The Arena
Since my encounter with the Castellan yesterday, my mind had not rested. Arena? What did that mean?
Before I could think further, the door to the room I'd been kept in clanged open. "Come on," the guard barked.
I followed behind him, my stomach twisting. The room I was led into was crowded with men I'd seen at the tavern and others I didn't recognize. Relief washed over me when I spotted Kumbuye. I ran to him instinctively, gripping his arm.
"Do you know what's happening?" I asked, curiosity tinged with fear.
I was the only female here. All the others were men of different shapes and sizes.
"They're going to make us fight," Kumbuye said quietly. "Two opponents each. To the death."
"What?" My voice caught in my throat.
"Yes. No weapons. Hand-to-hand combat."
I swallowed hard. I didn't want to kill anyone for the amusement of strangers.
"We have to leave," I said, panic rising.
"We can't." Kumbuye's eyes scanned the room, calculating. "I've already gone into the minds of the guards, looking for a way out. It's useless. This place is heavily guarded."
My stomach churned.
"You're strong, Dana," he added, nodding subtly toward certain men in the crowd. "I can tell who's scared and who's fierce. You can handle them."
Before I could reply, a guard stepped in, grinning proudly. "Before you enter the arena, listen carefully. No weapons. Fight to kill. Win, and you fight another champion the next day. This continues until only one remains." He smirked. "This is your penalty for breaking the law in public. If you love to fight, we'll give you the chance."
I swallowed hard. Kumbuye had taught me hand-to-hand combat over months, but this — facing hefty men without weapons — it was terrifying.
The guard added, "Last rule: no mercy."
I gripped Kumbuye's hands. He squeezed back through our silent connection, reassurance passing between us. I hoped it was enough.
One by one, the captives were dragged into the arena in pairs. Some came back bloodied, clothes torn, but alive. Then it was my turn.
My opponent was a massive man, his broad chest and thick arms were intimidating. The crowd cheered for him and jeered at me, underestimating me because of my size.
I looked up, scanning the arena. The Castellan was there, watching closely, and beside him, there was a woman on a high throne — her presence alone was enough to make the room fall silent. Nobles flanked her, observing quietly. The commoners on the other side jeered and shouted.
I drew a deep breath. My hands tightened into fists. It was time.
The horn sounded.
The man across from me cracked his neck and smiled, slow and confident. He was twice my size.
He came at me hard and fast, swinging wide, careless. I stepped aside just in time, his fist cutting through empty air. Laughter rippled through the stands.
"Too slow," someone shouted.
He charged again, heavier this time. I ducked low, rolled across the sand, and felt his boot graze my shoulder. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but I pushed through it.
He laughed. Loud. Arrogant.
That was his mistake.
When he reached for me again, I moved in close. Too close for him to use his strength properly. I slammed my palm into his throat and felt him choke, stumbling back. Before he could recover, I swept his leg. He hit the ground hard, the air knocked from his lungs.
The laughter died.
He tried to rise. I didn't give him the chance.
I drove my knee into his ribs, once, twice. I heard something crack. He screamed this time, panic breaking through the confidence. When his hand shot out for my ankle, I twisted free and brought my heel down on his wrist.
He howled.
I stood over him, breathing hard, sand clinging to my skin. He looked small now. Fragile.
I ended it quickly and twisted his neck until it broke. His body went limp.
Silence fell over the arena, thick and stunned, before it exploded into noise. Some cheered. Others stared. A few went quiet.
I backed away as the guards dragged his body from the sand.
My hands were shaking, but I stayed standing.
I lifted my eyes to the stands.
The Castellan was watching me closely now.
So was the woman on the throne.
They had not expected me to survive.
I was led back into the room I had just come from. The moment Kumbuye saw me, relief washed over his face and he ran to me.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice tight with worry.
"I'm alive," I sighed, letting the tension in me loosen slightly.
