Chapter 42

The Colosseum has an elliptical shape. The round structure of the Colosseum is built from travertine blocks that are used for load-bearing pillars with radial walls, arches and vaults to support the structure. A tattered red awning hovers above the last rows of the stands, providing flaccid protection from the sun. The empty bowl of the sky is brightened by the potency of the sun; its punishing rays glaring down at me as if in disapproval.

I stride out with fraudulent confidence to the centre of the arena. And the journey there seems like an endless stretch of ivory stone. The flattened ground is blanketed with a thick layer of ochre dust. My head swivels from left to right. A one hundred and eighty degree vision of the jam-packed stands, inundated with an ocean of colourful faces. My gaze levels to the interior circumference. The other sealed gates are spaced out at extensive intervals.

Between them are the stagnant Watchers, beings cloaked in dark purple, their faces forever shrouded by their hoods. Their eyes transmit what they see in the arena to the watcher-banners. The watcher-banners are strung up high at all the major four corners of the arena. They are colossal size banners that swirl with motion essence like an open portal. The interior is like the glassy, but clear-cut surface of a lake, but it displays all four angles of only me.

One is a close-up of my bewildered face. The second is a full front view of me, the third is from my rear and the last one is greatly zoomed out. This is intended to exhibit the match below to even the farthest row in the stands, to showcase a view of each gory fight with optimal angles.

At the epicentre, I swivel, and I see the expansive private balcony that protrudes on its own. An exclusive gallery reserved for the Xercra. And Duce Merian sits right beside him. I can barely see either of them.

PRESENTING THE HERA'S OPPONENT, A LONG-TIME SHOW-STOPPER. A TRUE GLADIATOR THAT STRIKES FEAR IN THE HEARTS OF THOSE WHO CROSS HIM. SEKOVRITZ. THE SKULL-CRUSHER!

A resonating cheer rips through the crowds in a rebounding thrill.

SKULL-CRUSH-ER!

SKULL-CRUSH-ER!

The crowds chant an anthem. Promptly, the portcullis beneath the Xercra's extravagant gallery lifts glacially, ready to unleash whatever hellish fiend that stands behind them. When the portcullis is fully raised, a monstrous being skulks out from the shadows with too many outlines. The crowd's fervour reaches an ear-piercing climax.

It's greasy, mottled skin is the dark side of an eclipse. Armed in sheer steel with a shroud of black fur that drapes over its bulky shoulders, decorated with bones. The closer he approaches me, the more he mounts in both size and fear-factor. Its callused, knotted fingers grip a gladius, nailed with short spikes around the rainguard. He has huge tankard handles for ears, matching the vulturous nose of this rapacious being. Its eyes are cold enough to make ice shiver, yet they simmer with unprovoked hostility.

When he meets me at the centre, he rotates the heft of his weight around. He jabs his gladius in the air in hail of the Xercra before he faces me again. He gives me a scornful look, eyes alit with spite. Its bestial face seems either an axe or sword has notched it.

It beckons me to attack him in a strange, guttural accent. Its insentient voice echoes like a deep sepulchre. I grip Kelan's sword with both hands and I move into my first fighting stance.

Out of nowhere, the monster attacks with a berserk nature, eyes wild. He swings for my head, nearly decapitating me. I sweep under and dart to the other side with my head still gratefully on my shoulders. The monster wields his gladius and spins it so that the blade is nothing but a blurry oblivion. He runs up to me and forays an overhead strike—I shoot my sword up—a clash of blades.

The crowds surge with roaring cheers.

The monster and I trade a flurry of blows as I try to endure its demonic power. Managing to deflect his attacks, a deranged spout of all eight angles of attack: straight down, slantwise, horizontal, diagonally up to the left, and left and right strikes.

My face already perspires from maximum effort. But his exertion is with unnatural ease, unleashing deranged slicing assaults at me from almost every direction. I parry his gladius to the left and his torso jerks. His face whips back at me and he returns with full force, slamming his boot into my stomach—sending me flying.

My body smacks against the ground with a bone-jarring crash—a hazardous bounce, tumbling until I halt myself still. My grip locked on my sword. My gut throbbing with pain, my gasps for breath faltering. On my back, I gawk at the growing shadow that descends from the sky, rushing towards me. My eyes explode wide. I desperately roll out of the way—he lands where I was and the ground beneath me quakes at the impact. The surrounding surface cracked with webs of fissures, a repercussion of tawny dust rippling out.

