Chapter 14 #3
Cas scrambles to his feet on the arena floor, face streaked with sweat and ash. He backs away as Andreas drops down, landing heavily on the grating with the Deathball still secure in his grasp.
The crowd’s bloodlust reaches a fever pitch, as if they can smell the approaching kill.
Andreas advances, raising the spiked sphere above his head. Each step deliberate. Predatory.
But Cas doesn’t retreat in a straight line. He moves sideways, circling, drawing Andreas toward the arena’s outer wall where the furnace openings glow like hungry mouths.
I see what he’s doing a split second before it happens.
“Smart,” Marco breathes beside me.
Andreas brings the Deathball down in a crushing arc. At the last possible moment, Cas throws himself sideways. The ball smashes into the metal grating where his head had been, sparks flying from the impact.
And Andreas stumbles forward—directly into a furnace opening.
Fire erupts from the wall vent in a concentrated jet that engulfs Andreas’s left side. His scream pierces the arena as flames eat through his blacksmith's apron. The stench of burning hair and flesh reaches even our sealed box.
The Deathball tumbles from his hands, rolling across the grating.
Cas lunges for it.
“Yes!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Cas!”
A few of the others join in—René cheering, Max shouting encouragement. Though I can’t help but quickly glance at those who are friendly with Andreas. Their faces are pale, stricken.
The Deathball smolders with heat. Cas’s gloved fingers close around its grip. He lifts it, muscles straining against the weight. Andreas staggers backward, beating at the flames on his apron, his left side a mass of angry red welts and charred leather.
But he’s still standing. Still alive.
Cas doesn’t hesitate.
The training takes over. All those hours Marco drilled into us about not showing mercy, about finishing what we start. The Deathball swings in a vicious arc.
It catches Andreas across the face with a wet, crushing sound that makes my stomach lurch. Blood explodes across the arena floor—more blood than I’d have thought possible. Andreas’s left eye disappears in a spray of crimson and something darker.
He stumbles backward, hands flying to his ruined face, but he’s still on his feet.
The commentator shouts over the crowd, but the words blur together into meaningless noise. All I can focus on is the blood streaming between Andreas’s fingers, the way his remaining eye rolls white with shock.
Cas kicks out hard, sweeping Andreas’s legs. The man crashes to the grating, his back hitting the metal with a sharp clang.
Cas lifts the Deathball again.
This time he brings it down on Andreas’s skull.
The sound—fucking hell, the sound. Like a melon dropped from a great height. Wet and final.
But Cas doesn’t stop. He raises the ball again, muscles shaking with the effort.
Another blow to the head.
My legs almost give out again. I grip the glass wall to keep from falling, bile rising in my throat. I knew it would be brutal. I knew someone would die. But seeing it—watching Cas’s face as he brings that spiked metal down again and again—
“You’re okay,” Marco’s voice whispers in my ear, so quiet only I can hear it. His hand hovers near my back, not quite touching. “Keep watching. It’s almost over.”
One more blow. Andreas’s body stops twitching.
Cas staggers backward, the Deathball hanging from his grip—a dead weight. Blood drips from the spikes, pattering onto the grating below.
This is it. This is the moment he’s supposed to run around the arena, arms raised in triumph. The commentator is already building toward it, his voice reaching crescendo about Cas’s “magnificent victory” and “the glory of Victora.”
But Cas just stands there. Swaying slightly. Looking down at what he’s done.
Then his legs buckle. He sits down hard on the arena floor, the Deathball rolling from his numb fingers.
Beside me, Marco groans, clearly pissed Cas isn’t going to perform like he’s been instructed to.
I want to punch him.
The commentator falters for just a moment before recovering. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears our victor needs a moment to… absorb the magnitude of his achievement…”
Two guards appear at the arena’s edge, their blue uniforms stark against the bloodstained sand. They haul Cas to his feet—not gently—and start marching him toward something being wheeled into view. A platform. Purple velvet draped over carved wood, like a throne pulled from some ancient palace.
The sight of Cas being forced onto that ornate seat, still wearing the blood-spattered blacksmith costume, makes the whole thing feel even more grotesque. Like some sick parody of a fairy tale.
Marco sighs heavily, the sound cutting through my focus. Our box door swings open. A guard stands in the doorway, looking at Marco expectantly.
“Duty calls,” Marco says to us, straightening his shoulders as he walks away.
The door clicks shut behind him.
“What? Where’s he going?” I ask, not taking my eyes off Cas.
“Marco has to give a speech,” Max explains. “Champion’s duty. He introduces the winner, talks up their performance, that sort of thing.”
I keep my eyes on Cas being positioned on that ridiculous purple throne. His burned arm hangs limp at his side, angry red welts visible. He needs medical attention. Now. Instead, they’re placing a golden wreath on his head like he’s some conquering hero from a history book.
Cas stares blankly into space, not acknowledging the cheering crowd or the ceremonial nonsense being performed around him. Blood still drips from the Deathball they’ve placed at his feet.
The commentator’s voice blares again, cutting through the noise and my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a real treat for you today! Our four-time reigning champion is going to take the stage to honor our newest victor!”
The crowd erupts. Thousands of voices screaming approval.
“Introducing the Captain of Deathball, the Terror of the Arena, the Undefeated Champion himself…”
My hands press flat against the glass.
“Marco Verus!”
The world tilts.
I stumble backward, hand flying to my mouth. A few of the others glance at me with confused looks, but I can barely acknowledge them with the rushing in my ears.
Verus.
Verus.
No. It’s a coincidence. Has to be. Common name, maybe. Could be anyone.
But even as I think it, pieces start clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Marco’s naturally supreme fighting ability. The way he knew my style from that first day, like he’d seen it before. The way he talks to me when he’s coaching me. He knows what he has to explain, and what he doesn’t.
The timeline.
We only moved to South Atrea a few years back, but I’d heard the stories. The tragic tale of the governor’s eldest son who went to the mainland for a routine supply run and never came back. Missing for five years now.
Five years.
Marco steps onto the platform, and I can’t look away. The crowd’s roar fades to white noise as I study his face with new eyes.
He doesn’t look much like Tomás. But Lucas… how didn’t I realize before how much he looks like Lucas? They have the same face shape. Oval, like their mother’s. The exact same color hair—that thick, dark brown that catches the light.
Lydia’s hair.
The memory slams into me without warning.
“I hear you people think this family runs things here,” the commander calls out. He stands at the base of the rock, arms crossed, that horrible scar pulling at his smile. “That’s cute. Real touching.”
And then, three blades moving as one.
Three bodies, falling from Sentinel Rock.
Tomás. Lydia. Lucas.
All dead. Butchered in front of the island while Marco was here, trapped, forced to fight for the entertainment of the same people who murdered his family.
I grip the glass wall, pressing my face against it as Marco begins to speak. His voice carries across the arena, confident and strong, but I can’t focus on the words. All I can see is that wide smile—the champion’s smile he wears like armor.
He doesn’t know. He has no idea that his family is dead. That Atrea might be completely burnt to the ground.
His desperate need to win. His talk about going home. About this being his final season.
He thinks he’s going back to Atrea. To his family.
When there isn’t a thing left for Marco to return to.