Chapter 1
He knew it was over when he blinked and stared at the severed hand at his feet.
He had learned to take his time waking up from the Rage. His senses rushed back to him all at once, but he only focused on one at a time. The harsh sunlight glaring off the bloodstained sands. The smell of sweat, leather and death filling his nostrils. The taste of blood and bile, coppery and bitter, lingering on his tongue. His muscles aching with a fatigue that hinted at the ferocity of the battle he could not remember.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Not even fragmented images of the battle survived the Rage that had consumed his mind. He didn’t even remember how he fought, only that he won. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing here, waking up from it.
Opening his eyes again, he surveyed the mutilated remains of his opponent. He wondered what it would be like to die while Raged. His heart pounded in his ears. The roar of the crowd was distant at first, then it crashed over him like a wave. They cheered and chanted the name he was given.
Lion of Zarall. Lion of Zarall. Lion of Zarall.
Finally feeling steady enough, he shifted his weight to wipe the blood and sweat off his face. Although it was only mid spring, the battle had left him overheated and breathless. When he lifted his arm, a sharp pain flared in his left shoulder. He didn’t look, didn’t even falter. He pushed through the pain and wiped his face.
The eyes of the thousands in attendance were on him. He didn’t dare show them that he was injured. Minor, he thought to himself. It was only a minor injury. It was nothing. As he lowered his arm, he almost gasped at the pain. He kept his face a perfect mask of indifference. Minor, he thought stubbornly. It’s nothing.
He walked up to the grandstand overlooking the arena where his Owner was seated. It was separated by walls and soldiers clad in black and gold uniforms. Lion was used to hiding his discomfort. His shoulder ached with each step, as if an invisible hammer was pounding at it. But he kept his back straight, and his arms relaxed at his sides.
His lor’qas, an angled type of sword with a serrated blade, still rested in his right hand. He had a shield too, but he must have lost it at some point. He stopped directly in front of the grandstand. He dropped to one knee, his head bowed, and he raised his sword in salute. He suppressed the soft, warm flutter that he felt in his chest. This part of the battle, saluting his Owner like a free man, always made him feel that flutter. But he was quick to extinguish that emotion.
King Leonis Zarall accepted his salute with a slow nod. He was clad in layers of golden-black fabric, rich and opulent, designed to draw attention. His frail and aging figure was concealed beneath the loose garments and elaborate accessories, a deliberate attempt to distract from his physical weakness. His weak limbs and aching joints were a secret well-known within the castle walls but carefully masked from the public eye.
Lion stood slowly, his head still bowed. He turned from the grandstands and from the carnage he had painted at the arena, and he headed for the looming gates that led underneath the arena structure. The gates, named the Gates of Life, were elegant and imposing. They swung open slowly as he approached.
He kept his head high, his posture unwavering, despite the throbbing pain that threatened to undermine his strength. He blinked at the shadowed passage beyond sight from the prying eyes of the spectators. As he crossed the threshold, the roar of the crowd faded and was replaced by the cool, dark sight of the corridor.
Here, his team waited. A small group of trainers, physicians, weapons masters and guards. He could fool the spectators, but he couldn’t fool them, especially Master Badimar. As soon as the gates swung shut behind him, Master Badimar’s eyes landed on Lion’s shoulder. “How bad?” he asked.
“I am well, Master.” Lion’s reply was prompt.
“Like fuck you are.” Badimar took Lion’s blood-stained sword and handed it to one of his assistants. He then glanced at Sir Dramesh, one of the king’s personal guards who was assigned to ensure Lion’s and the team’s safety. “Sir Dramesh?”
Sir Dramesh answered from the door that led further into the arena structure. “We’re clear.”
“Let’s go.”
A group of guards, all armed to the teeth, fell in step around Lion. Badimar took his place next to him. The trainers and the rest followed behind.
Lion used to find it odd that all these free men, the king’s personal guards selected for their talent as well as their nobility, were ready to fight and give their lives to keep him safe. Not that he needed it. If anyone dared to ambush him in the corridors underneath the Switchblade Arena, which had its own security too, Lion was more than capable of defending himself. He didn’t see the point of being escorted by guards. But he wouldn’t question the wisdom of free men.