Before I can fully rise, it appears before me again. With merciless brutality, he slashes a gush of attacks in ruthless succession with unassailable stamina, and infernal might. With the edge of his gladius, his blade whips straight into me with a deep slice, an ascending trajectory that rips open a streak of blood from my non-dominant arm, tearing a muffled yelp from my throat.

I baulk—he slashes again, and this abrasion cuts shallowly into the side of my waist. He yanks his gladius back, unravelling a strip of red. My breathing snags. Pain lancing through the seeping gash, sizzling but tolerable.

Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

And I choose to fight through it as I have before.

Because I can,

So I will.

I incline my head and fix both hands on the grip of Kelan's sword, drawing his strength, reminding me of my own. I free a battle cry, breaking into a quick sprint, bolting into an attack. His gladius and my blade clashing with sharp shrieks. The clatter of colliding metal rattles my own skull. The monster is fast, but like the mindless fiend that it is. He relies too much on its power. It is stouter, but I am far more agile.

I jerk my torso aside, head whipping, but its blade manages to graze my cheek. I spin around, ducking, driving the sword deep into its thigh, squirting out a spray of black blood. My stomach clenches. It bellows a short, agonised roar. I rip out the sword, and the monster drops to one knee with a heavy thud. He swings his blade ferociously to ward me off, but I parry it aside.

With this opportunity, I lunge forward and thrust my blade into its throat—a burst of black—the tip emerging on the other side. I pull it out, the monster's mouth agape, burbling blood. His eyes dissolve into a frightening white before he breathes his last. His shoulders slump, he falls and his back hits the ground, upsetting the particles of dust.

I straighten, glaring down at the dead gladiator. One that I have slain.

One that I killed.

For a few inhalations, there is an evanescent silence of sheer shock before the crowds implode into a roaring cheer. I look up and around at all the fists pounding the air, masses of people hollering my name.

HERA- AD-ALIA!

HERA- AD-ALIA!

My eyes skim over the four watch-banners that exhibit my swift victory. All angles and views capturing my dumbstruck face. My breaths fall fast and heavy beneath my nostrils.

What am I to do?

I am being praised for this act of senseless violence. Shall I be acclaimed for such barbarism? Do they want me to smile back at them, blow kisses and laugh with their shared shock that I defeated a renowned gladiator? Skull-crusher. Alas, I have a trial to complete and a family to return to. My fingers tighten around the grip of the sword. My face knotted with intensity. I ram the sword into the sky victoriously, beams of sunlight glinting off the blackened blade. The stands break into a furore of booming cheers that reverberate through my bones, surging through my blood.

***

And so it continues.

After my adrenaline-inducing victory. I return to the dungeons, the gaols of the underground. That is where he takes me to the water bank to informally tend to my wounds so I do not bleed to death. He takes his time cleaning them. None infected by any kind of metal poisoning. Whilst he nurses my injuries, binding them. Kelan does not say a word.

Not a slither of shock, excitement or even relief that I lived. Once again reverting to his state of stoniness, but he could not have worse timing. Meanwhile a few of the Herems fight their solo matches against gladiators of their own. By the time Vince's match is announced, he has already returned.

The others are still to complete their solo matches after.

After what?

The Quarter Sage.

That is what we are all preparing for now. This is where most gladiators, slaves turned into fighters, meet their death. The grisly apex of the Blood Games. In the Quarter Sage, Spartans, idle warriors of Sorcia, willingly participate to go against gladiators. They have never lost. Now they go against us. A group of ill-despised purebloods versus the beloved and fearsome Spartans of Sorcia.

The Herems and I are lined up in two rows behind the west portcullis. In one hand we each hold a weapon of our choice. And in the other, a circular, torso-length shield. The straps of the shield are hooked securely around my bracer, with some leeway for ease of movement. The wooden shield is dense, marginally heavy. Kelan's sword in my other hand.

I have never heard a silence so ear-piercing; it nearly silences the clamours of a restless crowd. The pain both in my side and arm is like a fire in a hearth that blazes through nightfall—its embers still burning.

An all too familiar laugh slices through the tangible silence. Wry and unapologetic.

