils vibrating with predatory focus. It slithered toward the arena wall, its powerful tail coiling against the stone for leverage.
Suddenly, the scales began to rattle, shifting and recombining like interlocking plates of armor until the creature looked like a streamlined, silver spear.
The man in black didn't strike. Instead, he simply dropped his sickles. The heavy blades thudded into the sand at his feet.
Then, the snake launched.
It became a blur of silver and death, striking with a velocity that defied its massive size. It was a living arrow aimed straight for the man's chest. But the man didn't move—he flickered.
One moment he was there; the next, he was a ghost. The serpent tore through the space he had occupied, slamming into the far wall with a bone-shattering thud. The beast didn't even hiss; it simply went limp, its momentum spent.
The man flickered back into the center of the arena. The air around him didn't even stir, not even a grain of sand moved under his boots. Dangling from his grip was a massive, still-throbbing heart, slick with dark, viscous blood. He let the organ drop into the dust with a wet slap. As if answering a silent call, his sickles flew from the sand back into his palms, and then he flickered out of sight again.
Orion stared at the serpent slumped against the wall. There was no wound. No slash, no puncture, no blood on the scales.
"Is that... its heart?" Orion whispered, his eyes darting back to the gore on the sand. "How did he take it out without cutting the skin?"
He felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the humid tunnel. "Who the hell is he?" Orion asked, his voice barely audible over the sudden, confused murmur of the crowd above.
Beside him, Devon was a statue. His hands were still white-knuckled on the bars, his eyes wide and vacant. He hadn't even processed what he'd seen.
"The Deathsickles' Wraith," Sekar muttered, lighting a cigar. "He's the executioner of the divine. He's the one they send to put anyone in line whenever they think they've outgrown their place, even the gods of this world. He's beyond a Strategoi, he's beyond anything you've heard of."
"Executioner," Orion repeated.
Devon's hands finally fell from the bars, his fingers trembling. "Salvatore... Sinco is fighting him?"
"It was his choice," Sekar said, leaning back against the damp stone of the tunnel. "But he's only fighting him under a specific set of conditions."
"What kind of conditions?" Orion asked.
"Wraith has to lower his speed to fifty percent," Sekar answered. "And he isn't allowed to use his sickles. If Sinco can land a strike that would kill a normal human, he wins."
Devon looked up, a spark of his usual hope flickering. "Does that... does that actually give Sinco a chance?"
Sekar let out a short, dry snort. "Salvatore is fast. On a straight sprint, he's just as quick as an unrestricted Wraith. But speed isn't the problem. It's the teleportation. Wraith doesn't travel through space; he just decides to be somewhere else. You can't outrun a man who doesn't need to take a step."
"Then why?" Devon asked, his confusion turning to frustration. "Why did Sinco even challenge him if it's that lopsided?"
Sekar took a long drag of his cigar, the tip glowing bright orange in the tunnel's gloom. "To prove a stupid bar bet wrong. Some drunkard's challenge the two of them had. He wanted to prove that if you're fast enough, you can escape Death itself."
"Huh?" Orion said, blinking.
"Yeah," Sekar agreed.
"He's dumb," Orion stated flatly.
Sekar nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. "Yeah. He really is."
The gates at the far end of the arena screamed open, and a man who looked more like a legend than a warrior stepped into the blinding light.
His hair was a startling shade of light pink, and his face was clean-shaven, revealing sharp, slender features. He moved with an effortless, fluid grace that made the heavy sand feel like a ballroom floor. But it was his eyes that caught the light—burnished gold pupils that seemed to see everything at once. He wore light, ornate armor and a long sword rested comfortably against his hip.
"YOU GOT THIS, SALVATORE!"
Devon's voice ripped through the sudden hush of the crowd. He was practically climbing the iron bars of the tunnel, his face flushed with pure, unadulterated joy. To the shock of everyone nearby, Sinco paused. He turned his head toward the dark mouth of the cleaning tunnel, his gold eyes locking onto the small boy in the oversized red coat.
Sinco smiled—a wide, charismatic flash of teeth—and gave Devon a solid thumbs-up.
Devon's laughter was near-hysterical. "Sinco! Sinco!" he chanted, jumping up and down.
Beside him, Orion was struggling to breathe. As Salvatore drew closer, his presence hit Orion like a wall.
Orion could feel the man's Aegis—a massive, compressed force that felt as heavy as a mountain range pressing down on his own "average" bubble.
Sinco drew his sword, the steel singing a high, clear note as it left the scabbard. "Now, Wraith," he shouted, his voice booming with confidence. "We shall settle this disagreement once and for all!"
The crowd erupted into a deafening wall of sound, thousands of people screaming for the fastest Strategoi in the world.
In response, Wraith reappeared in the center of the sands, standing ten paces from Salvatore. He didn't speak; he didn't even look at the crowd. Instead, he raised his arms. The massive, curved sickles in his hands began to glow with a dark, oily heat, melting like black wax. The liquid metal flowed up his wrists, cooling instantly into thick, heavy shackles.
The God-Killer was bound. The Strategoi was ready.
The fight was about to begin.