Then it was his turn. Kumbuye was going into the arena to fight. My stomach tightened. I was scared for him, no matter how confident he seemed.
"Be calm. I can handle him," he said, as if reading my thoughts.
I knew he could handle anyone, they'd be fools to think otherwise but that didn't stop my mind from racing. He held me for a moment longer, reassuring me silently, before the guards dragged him away.
I stayed still, my eyes fixed on the door waiting, my heart hammering, until it finally clanked open again.
"Kumbuye," I whispered, a mix of excitement and relief flooding me.
I ran to him and hugged him tightly.
"I told you I'd be fine," he said, smirking.
By then, the arena had emptied, his pair had been the last to go in. The guards led us back to the separate holding rooms where we had been kept yesterday. All of us who had survived would be paired to fight again tomorrow.
I stayed in the holding room in silence, my mind wandering. There were only eight survivors left. I couldn't imagine how tomorrow would turn out, but all I could think about was surviving. I had a mission to complete, and I was going to get out of here alive.
The guards brought food and water to keep us strong enough for the next day's fights. Sleep barely came, my mind refused to rest.
The next day, the guards came for me, leading me to the room where I would meet the others. This time, I was the first pair to enter the arena. My opponent was huge, twice my size, but I fought him and prevailed. He was stronger than the one I had faced yesterday, but I was smarter. Combat wasn't just about strength, tactics mattered too.
When Kumbuye fought, he too came out victorious.
Only four of us remained.
Day three arrived. I won again against my assigned opponent. The crowd's jeers had turned into cheers. They no longer underestimated me.
After Kumbuye emerged victorious in his fight, the weight of reality hit me. We were the last ones standing. Tomorrow, we would face each other.
That night, sleep was impossible. My mind replayed every fight, every punch, every shove. My arms and legs ached, but worse was the weight of what tomorrow would bring. I would face Kumbuye. My friend. The thought twisted my stomach.
When the guards arrived to fetch me, I moved almost automatically, alert and ready, but my heart lagged behind. Kumbuye was there, his eyes tense, betraying the worry he tried to hide. He caught mine for a moment. No words, just a gentle squeeze of his hand in mine when he came closer — a silent reassurance.
The arena was colder that morning. Winter was creeping in, the stone floors slick, the air sharp against exposed skin. The crowd buzzed with impatience, sensing the climax of these fights. Their cheers and jeers were distant noise at the edge of my thoughts.
As we stepped into the center, reality hit. There was no turning back. Just the two of us, alone, surrounded by the eyes of the castle, nobles, and commoners alike. Every muscle tensed. I could see Kumbuye's control, his calm precision but also the way he glanced at me.
There was something in his face, a hint of surrender. He was holding back, giving up… for me.
I couldn't fight him. I couldn't. It wasn't possible.
The horn blew — the signal to begin. And still, neither of us moved. We just stared. If someone were close enough, they'd hear my heart thundering in my chest.
Kumbuye didn't step forward. He just stood there, silent.
The cheers turned to jeers. No one wanted to see two people refusing to fight. They wanted blood.
"Fight!"
Someone screamed from the crowd. But we stayed unmoving, locked in each other's gaze, unwilling to be the ones to strike first.
Every single second was torture, standing there, frozen under the crowd's jeers. People began throwing things at us, mocking us, daring us to move. Then, suddenly, the tension snapped. The woman on the throne rose, her presence instantly commanding silence.
My eyes drifted from Kumbuye to her. She was dazzling, almost otherworldly. Her hands were heavy with rings — golden, jeweled, some sparkling like captured stars. Necklaces draped across her chest, bracelets clinking as she moved, earrings catching the light from every angle. Every piece of jewelry seemed to announce her power, her wealth, her authority. But it wasn't just that, it was the way she carried herself, the confidence in her posture, the sway of her shoulders, the sharpness of her gaze. People leaned forward, hushed, drawn to her magnetism without even realizing it.