"It does not take a Valwa to see the purpose of us being part of the Quarter Sage," Vince says from the front of the line. On the right side. He stands ready with his sword drawn; dark splotches taint his blade.

Darkness draped over us.

"To kill us?" Brennon answers, his one finger ceaselessly rubbing against the grip of his longsword.

"To test us," Vince corrects. "A true king is fierce in battle and wise in victory."

I add my voice, and say, "More than that. We are rivals, and for many among us, the disdain is personal. But a good king places his reservations aside. A great king makes allies out of enemies."

Brennon blares a bored groan. "Stop talking in wise woman parables and get to it. What point are you trying to convey?"

If you need me to spell it out for you. "We need to work together. If you wish to live, we must unify or die with our reservations."

Markiveus angles up his mace in a ready stance. "Heed counsel from a woman? We might as well wave a white flag. Why should any of us listen to you, Hera?" The head of the mace fashioned with sharp flanges. Perfect to strike upon the head of the enemy with greater penetration.

"Because the Hera defeated a champion gladiator in record time. I did not see you doing that in such a brief span," Treyton says from beside me. Earning an icy, off-shoulder glare from him. "You do not need to like her or any of us. But she has deserved all of our respect."

Treyton turns his head to look at me with fierce and sincere eyes. I nod back at him gratefully. His knuckles whitening around the grip of his mace. The one that he wields has a silver chain attached to two spiked balls at the end.

"This is absolute madness," Solaris says, his shoulders bopping. Irritable. "I am aware that a good ruler needs to know combative skills, in order to lead his own armies into war. When necessary, to defend his rule and people. But there are more civilised ways to teach such a lesson."

Zekei opposite him nods his head many times. "Agreed. They did not warn us that in participating in the Trials, we would be willing participants in our own slaughter. They might as well shove an apple in our mouths and roast us over a spit."

"Enough," Rimnick grumbles. His tone is rough, fringed with menace. "You all sicken me with the stench of your fear. It's simple. Kill or be killed."

I nearly flinch at the sound of the portcullis being raised. Loud gears churning, my heart thundering.

I inhale courage.

And exhale fear

When it's time, we all troop out in a brisk, steady jog to the centre. The crowd welcomes us with a moderate reception. A few scattered cheers for those among us whom they support. At this point, I'm immune to fear's poison. If I can face a champion gladiator and slay him in the time that I did. I am sure I can play my role in overthrowing the undefeatable Spartans of Sorcia.

Because of course, I can...

Out in the lurid brilliance of a noontide sun. It demands my attention. Rimnick's back is horrifically marred, it's almost impossible to ignore. Disfigured from long-ago torment that bellows old suffering, further deformed by old burns like an enormous, rotting wound. I still find it difficult to summon sympathy.Though I know we are all life's victims—products of our upbringing. What we are born into, we cannot choose. But what we do with our lives is a choice.

What one does to another is a choice.

Pain being done to one does not justify it being done to another.

Soon we reach the centre with vast empty space fixed between us. My eyes peruse our surroundings: the watcher-banners showcase our angles to the masses. The imperial gallery, designated for His Holiness and his esteemed guest, is next to a secluded section for the announcer, with commentators flanked on each side of him. Then to the stands, a crowd of nearly a hundred thousand people. All of their eyes, their judgments set on each of us. Each gaze is a minuscule weight deposited on my plated shoulders, all accumulating to a staggering heft.

"The Hera is right, we face true warriors," Vince says with his eyes surveying, plotting a strategy. "Death will have us if we stand alone. We must fight together or perish." His gaze levels to find Markiveus. "Even you must be able to silence your pride to ensure your continued survival, to guarantee that you remain the bane of our existence."

Markiveus flashes a grin and lifts his mace to rest it on his shoulder.

Vince looks to the rest of us with a prowess of authority that commands submission. "Listen to me and you will live," he says as if his word is law. "All of you, form a circle, backs facing inwards. Do it now."

Without time to hesitate, we all comply, and we move into a wide circle with our backs facing each other. Waiting for further instructions.

Vince joins in quickly. Over his shoulder, he says, "I am sure you all know what a boxed shield is?"

"You mean a circle shield," Markiveus amends, being the blight that he is.