The corridors were empty. Sir Dramesh and his men must have cleared it ahead of time. They didn’t have to walk too far to reach the preparation room. Each beast and their teams were given rooms like this by the arena management as they waited for their turn to fight. Being the King’s champion beast, the room allocated for Lion was the most spacious and closest to the arena. Sir Dramesh and his men waited outside as Lion and the others walked in.
Master Badimar pointed at the corner of the room, where Lion usually stood as they prepared him for battles. He walked to the corner and faced the room, his hands relaxed at his sides and his eyes fixed on the ground.
Vanalten, the physician responsible for the King’s beasts, approached him like a man with a mission. “Where?”
“His left shoulder,” Badimar said. He hovered nearby, his arms crossed over his stocky chest, a grim expression on his face.
Vanalten scowled at Lion’s shoulder, which was hidden under a shoulder plate. He waved his hand at the two slaves who waited nearby. “Remove his armour.”
The two men, both humble house slaves dressed in plain, earth-toned uniforms with worn leather belts and frayed cuffs, started undoing the straps that held Lion’s armour together. Both slaves were familiar. They were the ones who often helped with maintaining Lion’s armour and weapons before and after fights. The older slave with the weathered face and bony fingers had been around for as long as Lion came into King Leonis’s possession. Yet, Lion never knew the name their Owner had given the man. They had never talked, never even acknowledged each other. But the man’s presence eased Lion’s nerves.
As he stood still, letting them undo the straps, Lion distracted himself by staring at the tattoo on the left side of the old man’s neck. The faded ink displayed a plain, circular frame around a hand, marking him as a freeborn house slave. Despite being a freeborn, the faded colour of the ink suggested the man had been enslaved for longer than Lion’s age. His perfectly obedient manner was proof of that.
Lion had a tattoo on the left side of his neck too, though his was a more intricate circle of jagged lines, flowing curves, and sharp angles. The unique pattern of shapes and symbols framed a dog-like creature. The tattoo identified him as a purebred beast. A perfect warrior, bred and raised for the arenas.
Once the straps loosened and the armour came free, Lion braced himself for the pain he knew would come when they lifted the armour over his head. Although he didn’t grimace, he couldn’t help but clench his jaw. Luckily, the old house slave had stepped in front of him and concealed his expression from Badimar. Before the slave stepped out of Badimar’s view, Lion relaxed his jaw again.
Next, they removed the padded jacket he wore under the armour, then they pulled the thick shirt over his head. Lion’s bare chest was damp with sweat and sand that clung to his skin. Arena sand always found its way under the layers of armour and clothes he wore. It was an irritation he had grown accustomed to as the old battle scars that adorned his skin. Among these marks, three brands on his chest stood apart, each made by hot iron that seared his skin.
The tournament brands were Caesh’s idea. During a drunken celebration following Lion’s first tournament victory, he had suggested that the Lion of Zarall should display on his skin every tournament he won, as a way of distinguishing him for the rest of his life. It would increase his value in the future too, if the king ever decided to sell him. The king liked the idea, and so, they had started the tradition of branding Lion for each major victory. He had three round brands in a neat row just beneath his collarbones, representing the three major tournaments he won: a stallion, a rose, and a maiden.
He would receive a fourth one, a sparrow for the Golden Sparrow Tournament, if he could win the next fight.
As soon as Lion’s chest was stripped, Master Vanalten pushed the slaves aside and ordered Lion to sit on the bench. He started with a visual examination first. Lion’s entire shoulder and upper arm was a canvas of with dark, angry bruises. It wasn’t bleeding, but it was swollen. Lion interpreted the lack of blood as a good sign, though Vanalten’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Next, Vanalten started poking various sections of Lion’s shoulder. He didn’t bother asking Lion questions. He knew the slave would do anything to downplay the severity of the injury. Instead, Vanalten put one hand on Lion’s neck, monitoring his heartbeat, and he kept a very close watch on his expression.
Badimar crossed his arms, standing as close as he could dare without annoying Vanalten. The other three trainers – Joharin, Caesh, and Doha – gathered behind him. They each held their breaths. Doha, their youngest, kept shifting his weight.
The two house slaves hung his armour on the empty stand. Moral, the armorer, was examining the integrity of the armour. He started replacing the left shoulder plate, which had a massive dent on it. As he worked, he kept glancing at Vanalten, as if expecting the physician to say Lion won’t need his armour today. Or ever.
