The stadium shook with the roar of thousands. A wall of sound—cheers, jeers, bloodlust—crashed over the sand like a living thing. Dot lay crumpled against the far wall, body limp, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The crowd smelled victory.
High in the stands, Yiva shot to her feet. Her hands cupped around her mouth like a trumpet.
"Get up, Dot!"
Her voice cracked the din.
"Get up!"
Again, louder, desperate.
"GET UP!"
The words pierced the fog in Dot's skull. A familiar timbre—soft, insistent—layered over Yiva's shout. *Liora's voice.*
*"Get up, Dot."*
His eyelids fluttered. Through a haze of pain and dust, he saw her—small, fierce Yiva—standing on the bench, screaming his name. Something inside him snapped taut like a bowstring.
Slowly, agonizingly, Dot pushed himself upright.
The crowd's roar faltered into stunned silence, then exploded again—this time in disbelief.
Boldr had already turned his back, axe resting on his shoulder, walking away like the fight was already over. He froze mid-step when the murmurs turned to gasps. Slowly he pivoted.
Dot stood.
Blood matted his hair and streaked down his face in dark rivulets. In his right hand dangled the shattered remnant of the longsword—barely eight inches of jagged steel.
"Give in to death, kid," Boldr rumbled, voice carrying across the arena. "Stop resisting."
Dot spat crimson onto the sand. His lips peeled back in something between a snarl and a smile.
"I'm not done with you."
He raised his eyes—burning, unhinged.
"Your head is mine."
Boldr lunged. The double-headed axe came down in a brutal crescent moon arc, fast enough to whistle. The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
Dot moved.
Not a step—a flicker. Sand exploded where he had been standing. The axe bit deep into the arena floor, sending up a geyser of grit.
And then Dot was behind him.
Boldr felt the shift in the air first—something cold and lethal brushing the back of his neck. He spun on instinct, axe already rising.
Dot stood five paces away, broken sword pointed low, body loose, eyes locked. A killing aura rolled off him in waves—dark, suffocating, almost visible.
Boldr's heart lurched. His body recoiled before his mind could catch up. He leaped backward three long strides, boots skidding in the sand.
*How?*
His own pulse thundered in his ears.
*My body moved on its own. Fear? Don't tell me I'm afraid of this kid…*
Dot tilted his head. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his blood-streaked face. He lifted the ruined sword until its tip pointed straight at Boldr's heart.
"I'm going to kill you."
Up in the stands, Yiva's breath caught.
*He's… different.*
The aura pouring off Dot was no longer desperate rage. It was something colder. Sharper. Final.
*He's on another level.*
**The Cells**
Far below, echoes of steel and crowd noise filtered through the stone.
Dren leaned his head back against the wall, listening.
"It's started, huh."
Vespers gripped the bars until her knuckles blanched.
"You're not going to do anything?" She glared at him. "You've given up? Typical. Always running. Always the coward."
Dren didn't answer.
"It's your fault we're in this pain," she hissed. "I hope you die screaming."
He finally turned his head. His eyes were calm—too calm.
A sudden, metallic *clang*. The cell door buckled inward and fell flat. Dust billowed.
Sylric stepped through the opening, twirling a stolen keyring on one finger.
"Ehhn. They put the lovebirds in separate cages. Interesting."
Dren and Vespers both stared.
**The Stadium**
Boldr recovered first. He roared, charging with the full momentum of his massive frame.
"Distort Slash!"
The axe blurred into a storm of overlapping arcs—five, six, seven vicious cuts in the space of a heartbeat. Air itself seemed to tear.
Dot weaved.
He slipped left under the first swing, ducked the second, twisted right past the third. The fourth grazed his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. He didn't flinch.
The fifth came straight down. Dot crossed the broken sword to block. Steel met steel with a shriek. The impact hurled him backward; the remaining shard of blade shattered completely. Shrapnel sprayed outward. A long, diagonal gash tore open across Dot's chest. Blood fountained.
The crowd gasped.
Yet Dot stayed on his feet.
Boldr grinned savagely and lunged to finish it—axe raised for the killing blow.
Dot's left arm snapped up. He caught the axe haft just below the head, hooking his forearm around the blade's inner curve. The edge bit deep into flesh. Blood sheeted down his arm, but he held.
Boldr leaned in, face inches from Dot's.
"How do you plead, boy?"
Dot stared back, eyes blazing.
For a heartbeat, time fractured.
Boldr's vision swam. He saw—not the arena—but the dim royal bedchamber. His brother, pale and wasted, gripping his wrist with surprising strength.
*"The boy is special, Arthur. Go easy on him. Promise me."*
Then the king's hand fell limp. Breath stopped. Life fled.
The memory vanished.
Boldr's expression hardened into something colder than rage—resolve.
He wrenched the axe free in a spray of blood and swung with every ounce of his monstrous strength.
The blade carved a clean arc through Dot's torso.
Before he fell, he whispered words only Boldr could hear
"I plead guilty", Dot then smiled
For the first time in years, Boldr felt something close to regret.
Dot's body folded. He dropped to his knees, then pitched forward into the sand. A dark pool spread beneath him.
The stadium erupted—half triumph, half horror.
From the tunnel mouth, two figures burst into the light: Dren and Sylric, weapons already drawn.
Boldr turned toward them, axe dripping.
Yiva screamed Dot's name and vaulted the railing, shoving through the stunned crowd toward the arena floor. Tears streaked her face as she ran.
She reached him. Dropped to her knees. Hands hovered over the terrible wound, shaking.
Dot did not move.
His heart beat
sound echoing
The chapter closed on the sound of steel clashing in the distance—and one broken sob lost in the roar.
To be continued