"There is no doubt that the Spartans will arrive in chariots as we have them do in Emikrol," Vince exclaims over the anticipating rumbles of the crowd. "We need to draw them in and off their chariots, from there they have the advantage. One that we must remove."

The clamour of gears rolls across the arena. The south gate opens, but that is not all. Simultaneously, all four gates rise at a nerve-wracking pace.

"Remember," Vince shouts. "Divided we fall but united we stand. Together we can conquer!"

His brief but valiant words draw buoyed roars from all the Herems. Including me.

On cue, all the Spartans are released. First the earth beneath us quakes. From each open portcullis, it unleashes a tempest of warriors' wrath. Unbridling fleets of chariots that thunder towards us from all four directions, crackling whips lashing on the backs of mares. Obsidian hooves strike sparks from the rocks, igniting a surge of ivory dust to lift like a desert storm. Chariots drawn by either four or two horses. The soldiers are carrying either crossbows or recurve bows in almost every single one of them.

"Shield wall!"

In unison, we raise our shields, and we all stand in a circular formation. Each of us shoulder to shoulder. We make a haste retreat backwards until we are all clumped together in a small ball. Our shields overlapped, stacked on the other, triple decked, shaped around us to forge a barrier of protection.

"We move only on my command," Vince whispers, loud enough.

All of us safely burrowed inside.

Observing from the slim gaps between the boxed shield, between the rising dust, at the small army that flanks us from all sides. Rolling chariots circling threateningly, encompassing us in unabated speeds—a cacophony of rumbling and clomping hooves.

"Shall we wait until they ram us over?" Brennon mutters.

"We wait," Vince orders in finality.

It seems Vince's plan is working. Many of the soldiers have abandoned their chariots, hopped off to examine the boxed shield. They are armed in azure-blue, armour steel with body-length shields fortified with iron. Matched with metal helmets that extend past their temples, faces exposed. An innumerable amount of them advance towards us in a crouched position. Shields hefted with spears in their grasps aimed at us.

"Vince." Zekei.

My fingers tighten around the grip of the sword.

The surrounding soldiers continue to inch towards us with caution.

"Not yet," Vince responds.

From being able to see their full height. I can now only see their breastplates.

"Now!"

We break formation and burst forth like an uncontrollable inferno. I rage forward, slamming the closest soldier to me to the ground. I raise my sword—making the mistake of looking into his eyes, though it holds no remorse or fear. They are mortal eyes that belong to a living being. Still flat on his back, his shoulders lift to swing his spear at me—I block it with my shield. My hand fisted around the last strap against my palm to keep it steady. With my sword, I whack his spear away and dash forward to point the end of my blade at his throat.

I cannot do it.

Acute senses alert me of imminent danger. I jerk myself to the left to dodge a spear's strike from the rear. A potent force rams me off my feet and my back hits the ground—pain shudders through me—using that momentum. I flip myself backwards to land on my haunches.

I rise again.

"A woman," the Spartan I spared, says in Doxsorin. An aged dialect of Torin. He shares a malign laugh with others. "That is why women should never be allowed to fight. Female frailties hinder them from doing what needs to be done. As if they even could."

Subsequently, many more Spartans fill my view.

Promptly, I am besieged by a squadron of Spartans.

"They serve better purposes in bed," another adds, and it earns him a round of guffaws from all who are present. "When we conquer these prissy purebloods. I will demand to keep her as my reward."

My eyes lock on him. I brandish my sword and I hold it at an undaunted horizon, setting myself into a fighting stance. This time. I will not hesitate.

"After the blood of your brothers-in-arms have drenched my blade ," I say back in Doxsorin. Palpable surprise cause his eyes to swell. "You are mine to keep. At least, what's left of you."

His inflated eyes diffuse into spiteful slits. He wields his spear and charges at me. My head ducks backwards, a whoosh of air, his spear sweeping over me harmlessly. With my shield, I knock it completely aside and I pretend to go for his legs. And when he lowers to defend himself. I slash my sword horizontally—a flash of blood. The Spartan grips his neck, blood spurting like a leaking barrel of wine. He collapses to the ground.

I spin around to parry another spear and I shoot the blade into another's throat; I yank it out with barely enough time to watch him fall. Another attacks. I raise my sword, and another blade collides with mine. He and I cavort in a death dance for a long while. Both of us strive for an advantage as we trade a series of expert defensive ploys and attacks. Suddenly blitzing pain bursts in my right thigh. I stagger back, glancing at the shallow graze, trails of blood seeping to stain my skin.

