Chapter 14 #2
“All of our gladiators are Victora’s finest, here to demonstrate their valor, their courage in the face of death, and how tremendous our city truly is. Introducing our first fighter—Andreas Voss!”
A gate opens on the far side of the arena.
Andreas emerges, squinting against the harsh lights.
I almost can’t believe my eyes. He’s dressed like some fantasy of a blacksmith—leather apron stretched tight across his bare chest, thick straps crossing his shoulders.
The apron barely reaches mid-thigh, leaving his legs exposed except for heavy work boots that lace up to his knees.
Metal braces circle his forearms, polished to catch the firelight, and a tool belt hangs low on his hips.
Andreas moves forward with a cocky swagger, already playing up the whole sexy blacksmith angle. We’ve been told many times that the more impressive a performance we put on, the better chance we have of gaining the most generous sponsors. It’s one of the many things I’m dreading about my turn.
Andreas grabs a hammer from a pile of metal debris near the wall, testing its weight with quick, sharp movements. When he grins at the crowd, they cheer.
The arena floor is a maze of death. Metal grating stretches between furnace vents that belch flame in irregular patterns.
Scattered anvils and hammers create obstacles and weapons.
The walls themselves are lined with furnace openings that glow red-hot, making the air shimmer with heat waves.
The acrid smell of metal and smoke seeps through the viewing box’s ventilation system.
“And his opponent, Caspian Blake!”
My chest tightens as Cas steps through the opposite gate.
He’s wearing the same ridiculous blacksmith getup as Andreas, and somehow it looks even more absurd on him—the leather apron swallows his leaner frame.
He’s going to hate every second of this.
I’ll have to give him hell about it later. If there is a later.
Cas moves carefully across the metal grating, testing each step. Smart. Always thinking. He stays light on his feet, dodging a sudden jet of flame that erupts near his boots. I watch him map the pattern, timing the intervals between bursts. He’s trying to find the safe zones.
Andreas charges forward, hammer raised. No strategy. No patience.
I suddenly realize something’s wrong with this picture.
I can’t help myself. I turn to Marco. “Where’s the Deathball?”
Marco blinks like he’s shocked I actually spoke to him. For a moment, something flickers across his face—relief, possibly.
“This is what I was talking about last week. Sometimes the ball is obvious from the beginning,” he explains. “Players immediately rush for it. But often, like today, it’s hidden somewhere in the arena. Or gets introduced after a set amount of time.”
Right. Can’t have someone getting bludgeoned to death after one minute when these people traveled all this way for entertainment.
Below, Andreas and Cas circle each other on the scorching grating. Both men are drenched in perspiration already, the heat as much an enemy as each other. Flames erupt between them, forcing constant repositioning.
Andreas rushes first, swinging his hammer in a wide arc. Cas dances backward, using a furnace vent to force Andreas into an awkward angle.
“And people have bet on this today?” I ask. “Bet on them?”
“Of course.”
The casual way he says it makes my stomach turn. Like this is perfectly normal. Like Cas and Andreas are horses in a race instead of men fighting for their lives.
“Who’s favored to win?”
Marco glances at me. “The betting is wild at the beginning because nobody has actually seen the players fighting yet.”
“So Andreas, then?”
Marco shrugs apologetically. “He’s got more of a charismatic face.”
More charismatic. Fuck. I want to punch something.
On the arena floor, Cas feints left, then rolls right as Andreas’s hammer smashes into the grating where his head had been. Sparks fly from the impact.
A furnace vent erupts directly beneath Andreas’s feet. He leaps backward, cursing, but the flames catch his left boot. He stamps frantically, beating out the smoldering leather.
Cas uses the distraction to grab his own weapon—a shorter hammer with a spiked head. He tests its balance while Andreas recovers.
They clash again near the center. Metal rings against metal as Cas blocks a crushing overhead blow. The force drives him to one knee, but he rolls away before Andreas can follow up.
Then disaster strikes.
Cas misjudges a flame pattern. He steps left just as a massive jet erupts from the grating. Fire engulfs his right arm from elbow to wrist, and his scream cuts through the crowd’s roar like a blade.
“No!” The word tears from my throat before I can stop it. I slam my palms against the glass, pressing my face to the surface.