A knot twisted in Lion’s gut. Minor, he thought as he tried so hard to breathe normally. Just a minor bruise.
“So, how bad is it?” Doha asked.
Vanalten grunted, but he didn’t speak. Still carefully watching Lion’s expression, he started moving his arm up and down and from side to side. The pain intensified, but Lion stared at the floor and kept his expression still. Vanalten lifted Lion’s arm over his head, bent his elbow and pressed his palm against his. “Push,” he ordered.
Lion pushed against Vanalten’s hand and pain exploded in his shoulder. It was so intense and unexpected, a small gasp escaped him.
“Shit,” Caesh cursed. He started pacing.
Doha leaned against the wall, his shoulders sagged. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
Lion’s eyes widened, surprised at his lapse in control. He was ready to push through the pain, but Vanalten pulled his hand back. His bushy eyebrows knitted closer together. He resumed his examination, moving Lion’s arm in different positions and instructing him to push.
Above the room, the crowd’s low hum intensified into a passionate cheer. The second semi-final battle had started. The winner of that battle was going to be Lion’s next rival for the tournament final. Thousands had gathered in Brinescar for this event. To watch King Leonis’s champion beast win the Golden Sparrow. If Lion couldn’t fight, the king would have to concede and Lion would be in so much trouble, depending on the severity of the injury.
Badimar’s face darkened as he continued hovering behind Vanalten. Moral tossed the shoulder plate at the table and stopped to watch the examination, no longer in a hurry to fix the armour. Even Sir Dramesh kept peering from the door he guarded. For long minutes, all they could hear was the spectators’ muffled roar.
But all Lion could hear was his own panicked thoughts. Minor. It’s just a minor injury. It’s nothing.
Finally, Vanalten stepped back and sighed. “Well, good news and bad news.”
Lion’s heart skipped a beat.
Vanalten waved his hand towards Lion’s shoulder. “I can fix that. It’s not permanent.”
Lion didn’t let his relief show. He continued staring at his feet, his face perfectly flat and still.
“But only if he doesn’t aggravate it,” Vanalten added.
Nothing changed on Lion’s face, but his mind went cold and blank.
Doha scoffed. He waved his arm towards the arena. “How is he not going to aggravate it? He’s got another fight in what? Less than an hour?”
The room went silent. Lion knew. He glimpsed the answer in Badimar’s face, too. He understood what Vanalten suggested.
Doha took his time, but he caught on. “Oh shit.”
The soft sound of metal scraping against metal filled the room. Moral resumed his task of fixing the armour. He replaced the shoulder plate with a spare.
“You guys can’t be considering this,” Caesh said.
Joharin, senior amongst the three assistant trainers, crossed his arms as he shook his head at Badimar. “It’s risky. He might lose.”
“Might?” Caesh spat. “It would be like pitting a freeborn beast against a purebred beast.”
“A Raged purebred beast,” Doha added. He motioned his arm towards the arena centre again. “Whoever wins that fight, they’ll Rage him. No one is stupid enough to send their purebred Unraged. Especially against the Lion of Zarall.”
Caesh pointed at Lion as he spoke to Badimar. “And we’ll send Lion Unraged?
“He will be at a disadvantage,” Joharin said. His objection wasn’t as passionate as Caesh’s. He was merely stating the facts.
“A big one,” Doha added. He pointed towards the arena again, as if they’d looked hard enough, they could see past the walls and watch the battle as it unfolded. “These are Blackmaw and Skullsworn. They are… They…” He scoffed. “Well, you know how brutal they both are. One of them will be Lion’s next rival, and we’ll send him out there Unraged? He won’t win.”
“Well, if you Rage him, he might win.” Vanalten lifted a finger. “But it will undoubtedly be his very last fight.”
Lion’s heart sank, though he suppressed the emotion. If he couldn’t fight again, he would have no use for his Owner. He would be as good as dead.
He took a slow, measured breath and reminded himself that he only lived to serve and breathed to please. He would do whatever he was ordered to. He would accept whatever happened.
“So that’s it, then,” Doha said. “These are the options? Let him lose and die, or help him win and become useless?”
They all looked at Badimar. He was the King’s Master of the Beasts. The head trainer. He would make the decision. Lion tried not to hold his breath. He inhaled and exhaled steadily.
