Blood ran into Thane's eye. The giant blinked it away.
The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.
Around him, the arena had become a blur of faces and noise. Thousands watched from the stands, their voices blending into a distant roar.
Some shouted encouragement. Others cursed. Most simply stared.
Thane barely heard any of it. His attention was fixed on one thing.
Donovan Young.
The Drevlorn noble advanced steadily, mace resting in his hands.
Every step was measured.
The mace swung again, and Thane instinctively shifted backward.
The wooden head missed his face by an inch. A moment later, it crashed into his shoulder.
Pain exploded through his arm. The giant grunted, and the crowd winced.
Donovan pressed forward.
Like a wolf scenting blood, his mace spun, its head blurring through the air.
Thane prepared to catch it but failed. He knew that as long as the mace was in Donovan's hands, he could not catch him.