I straighten to deflect the overhead strike; I take the opportunity and my foot strikes his armed groin. The force of my kick creates a gap between us and I return with a vicious attack. With my shield, I use it to beat him with it, hammering it on him with crippling assaults. He pushes back and strikes. I evade, counter attacking. His sword darts past my blade which he sought to parry.

I streak my way through the dust-engulfed expanse, slaying all in sight. My sword swinging, extracting sprays of blood, reaping souls, sundering them from this world. The ones that had me surrounded...now only corpses remain.

Droplets of sweat roll down my face. Exhaustion cleaves at every part of me. My vision is impaired by the storm of whirling dust like we're all in a cauldron, mere ingredients to the brew of swirling sand. The chariots that encircle us all discharge reinforcements of soldiers the way airships offload cargo.

My ears flinch at the sound of a whizzing arrow. I jab my forearm up in front of my face. I drop it and glance at the two steel-tipped arrows embedded into the centre of the wooden shield. Yanking them both out, I chuck them on the ground.

I will come for you. I plunge the blade of Kelan's sword into the ground so that it stands on its own. I search around and rush to the nearest idle spear. Once in my grasp, I grip the elongated shaft with my thumb and forefinger, the other fingers wrapping around the shaft. My smallest finger is closest to the head of the spear.

Calculations clamour in my mind. Chariots are cheaply made of lighter wheels for the feasibility to outrun light infantry and other chariots. But this fatal flaw will work to my benefit.

With precise aim, I can take down a chariot. But with the right trajectory, I can take down many more. I face my target with my lead foot and a quick drawback and hip twist. I move to skip two large steps forward and I hurl it—the spear arrows through the air—it slots right into the one wheel of a chariot, abruptly obstructing its movement. The beams snap. The wheel ruptures and the chariot's head makes a short nosedive to the ground, causing a mass ripple effect. Many other chariots collapse, unhinged, throwing several soldiers out, triggering a succession of devastation. Many fall, but many still survive. Proficient charioteers manage to veer off the path of destruction, trundling afar, vying for the other Herems.

My only remorse now is for the fallen horses.

May the Almighty forgive me.

A survivor of the chariot cataclysm stumbles out. He spots me and unsheathes something from his rear, integrated into his armour. His arm jolts—a flash of metal. My hand snaps up to seize the dagger by the grip. The blade inches from my forehead.

Missed.

I fling it back and I do not.

I rush to one of the collapsed chariots, one with a soldier crushed beneath it. I peer over the border to see a bow and back-strap quiver, still stocked with arrows. I move quickly to retrieve them both, strapping the quiver to my back. At either end, the bow has razor-sharp steel points—perfect for stabbing if one comes to close.

I whip my head back to see five Spartans running towards me with spears and swords raised. I pull out four arrows to place them between my fingers, arrows held in my riser evenly. I launch four of them at once. All four soldiers are peeled with arrows.

I use the last to aim the arrow centre forehead, right through his helmet.

Beyond, there are swarms of glinting blue armour amongst very few Herems.

Time to work together.

I sprint ahead and plummet into the pools of blue. I dash downwards, swinging the bow as the sharp ends slice through bare legs, ejecting splatters of blood. I pull out three arrows and strike down three Spartans. I spot Solaris on my horizon. He fights with great skill, very formal, effectively using trained techniques.

"Solaris!"

His head snaps in my direction to sneak a glimpse of me before he evades an attack and slits another's throat.

He glimpses me again, and I point to the sky. "A boost!"

He glances at his own shield before snapping a nod.

Before a wall of Spartans can impede my path. I race towards him, my heart galloping in my chest. Solaris hooks his foot with the back knee of a soldier, causing him to fall flat on his back. Solaris runs the end of his blade through his throat—an explosion of blood. He holds up his shield to his face and lowers himself in preparation. I retrieve four arrows. I leap up and my feet briskly meet with the face of the shield—using it as a launching pad—with joint energy generation and Solaris's boost…

We both propel me into the sky.

For a moment everything in me feels weightless as I spiral through the air like a cyclone. When I face the fighting figures from above. I rain down as many arrows as I can, showering Spartans with steel-tipped shafts, passing over them all like the angel of death.

