The arena stank of death.
Kael stood alone, stripped of weapons, beneath the roar of Ironhold's citizens. They filled the coliseum-like structure, chanting, eager for blood. This was how Ironhold tested those tainted by the beasts—by forcing them to fight.
The gates opened.
A Riftspawn, larger than the one Kael had killed before, lumbered into the arena. Its claws scraped sparks against the stone floor. Chains rattled and fell loose, releasing it fully.
Kael's heart thundered. His veins still burned with alien fire. He remembered Joren's scream. He remembered the hunger.
The beast charged.
Kael dodged, faster than he should have been. The crowd gasped. He grabbed a fallen hunter's sword from the sand, its edge chipped and rusted, but it felt alive in his grip. His movements weren't his own—they were sharper, stronger, instinctive.
The Riftspawn lunged. Kael slid beneath its swipe, slashing deep into its underbelly. Black ichor sprayed across him, hissing as it touched his skin. The scent hit him like wine, intoxicating.
The hunger screamed: Drink it. Become it.
Kael roared, driving the sword into the beast's throat, twisting until it collapsed in a shuddering heap.
Silence. Then the arena erupted in cheers.
Lord Varik rose from his throne, a grim smile on his scarred face. "Survivor no longer. You are Bloodbound."
The crowd chanted his name, but Kael barely heard them. His hands shook. His veins burned. His reflection in the beast's blood showed glowing crimson eyes—hungry, inhuman.
And he realized with cold dread…
He hadn't beaten the monster.
He was becoming one.