My eyes followed her every movement, mesmerized, even as my chest tightened with fear.
She motioned toward the Castellan, who stepped up immediately beside her, shouting in a language I didn't understand. His words cut through the air like a whip. The crowd reacted instantly — some screamed, others jeered louder, some even started fighting each other. Chaos rippled through the arena, but she held her hands aloft again, and just like that, silence returned.
Then, speaking in the same strange, commanding tongue, she gave an order. The guards surged forward, seizing Kumbuye and me. Strong hands gripped our arms, and we were dragged back through the same door we had entered the arena from. I kept my eyes on her until the last moment, watching her every movement, feeling the pull of her charisma even as fear clawed at my chest.
Kumbuye and I were led into a vast hall, the ceiling stretching high above us, the air heavy with cold and silence. At the far end, a single throne waited. We stood there, unsure, until she entered.
She was mesmerizing. Seeing her up close, her skin was smooth and pale, her almond shaped eyes tilting gently at the corners, dark beneath straight lashes. High cheekbones sculpted her face, and her sleek black hair fell in a glossy curtain down her back. She carried herself with quiet grace. Every step was deliberate, her shoulders proud, her head held high. Servants trailed behind her like shadows. When she reached the throne, she sank onto it effortlessly with a man standing rigidly at her side. Servants lined the steps, silent and watchful.
She tilted her head and spoke, her voice firm, almost musical:
"Kuu ke saima?"
I blinked, confused, not understanding a word.
The man beside her stepped forward, translating quickly.
"Who are you?"
I met his eyes for a moment before turning back to her. "My name is Dana."
He translated for her. She inclined her head slightly and asked again:
"Akaida fi Dana?"
I turned to the man, waiting.
"Dana from where?" he asked.
I hesitated. I couldn't tell them I was from another realm. I swallowed and said, "Dana from Thyr Vael."
He repeated it to her. She nodded, then asked again:
"Ka pai?"
"And he?" The man's eyes flicked to Kumbuye.
"Kumbuye from Krythmoor."
Her gaze shifted to us both, piercing.
"Koi ke saida halia e Noxara?"
The man translated: "What are you doing here in Noxara?"
I froze for a moment. I couldn't admit the truth — that I was tracking the Cranium, following a dangerous trail. I had to think fast.
"I'm looking for my father," I said, trying to sound confident.
The man relayed it, and her sharp eyes didn't soften. She nodded negatively, like she already knew the lie.
I glanced at Kumbuye. Something in the room felt off.
The man's voice was low, firm, almost a warning: "Do not lie to her."
She leaned slightly forward on her throne, eyes narrowing as she spoke.
"Kumbuye," the woman said boldly. The translator kept mute and she continued. "Warrior of Krythmoor. Why do you travel with her?"
She knew the common tongue well enough to understand most of what was said, and to speak it in broken sentences. But her words stumbled over unfamiliar sounds, her accent was thick and uneven. It was clear she was not comfortable speaking it, not enough to command or assert herself fully. Perhaps that was why she relied on her own language, precise and familiar, even in front of strangers and why she had a translator by her side, ready to make every word clear and understandable.
Kumbuye's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. He simply stood straighter, a silent declaration that he wasn't afraid, but I could feel his tension, the restraint in his muscles.
The Queen's hands rose slowly, adorned with rings that glittered with every subtle movement. She let them rest lightly on the arms of her throne, then spoke again noticing his restraint. "You will serve. You will obey. And she…" Her eyes flicked to me, a dangerous glint dancing in the colors of her jewels, "…will be my slave."
My stomach dropped. "Slave?" I asked carefully, trying not to show the fear tightening my chest.
What did she mean slave?
"You... You do not have choice. You will serve me. Your life... mine."
Then, without waiting for a response, she stood. Her jewellery chimed softly as she walked out of the hall, servants falling into step behind her.
I remained frozen where I stood, my heart pounding.
What was happening?