When I reunite with the ground, time lapses back into the fast-paced speed of battle.

With only two arrows, I take out a pair of charioteers which initiates another contagion effect that hauls down more chariots. A scalding blaze punctures my leg—raw agony erupts in my thigh and I plummet to the ground on my side. I drop the bow. The pain ramps up to a white-hot, blinding pain. Pain that even deafens the mayhem of the tiered seats.

I look down to see a long arrow protruding from my thigh. It appears a lot bigger from this angle. I clamp down hard on my teeth, lips pressed, all efforts given into caging a pitiful scream.

Fantastic. Now both legs are wounded.

I reach out. No! I can't yank it out! I can injure and inflame the tissue around the wound. I examine it briefly to note that the arrow isn't lodged in too deep. Nor did it nick a vital artery. Phew, I'll live. A Spartan runs rampantly to me, his sword raised over his head, bellowing a roar. Or not.

I jam my shield in front of me to protect both my head and torso.

His breathing hitches followed by gurgling, choking on blood. Cautiously, I lower my shield to peer over the head to see the tip of a sword jut out from his armoured chest.

"Careful there." Vince. "She is someone of great importance to me."

He rips out the blade, pushing him aside and he crumbles to the ground. Before Vince can reach me, another Spartan charges at him. With a rapid swing of his sword, Vince decapitates the soldier. His head cut clean from his shoulders, spurting sprigs of blood, the head flies off and lands on the ground with a sloshy, rolling thud—mouth strike wide, unblinking eyes staring right at me.

For a moment revulsion distracts me from my pain. Nausea knotting my insides.

He did that so...effortlessly.

I look up. And I'm sure my voice reaches ten octaves. "Vince!"

Behind him a troop of blue advance toward us with a mix of swords and spears. Suddenly one by one they are shot down with arrows, struck by bolts of steel-tipped lightning. I whip my head to look at my other side. Tamani, Zekei, and Treyton running towards us.

"Get the arrow out!" Zekei shouts with an arrow held at an anchoring point.

"We will watch your flanks," Tamani says with two arrows ready, bowstring drawn.

Vince's brows nearly touch his hairline.

"You said it yourself. Divided we fall," Treyton says. The only one among them clutching a mace with spiked balls. He begins to spin it readily, swooshing with accelerating speeds once he lines his sight on an inbound target.

"United, we stand," Tamani says and moves to stand on my right flank, back towards me.

"Together we conquer!" Zekei unleashes his arrows.

Vince rushes to me and when he is close enough, he impales his blade into the ground so it stands on its own. And he kneels down at my side. "Flesh wound, you are fortunate. But I must remove it, brace yourself."

First, he snaps the arrow in half—my leg twitches.

He glances at me apprehensively, and I slowly nod my approval.

Swiftly yet with caution, he wrenches it free from my injured leg—white-hot pain sears through my thigh worse than a branding iron. Tears well in my eyes, but with quick flutters, I blink them away.

"You need medical treatment or you will bleed out, gradually. And your health will deteriorate," Vince warns. "You need that wound bound."

"What I need is a weapon," I say through gritted teeth. I turn and bend over to reach for the bow—in my grip—I look back at Vince expectantly. "There is no other option than to fight. The High King has made sure of that. Be a noble Herem and help me up, please."

Gently, Vince lowers to scoop me up from the ground and cranes me up to my feet. Pressurised pain mounting in my thigh—I falter—Vince stabilises me with a secure hold around my waist.

"Hera," he says worriedly.

"I am well," I say, uttering my words between laboured breaths. "I merely need to...adapt."

I slip from him, and with just one step forward, my thigh seizes up. Brutal pain floods through my leg. I nearly crumble to the ground before Vince recaptures me and again assists my rise to full standing.

"Together," he says determinedly.

I nod curtly. "Together." I shift all my weight from my injured leg and stand with a limp. I reload my bow with three arrows.

Vince leaves my side to liberate his sword from the ground. He marches forward and claps his hand on Zekei's shoulder before he joins the ring. Then together, we fight.