Badimar stared at him long and hard. Despite being a head shorter than Lion, he was an imposing figure who made everyone feel small in his presence. Badimar was the best trainer Lion had ever served. He pushed the King’s beasts to their limits while also prioritizing their health. He made sure they all received good meals, kept physical punishments to a minimum, and he generally followed Vanalten’s advice.
That’s why his decision struck Lion like a blow.
“We can’t let him lose,” Badimar said. Pity flashed across his face, but it was gone when he looked away at Moral. “Get him ready.”
Moral nodded and did his last check of the armour. Vanalten pointed a finger at Badimar, then at the rest of them. “You all heard my advice.”
“Yes, it will go on the record.”
“The king will be disappointed to lose the best purebred beast he’s owned in over a decade.”
“He will be more disappointed to lose the tournament held to celebrate the Zarall family’s hundred years of reign.”
“I will decide what would make me most disappointed.”
King Leonis Zarall’s entrance caught everyone except Sir Dramesh by surprise. Lion was the first to snap out of it and react. He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the cold floor. The two freeborn house slaves did the same, while the free men in the room greeted the king on one knee, and with their heads bowed slightly.
King Leonis waved his hand impatiently. “Up.”
Lion stood tall, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes firmly on the floor. The King looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on his shoulder, before he turned his attention to Badimar. “Shame on you, Badimar.”
“Your Majesty?”
“If it wasn’t for Sir Dramesh sending me the word, you were just going to throw away my investment without consulting me?”
Badimar shot a glare at Sir Dramesh, who simply shrugged and returned to watching the door. “Your Majesty,” Badimar said. “I was merely…”
“Shame on you for lacking faith in yourself. Have you not spent the last three years training this beast?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“If, after all this time, he is still unfit to face a Raged purebred beast…” The King walked across the room slowly, his steps measured and careful. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Then perhaps it is not the beast’s worth in question, but your own competence as a Beast Master.”
“It’s not about my competency, Your Majesty. I promised you a victory. I’ll make sure…”
“What have I named this purebred beast?” King Leonis raised his voice with a sudden anger. He paused for a response and also to catch his breath. Doha glanced at the stool across the room, but kept his mouth shut. King Leonis steadied himself, though his anger crept up his cheeks. “Has Kyrus stolen your tongues? What is the name of this slave?”
“Lion of Zarall,” Caesh muttered.
“Lion of who?”
“Lion of Zarall, Your Majesty.”
“Now imagine my people uttering these words:” He paused after each sentence to gasp his next breath. “Lion of Zarall got injured and retired. Retired. Do you grasp the weight of that word?” He didn’t expect an answer, but he paused anyway, before hissing, “Weak. It implies he became weak.”
The room was dead quiet. No one dared to make eye contact with the King. “Master Vanalten,” King Leonis said, controlling his voice.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“And what becomes of those injured beasts whom you cannot heal?”
“As extensive as my competencies as a physician, we all know it is not always possible to recover from some injuries.”
“What happens to those who cannot do what they are bred to do?”
Lion knew the answer. Every slave did, whether they were freeborn or purebred. He suppressed a shiver that crept up his spine.
“The fortunate ones are sold to the tribesmen of the North.”
“To keep a beast that cannot fight is sheer wastefulness.” King Leonis nodded. “And I refuse to send my champion beast to those cannibals.”
Badimar bowed his head. “I understand your wish, Your Majesty.”
“Do you?” King Leonis examined the armour, which hung on the stand. He swiped his finger across the breastplate, still dusty and stained from the last battle. When Moral elbowed the old freeborn house slave, the man rushed to wipe the breastplate clean until the golden lion engravings shone bright.
“I do not wish him to lose,” King Leonis said. He picked up the metal half mask from the table, which was custom made to complement Lion of Zarall’s arena gear. It wasn’t much of a helmet; it only provided protection for his upper face, leaving his bearded chin unprotected. It was shaped like a lion’s face. With his bushy blond beard and rich blond hair framing the metal mask, Lion’s head resembled a lion while he wore it.
Turning and twisting the mask between his bony fingers, King Leonis made his way to Lion. “Can he win, Master Badimar?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Badimar said quickly. Lion knew the Master of the Beasts enough to hear the lack of faith in his tone. The King didn’t seem to notice, and nodded like he was given what he wanted.
“What do you think, purebred?” the king asked quieter. “Can you win?”
“I live to serve, I breathe to please, Owner.” Lion’s reply came within a heartbeat.