Cas staggers backward, clutching his burned arm. On the screens, the cameras pan in on the wound—angry red welts already forming on his skin. Smoke rises from the leather that didn’t quite catch fire as he flings off the metal brace that was surely scorching hot against his wrist.
Marco’s hand touches my arm. Gentle. Hesitant.
I feel the warmth of his fingers for exactly one heartbeat before he pulls away as if I’m the one on fire.
Cas stumbles, wisps of smoke still curling from his scorched apron. The crowd’s bloodlust grows louder, feeding on his pain. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright despite the agony written across his face.
Andreas circles him like a wolf, hammer raised. He knows he has the advantage now. Though he can only maim Cas, at this stage. He can’t kill him—he needs the Deathball for that. If Cas dies beforehand, Andreas will be forced to fight next week, despite the injuries he will probably sustain today.
An alarm blares through the arena. Harsh, electronic, cutting through even the crowd’s roar.
“What’s that?” I ask Marco, not caring how desperate I sound. “What’s going on?”
“A sponsor is giving them something. One of them, anyway.”
“What? Who? Which one?”
Marco replies softly, “I know as much as you.”
That’s not quite true. He has five years’ experience of this. He can likely guess exactly how this is going to go.
The commentator bellows, “Ladies and gentlemen, we already have our first sponsor drop of the season!”
Something shoots across the sky above the arena. A tiny metal thing, moving as fast as a bird. It hovers for a moment before diving toward the fighters.
“What’s that?” I’m starting to feel like a child, asking question after question.
“That’s a drone.”
The thing drops a small package directly above Cas’s head. He catches it awkwardly with his good hand, then tears it open with his teeth.
Relief floods through me. It’s for Cas. Someone’s helping Cas.
“Fire-resistant gloves for Caspian Blake, courtesy of Viktor Hartley of Hartley Steel Works!”
My heart sinks. Gloves. Nothing for his burn—he’s just going to have to fight through that pain. But at least he can handle metal now without the fire singeing his palms.
Cas pulls the gloves on quickly, flexing his fingers to test the fit. Andreas doesn’t wait for him to finish. He charges again, using Cas’s momentary distraction.
But Cas is ready. He sidesteps and raises his spiked hammer up. Andreas barely gets his weapon up in time to block when he smashes it down.
The impact sends vibrations through both their arms. They break apart, circling again.
Andreas suddenly changes tactics. Instead of staying on the scorching floor, he leaps onto the scaffolding that runs along the arena’s edge. Metal pipes and platforms create a maze above the flame vents.
Cas follows close behind, his burned arm clearly hampering his climb. Each grip makes him wince, but he doesn’t fall back.
Come on, Cas.
They move higher, weapons clutched in one hand while they haul themselves up with the other. The crowd follows their progress with growing excitement.
A sudden loud click has everyone in my box holding their breath. The mechanical sound echoes through the arena—gears turning, metal sliding against metal.
The Deathball appears.
It drops from a concealed chamber high above the scaffolding, rolling down a metal ramp that extends toward the fighters. The crowd goes absolutely wild, their voices reaching a fever pitch that makes the glass vibrate.
Everyone in our box surges forward, pressing against the windows. Even the others who’ve been trying to stay calm lose their composure at the sight.
I have a mad urge to grab Marco’s hand. Instead, I fold my arms tight across my chest.
Andreas reaches the ball first.
He grabs it—not effortlessly, but with the confidence of someone who’s trained for this.
We’ve all had several turns playing with the thing.
It’s a metal sphere covered in wicked spikes, with a hand grip that lets you wield it like a massive mace.
The weight of it makes Andreas’s muscles strain, but he lifts it above his head.
No hesitation. He brings it down toward Cas’s face with crushing force.
I fall to my knees.
Cas saves himself by jumping off the scaffolding—a desperate leap that takes him away from the death blow but sends him crashing onto the arena floor. He lands hard on his burned arm, and his scream blares through the speakers.
Marco is suddenly right by me, his voice in my ear.
“Robin, get up,” he tells me. Not annoyed or even an order—more like a plea. “You’re being watched right now, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
I force myself back to my feet, legs shaking.
Below us, Andreas grips the scaffolding with one hand, the Deathball clutched against his chest with the other. The weight makes him sway dangerously. For one heart-stopping moment, it looks like he might lose his grip entirely—the ball tilting, his arm shaking with strain.
But he recovers. Muscles bulging, he adjusts his hold and starts his descent.