The corridor to the arena was longer from the second tier. More stairs. More turns. Chris followed the gray attendant down and lost count somewhere around forty because his legs were stiff and his chest still ached from the Stone Face bout two days ago.
They came out through a passage he had not used before. Not the holding pen tunnel. This one opened behind a low wall near the east side of the arena floor, and the sound hit him before the light did.
Not cheering. but a lot of people talking. a big crowd was here.
'i have no idea how i moved from sleeping in the pens to being the main event.'
He stepped out onto the sand. The arena looked the same walls, tiers, the warlord's balcony above but the crowd did not. Half the faces in the lower tiers wore colors. Not the drab gray and brown of soldiers and handlers. Reds. Blues. Gold thread on collars. Visitors. Maren had company.
Voss stood at the edge of the arena floor, Two guards flanked him, both wearing the iron collar insignia of Maren's household troops. Voss had positioned himself where Chris would see him first.
The opponent was already on the sand. A woman. Tall, wide through the shoulders, with short cropped hair and very toned arms. Her stance was wrong for a fighter. Too patient.
She watched Chris, measuring him.
A faint glow along her jaw. The mark of a Worn. Not a combat Face?
'Voss picked a worker. Not a fighter. What's the angle?'
The announcer's voice cracked across the arena. "The Jester Face, Chris of House Casteran!" The crowd found him. The laughter started low at the way he was greeting the audience "Against Kett of House Bren, the Forge Face!"
Forge Face. Chris looked at her again. The glow along her jaw. The still stance. A Forge Face could take a hit and give it back harder, could push through pain that would drop anyone else, could last. Voss had picked someone who would not go down easy. An endurance test.
Kett moved first. No testing jabs. She walked straight at him, closed the distance in four steps, and threw a punch that would have taken his head off if he had been standing where he was a second ago. He sidestepped. She turned. Threw again. He ducked. She kicked. He rolled again.
The crowd laughed. The warmth surged. Kett did not slow down. She was relentless .
Every time Chris moved, she was already throwing the next hit. Just pressure, steady and heavy.
He could not get distance. He could not set up a joke. Every time he opened his mouth, another fist came at his face.
He grabbed her wrist on a swing. She let him. Pulled him in. Headbutt. His nose cracked. The crowd went quiet then Chris laughed by himself guiding the crowd to not stop laughing so je won't lose the warmth.
Kett let go and stepped back. waiting patiently.
He spat blood. Grinned wider. "Is that all you've got?" Projected loud enough for the tiers.
The crowd responded. The warmth came back. The ache in his nose was distant and not important now.
Kett came again. This time Chris was ready. He let her swing, slipped left, and slapped the back of her head as she went past.
Just enough to look ridiculous. The crowd roared. The warmth poured through him making his feet light and his hands quick .
Kett was turning with no expression on her face at all.
'She doesn't give a damn about my childish acts.'
He tried a different approach. "You know," he said, jumping back from another swing, "most people at least pretend to enjoy themselves." Kett said nothing and swung again. He dodged. "No? Nothing?"
The fight went on. The crowd stayed with him because he kept them, a gesture here, a quip there, a stumble that turned into a dodge that looked intentional. But Kett did not stop. Five minutes. Ten. His legs were burning. His nose was swelling. The warmth was still there but the audience was getting restless. Laughter has a shelf life. You can only watch a man dodge the same woman so many times before you want something to happen.
Kett caught him. A straight right to the ribs that folded him. The crowd gasped. He dropped to one knee and she was already bringing her fist down. he rolled and her knuckles hit sand, he was up and moving and the laugh was out of his mouth before he could think about it. "Close one!"
The crowd came back. Kett straightened. Looked at him with those measuring eyes. She was learning. Every exchange she got closer, faster, more efficient. The Forge Face was not just enduring. She was adapting.
'Can't outlast her. Can't outjoke her. So i have to outthink her.'
He stopped dodging. Stood still.
She came at him and he stepped inside her reach. Her fist hit his shoulder and he let it because he was already behind her, both hands on the back of her neck, and he pushed her face into the sand. The crowd screamed. Laughter and cheering mixed together. He let go, danced back, and bowed.
Kett got up. Sand on her face. No anger. She straightened her wraps and looked at the warlord's balcony. Maren was watching. His guests were watching. Kett raised one fist, a yield. and walked off the sand.
Chris stood in the center with blood on his face and sand in his mouth and the warmth fading as the crowd's attention shifted.
He looked at Voss. Voss was writing on his tablet.
'He got the data he wanted.'
The gray attendant was at the passage. Chris walked toward him. His ribs hurt. "Commander Voss requests you in the east hall," the attendant said.
The east hall was a corridor with high windows and old banners. Voss was waiting, tablet under his arm, standing straight and certain. He looked at Chris's swollen nose and said nothing about it.
"You took too long."
"I won."
"You took too long. A Forge Face is a patience test. You passed, but you spent your entire reserve on laughter. By minute eight you were running on the crowd's good will, not your own power. Against a combat Face, you would have been unconscious by minute five."
Chris said nothing. Voss was not wrong. "The Warlord's guests are from House Bren. Kett is one of theirs. The bout was diplomatic. You won, but you made it entertaining instead of decisive. That is good for now." Voss tapped the tablet. "It will not be acceptable next time."
'Next time. Already planning it.'
"I am your handler," Voss said. "Maren owns you. I manage you. Your fights, your schedule, your opponents. When you eat. When you sleep. When you perform. The room was the first payment. Continued comfort requires continued results."
Chris looked at him. "What kind of results?"
"Clean wins. Short bouts. No showing off. The crowd is a resource not a crutch. Depend on them and you will fail the moment you need them the most" Voss turned and started walking. "Your next bout is in four days. I will select the opponent. You will prepare. That is all."
He left. Chris stood in the east hall then he start walking . He ended up at the arena wall, the outer side, where the stone was rough and the wind came through the gaps. He pressed his forehead against it.
'Four days. New opponent. Handler. they think I'm their dogs or something.'
Chris heard footsteps behind him. He turned. A thin man in a blue coat with too many buttons, face painted in the style of the southern nobility, pale powder and dark lines around the eyes. The man was looking at Chris with open interest.
"You are the Jester."
"I am Lord Pell, attached to the Bren delegation." The thin man smiled.
"Your performance was remarkable. I have a proposition for you. Something the Warlord does not need to hear about."
Chris put a wide grin on his face
"I'm listening," Chris said.
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A/N: I hope you enjoy this novel. Support by adding to your library and giving a power stone or two. Thank you.