“Purebreds don’t have opinions,” Doha started, but King Leonis snapped. “I am not talking to you, child. I am well aware of what purebreds are.”
Above the room, the crowd’s cheer exploded into a series of roars and exclamations, followed by thunderous claps, marking the end of the fight. Next was the final battle between the winner and Lion.
King Leonis pressed his palm against Lion’s chest over the brands that marked his past victories. He lowered his voice, so only Lion could hear. “You want to fight him, don’t you? You want to fight him bare. As yourself.”
Lion’s fingers twitched. The word yes crept to his lips, but he didn’t say it. There was only one way he could answer this question. “I do as my Owner wills,” he said.
The king stared at his face, then smiled. Lion’s heart pounded loud in his chest. His blood rushed.
“Then I am willing you to win.” Leonis placed the mask on Lion’s face. “The Lion of Zarall shall not fall.”
*
Lion stared at the vertical line in front of him. Bright daylight outside squeezed into a line between the two gates that remained shut in front of him. He slowed his breathing, using each inhale to steady his nerves and each exhale to focus his mind.
“Do you understand what you need to do?” Badimar asked for the fifth time.
“Yes, Master,” Lion replied respectfully. He understood, and he barely kept himself from bouncing from one foot to the other. His heart thrummed, and his muscles tensed, ready for action. Yet, he remained still and focused. He needed to control his mind more than ever in this fight.
Badimar, on the other hand, made no attempt to conceal his nerves, pacing back and forth and checking Lion’s armour over and over again. It was just the two of them in the launch room. Sir Dramesh and the guards secured the door, giving them privacy. The rest of the team had gone up onto the stands allocated for them to watch the fight. Outside, the announcer was making a long speech about celebrating House Zarall’s hundredth year of reign. His voice was muffled by the thick stone walls and the sound of Lion’s heart beating too loud in his ears.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. He was itching to charge out there and fight.
“You got to keep level,” Badimar reminded him, as if he could sense Lion’s eagerness. “Don’t overthink but use your brain. Control the fight.”
“Yes, Master.”
Badimar tapped Lion’s left elbow. “Keep that arm tucked against your side. Vanalten said no pulling or pushing, and no lateral movement.”
Outside, the announcer said something, and the crowd cheered ecstatically.
“Yes, Master,” Lion said. He flexed his neck muscles and bent his knees slightly. His grip on his weapons tightened.
Badimar stood beside him and put a hand on his right shoulder. “Steady.”
Lion exhaled a slow breath. Focus.
The announcer spoke louder. Lion could almost hear the spectators holding their collective breath. The entire Switchblade Arena was filled with anticipation. His muscles twitched.
He inhaled. Steady.
He heard the announcer say his name. The doors broke apart, inviting the bright daylight into the room.
“Go!” Badimar yelled.
Lion was already out, sprinting across the pale sand reflecting the brutal sunlight. He carried a trident in his right hand, and a weighted net was draped loosely over his left shoulder. The crowd’s ecstatic shout greeted him. The noise was so overwhelming, it shrouded his thoughts for a moment. That was fine. He didn’t need a lot of thoughts. His body knew how to fight.
The opposite gate across the arena opened at the same time. His opponent charged into the arena. The name he carried was Skullsworn. He was a purebred beast too, but unlike Lion, he was Raged.
Lion didn’t need to see Skullsworn’s face to know he was Raged. He moved like a Raged beast. Fast, focused, feral. His mind was quiet and dark. Kill Word quietened all the thoughts, took control, and left no memories. Lion knew that. He had experienced that blissful state many times. Stripped from any thoughts, feelings and distracting sensations like injuries and pain. Raged state gave the purebred beasts an indisputable advantage.
One Lion didn’t have in this fight.
Lion lifted his trident over his shoulder and switched to a throwing grip. He didn’t have the advantage of being Raged in this fight, but he still had a strategy.
“One third of the battleground,” Badimar had instructed before the fight. “Adjust your speed, so Skullsworn reaches the centre first. You need to control the space.”
Skullsworn, who wielded a one-handed mace and a round shield, charged at a dead speed. Lion timed his approach, then slowed down. He planted his feet, aimed, and threw the trident. As soon as the shaft left his palm, he resumed running.