Our apparent alliance draws the Spartans to come running and their numbers swell overwhelmingly, so much so that they envelope my vision. Vince seems to welcome the influx of challengers, but Tamani and Zekei appear overawed. Treyton bludgeons through the invasion of blue, his spiked balls gleaming with blood. A shearing gasp sounds from my side. A large arrow pierced through Zekei's chest. Dead centre. Soon his back meets with the ground.

"Zekei!"

I lunge for him. But the pain impairs my balance, falling to my knees. My wound clenches like it's held taut in fire's grip. I clamber up to stand but I fall once again. In an undignified crawl, lurching and scrambling. I heave my body like dead weight to be at his side.

Zekei's breathing is erratic, eyes batting wildly, tears leaking.

I look at the arrow and it is clear to me that he will not live past a few moments.

He strains himself to look at me. "Ilious, trem navos nae—lech na."

A tongue that I have never heard before.

I shake my head vigorously, confounded. "I do not understand. What does that mean?"

His shoulders slacken and his head lolls to the side. His last heartbeat ebbs into the surrounding fray. Though I did not know him well, his death wrenches my tears. The fact is, I knew him; I knew of him. And I know that he came to my aid when I needed it the most.

"Perish with peace."

I look up at a Spartan approaching with his shield raised and spear levelled at my heart.

My face contorts into a sob. "Please." My voice heightens to a desperate shrill like a squeal of a pig. "Do not hurt me." My voice wails another pitch. "Please, I will concede and do anything that you desire."

The thought causes him to lower his shield a few inches. All I need. I snatch up my bow and launch one arrow straight through his forehead. He crashes to the ground instantly, but behind him is another soldier with Kelan's broadsword in his grip.

My blood simmers.

No matter the form. It seems Primus Kelan always finds his way back to me.

My feigned sorrowful expression thaws away. "Who do you think will be faster?" I ask. My hand reaching over my shoulder. One arrow left. Let's make it count.

He charges forward and in three heartbeats an arrow punctures his chest. His body sprawled on the ground. I drag myself up, discarding the bow, unstrapping the quiver. My senses scrambled, my vision flitting in and out. I let it drop to the ground. I hustle to the sword, a few spaces from his open hand. I bend over and pick it up as I wobble to a full ascent.

I clutch the grip, welcoming the fleeting surge of vigour.

My gaze catches Rimnick slashing his way through clusters of blue with dual swords, emanating sprays of blood as he moves. A tornado of blades.

I refocus on the battle at hand. I move forward into an unsteady step, a hobbling gait, until I can execute a full limp, enough to keep me marginally mobile, which is marginally enough to keep me alive. Unified by our shared interest to live. We all work together. I do not know how long we have been fighting for, but the day reaches the cusp of the eventide. The sky set aflame with a riot of scorching red and a dark orange.

As time dwindles, so do the numbers of the Spartans. Once they were many, then a few, and now. They are no more. Fatigue clawing at every inch of my wounded body. I look upon the expanse of collapsed chariots and fallen warriors, corpses scattered everywhere. My eyes skim over some soldiers that were gutted open, their insides spilling out.

My own insides in turmoil.

The dissonance of the storm stilled into nothing. Solaris hobbles around, among the bloody heaps, slightly disoriented and riddled with shock. As I am sure, we all are.

"We did it," Treyton murmurs. Louder, he says, "We did it!"

Vince thrust his blood-stained blade into the air. "We have conquered!"

A great gasp arises from the crowds before they shatter the atmosphere with a deafening furore.

I GIVE YOU. THE NEW VICTORS OF THE QUARTER SAGE. THE NEW CHAMPIONS OF THE BLOOD GAMES. THE PUREBLOODS!

The crowd bellows their adulations with an endless series of whoops and an ear-splitting applause.

PURE-BLOODS.

PURE-BLOODS.

Chanting in a two-beat rhythm.

My gaze levels to observe the dispersed Herems. They all revel in their shared glory, plunging their weapons into the air in triumph, only riling the crowd further. Using the sword to keep me bolstered, I look upon the Xercra's gallery. I observe Duce Merian's figure rise from his seat to whisper something ominous into his ear because he gestures down to all of us or one of us below. In a way that translates that the Blood Games are not over just yet.

Emotions boiling, stomach toiling with discontent, wrestling for my equanimity. I cannot hold it any longer. The upheaval bursts out of me in a grotesque cascade, emptying my stomach's contents onto the ground.