Skullsworn sidestepped without breaking his stride. The trident flew past him. Lion had perfectly calculated its downward tilt and the weapon plunged into the sand just behind Skullsworn. Lion’s eyes remained locked on his rival. He ignored the spectators’ disappointed exclamation at the failed throw. In one fluid motion, Lion pulled the weighted net from his left shoulder and threw it with practiced precision.
The net sailed through the air, aimed directly at Skullsworn. The Raged beast, still moving at full speed, twisted his body and narrowly avoided the net.
Another disappointed howl filled the arena. Using the momentary distraction, Lion veered sharply, darting past Skullsworn. The Raged beast lunged for him, swinging his mace with the agility of a predator. Lion dodged with grace, his feet barely touching the ground as he sped toward his trident. Skullsworn pursued, but Lion was already out of reach. With a swift dive, Lion’s fingers wrapped around the shaft of the trident, pulling it free from the sand. He rolled to his feet, the weapon now back in his hand, and faced his opponent.
Skullsworn didn’t hesitate. From this close up, Lion caught a glimpse of the beast’s eyes through the slits of his helmet. A wild fury burned through Skullsworn’s shrunken pupils. The Raged beast swung his mace. Lion parried. The sound of their clashing weapons rang through the arena.
Skullsworn’s mace swung again, relentless and brutal. Lion used the trident’s long range to keep him away.
Wielding the trident with one hand, Lion was limited with the range of moves he could use. He only used his left hand to support but avoided putting pressure on it. Most defensive moves required a two-handed grip, so he would have to drive the exchanges and keep moving. He jabbed, aiming at Skullsworn’s neck. The Raged beast brushed it aside with his shield and followed with a relentless counterattack. Lion kept moving. He spun and skipped from one side to the other, jabbing rapidly and barely keeping Skullsworn at bay. He cleared all thoughts from his mind as he kept his eyes on Skullsworn’s shield. He watched how the Raged beast lifted it and brought it back down after each parry.
“When he does an overhead strike,” Badimar had instructed him, “he tilts his shield to the left.” The Master of the Beasts had spent weeks gathering information about Skullsworn and other likely opponents, watching them, building strategies. He was the best trainer in all of Chinderia. And there was a reason why he sent Lion out here with a weapon clearly designed for a two-handed grip, despite its limitations.
Skullsworn raised the mace for an overhead strike. The shield tilted slightly to the left.
Lion’s trident sprung forward like a snake lunging at its prey and caught the shield between the prongs. He gripped the shaft with both hands, twisted, and pushed it upwards.
Skullsworn’s shield was strapped to his left forearm. When Lion pushed the shield up, Skullsworn’s arm was dragged with it. The Raged beast tried kicking and swinging his mace, but his shield was locked with Lion’s trident. He could neither close in nor step back.
The crowd roared with anticipation of blood. The fight hadn’t lasted long. Only several intense minutes had passed since the gates had opened, and it was already about to finish.
Lion pushed the trident, forcing Skullsworn to move with it. He had to put more pressure than he wanted on his left arm, because Skullsworn was big and heavy and very reluctant to cooperate. Lion’s shoulder throbbed sharply, warning him not to push harder. He changed his grip and pushed with his chest. Skullsworn stumbled towards the direction Lion wanted him to go. He stepped over the edge of the net.
The crowd gasped, only now noticing how the weighted net was perfectly spread wide, exactly like how Lion threw it. A few more steps and Lion could…
With an enraged grunt, Skullsworn yanked his arm free of the straps. The sudden loss of resistance made Lion fumble. Before he could fling the shield away and regain his stance, Skullsworn was within range. The beast brought his mace down in a vicious arc, catching Lion on the left shoulder.
Pain exploded through Lion’s body, nearly causing him to drop his weapon. He stumbled back, gritting his teeth. Raged or not, he was an experienced fighter who knew how to ignore the pain and stay focused. He spun, twirling the trident in one hand, and he brought the end of the shaft on Skullsworn’s unprotected side. He followed through with two quick jabs, one at Skullsworn’s helmet, and the other at the centre of his chest, with enough force to push him back out of close range.
He breathed through the pain. The agony, he could ignore. The thoughts, he couldn’t. His shoulder was throbbing like a nightmare. If he wasn’t wearing shoulder plates, the mace would have crushed every bone in his upper arm. It might already have. He couldn’t help but test the damage by moving his fingers. The pain became worse.
How bad was it? Was it still treatable? Had he just aggravated it?
He narrowly dodged Skullsworn’s next blow. As the mace flew past his face, one of the spikes caught Lion’s face mask and yanked it off. Lion withdrew further, barely keeping Skullsworn from rushing him. He kept his left arm close to his torso, yet it still throbbed.
Was the injury going to be permanent? Was this his last fight? If he couldn’t fight anymore, he was going to die regardless of if he won here or not.
Skullsworn swung his mace wildly. Lion parried and dodged, then followed up with one handed swipes and jabs. The Raged beast didn’t even care that he didn’t have the protection of a shield anymore. He didn’t see Lion as a threat. He had every advantage in this fight: uninjured, Raged, unburdened by thoughts and fears that flooded his head.
Lion growled as he dodged another strike. He hated that he had thoughts. He hated that he had to think about the possibility of this being his last fight. Thoughts didn’t belong in a fight.
Anger did.
With a roar, he landed a strike at Skullsworn’s helmet, causing it to twist just enough to partially obscure his sight. The Raged beast yanked the helmet off and threw it away. He barely parried Lion’s next strike. The trident became a blur. Fury drove Lion’s strikes, the pain and fear fuelling his anger. He launched at Skullsworn with renewed ferocity, each strike carrying the weight of his rage.
He drove the prongs of his trident deep into Skullsworn’s unprotected side. They tore his light armour and found flesh.
Skullsworn wouldn’t register the pain, so Lion didn’t wait for a reaction. He didn’t just want to hurt the purebred beast; he wanted to kill him.
The arena seemed to blur as Lion’s focus narrowed on Skullsworn. Their weapons clashed in a brutal dance. Skullsworn, despite bleeding from his side, fought back with wild, relentless energy. Lion stabbed his arm next, but Skullsworn fought on.
Lion’s strikes, fast and precise, were driven by a desperation to end this fight before it took a bigger toll on him. He drove Skullsworn back with every attack, forcing him to withdraw, step, dodge to the side, withdraw again, and step to the same side. He herded Skullsworn like a shepherd’s dog. When Skullsworn stumbled, his chest opened for another attack.
Lion didn’t take the shot.
Instead, he tossed his trident aside, rolled to the ground and pulled the net.
He flung it over Skullsworn, and the Raged beast swung his mace without thinking. The weapon got tangled in the net. Skullsworn struggled, his movements hindered by the weighted mesh.
Lion wasted no time. He pulled the net tight, catching Skullsworn’s limbs and further restricting his movements. Skullsworn thrashed wildly, but it only tightened the net around him.
Lion picked his trident back up. Moving without hurry, he drove it into Skullsworn’s chest.
The arena erupted in deafening cheers. Lion stood over his fallen opponent. He watched Skullsworn’s face as the purebred beast blinked rapidly. He was waking from his Raged state. Lion had wondered many times what it would be like to die in Rage. If he would wake up from it in time to understand that he was dying? He saw the answer in Skullsworn’s face.
The purebred beast, now conscious and himself, coughed and spat blood. His eyes found Lion.
He spoke.
Despite the crowd’s overwhelming noise, Lion heard the words.
“I will see you in Farhome,” the purebred beast said.
Lion stared at him in shock until Skullsworn’s eyes glazed and his expression stilled. This shouldn’t have happened. Purebreds didn’t speak to each other. It wasn’t permitted. It was an Act of Defiance.
Purebreds didn’t go to Farhome either. They couldn’t. They didn’t have rhoas.
Lost in his confusion, Lion stood over Skullsworn’s dead body longer than he should have. He looked up. The spectators filled every available space in the rows. No one was sitting. They were all jumping up and down, chanting the name he carried.
Lion of Zarall! Lion of Zarall!
His chest heaving, and the pain in his shoulder throbbing with each breath, Lion spared one last glance at Skullsworn’s lifeless body.
I will see you in Farhome.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He moved away. He took two steps towards the Gate of Life, before he remembered he hadn’t saluted his Owner yet. He turned sharply, hoping his slip-up would go unnoticed. He approached the royal grandstand, dropped to one knee, and raised his trident.
Like a free man.
He suppressed that annoying flutter in his chest. He stood back up, keeping his head down respectfully.
The Gate of Life swung open, welcoming him into the cool shadows behind.
Eddy Rose 