Chapter 16 Forla
FORLA
The arena holds its breath.
Below in the sand, Thoktar and Rophan face each other like statues carved from violence itself.
The minotaur's massive frame dwarfs my love, all eight feet of muscle and horn and barely-contained madness.
Blood still drips from his knuckles where he casually murdered that spectator, and his eyes.
.. gods, his eyes hold nothing but endless rage.
Thoktar looks so small beside him. Too thin, too wounded, too human despite his orcish strength. The sword in his hands might as well be a toothpick for all the good it will do against that monster.
"Magnificent, isn't he?" The woman beside me—some merchant's wife—leans forward eagerly. "Forty-three kills and counting. I've got fifty silver on him finishing the orc in under five minutes."
I force myself to nod, to smile like I'm not watching the man I love prepare to die. "Quite the spectacle."
My hands clench in my lap, hidden beneath my expensive cloak. Every fiber of my being screams to run down there, to throw myself between them, to do something other than sit here playing the role of entertainer while Thoktar faces this nightmare alone.
But Nazim's plan requires patience. Timing. And trust that Thoktar can survive long enough for us to act.
Around me, the crowd grows restless. They want blood, want action, want to see their champion tear apart fresh meat. The betting is fierce—most backing Rophan for a quick kill, a few optimists wagering on the orc lasting more than ten minutes.
None of them bet on Thoktar winning. Why would they? He's facing a legend.
In Gospar's box, the arena master raises his hand. "Begin!"
Rophan moves like a landslide.
The minotaur's charge shakes the ground, his hooves thundering against the sand as he lowers those massive horns. Thoktar dives aside at the last possible moment, the horn tips missing him by inches. The crowd roars approval—they love it when prey fights back.
Rophan wheels around with surprising grace for something so large, already launching into another attack. This time Thoktar's ready, his shield coming up to deflect a crushing blow from the minotaur's fist. The impact sends him skidding backward, but he keeps his feet.
"Dance, little orc!" someone shouts from the stands. "Make it interesting!"
My nails dig into my palms hard enough to draw blood. This isn't entertainment—this is torture. Watching Thoktar fight for his life while a thousand voices cheer for his death is more agony than anything I endured as a slave.
Beside me, Nazim shifts slightly. His hood conceals his expression, but I see the tension in his coiled muscles. He's studying the arena, the guards, the crowd flow. Mapping our route for when the time comes.
Because it will come. Whatever happens down there, we're getting Thoktar out. Even if I have to burn this whole place to the ground.
Rophan swings a massive fist, and Thoktar barely ducks under it. The minotaur's follow-up knee catches him in the ribs, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying. He hits the arena wall hard enough to crack stone, then slides down into the sand.
"Get up," I whisper, too quietly for anyone to hear. "Please, get up."
He does, spitting blood but still moving. Still fighting. The crowd boos—they wanted that to be the end. Wanted to see bones break and organs rupture.
"Tough little bastard," the merchant's wife observes. "Might last six minutes after all."
Thoktar circles now, keeping his distance, using his speed advantage. Smart. But he can't run forever, and every exchange chips away at his strength while Rophan seems inexhaustible.
The minotaur charges again, and this time Thoktar doesn't dodge. Instead he drops low, sword flashing up toward Rophan's belly. The blade finds flesh, drawing a line of crimson across the champion's abdomen, and the crowd goes wild.
"First blood!" Gospar's amplified voice booms across the arena. "The orc draws first blood!"
But Rophan doesn't even seem to notice the wound. If anything, the pain just makes him angrier. He backhands Thoktar across the arena like swatting a fly, and this time my love doesn't get up quite as quickly.
I scan the arena's security layout while trying to look like I'm just caught up in the spectacle.
Six guards at the main entrances, four more positioned around the arena floor, two flanking Gospar's box.
During a normal fight, their attention would be on crowd control, watching for pickpockets and troublemakers.
But this isn't a normal fight. Half the guards are focused entirely on Rophan, clearly nervous about his earlier display of random violence. That leaves gaps. Opportunities.
Nazim catches my eye and nods almost imperceptibly. He's spotted them too.
Down in the sand, Thoktar rolls away from another crushing stomp that would have pulverized his skull. He's bleeding from a dozen small cuts now, his movements a little slower, a little less precise. But he's still fighting, still thinking, still refusing to just lie down and die for these animals.
"Come on, orc!" a drunk man yells. "Fight like you mean it!"
If only they knew. If only they understood what honor looks like, what real courage means. Thoktar is facing certain death and still he holds to his principles, still he fights clean while his opponent is a mindless engine of destruction.
Rophan's next charge catches Thoktar off-guard. Those massive arms wrap around the orc's torso, lifting him from his feet in a crushing bear hug. I can hear ribs creaking from here, see the pain etched across Thoktar's face as the minotaur's strength threatens to snap his spine.
The crowd is on its feet now, screaming for the kill.
But Thoktar still has his sword. He drives the pommel down between Rophan's horns, once, twice, three times. Not enough to seriously wound but enough to make the minotaur loosen his grip. Thoktar slips free and staggers back, gasping.
"Smart," I breathe. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised the entire arena can't hear it. "Stay smart."
They circle each other again, predator and prey, though I'm no longer entirely sure which is which. Rophan has the size and strength and unstoppable fury, but Thoktar has something the minotaur lost long ago—the ability to think, to plan, to adapt.
"Now?" Nazim murmurs, so quietly only I can hear.
"Not yet." I watch the guards, counting their positions, timing their movements. "Wait for..."
Rophan lunges forward with a roar that shakes the arena walls. Thoktar sidesteps, but this time he doesn't retreat. Instead he pivots, using the minotaur's momentum against him, and drives his shoulder into Rophan's knee.
There's a wet, cracking sound, and suddenly the unstoppable champion is limping.
The crowd's cheers falter slightly. This isn't going according to script. Their invincible monster is supposed to dominate, not struggle against some half-starved orc gladiator.
But Rophan's injury just makes him wilder. He swings his fists like clubs, no longer caring about technique or precision. Just raw, animalistic fury seeking something to destroy.
One of those wild swings connects with Thoktar's shield, shattering it completely and sending him sprawling. The minotaur follows up immediately, trying to crush his opponent beneath those massive hooves.
Thoktar rolls desperately, sand flying, each stomp missing him by inches. But he's tiring, slowing, and Rophan is relentless despite his injured knee.
A hoof clips Thoktar's shoulder, spinning him around and leaving him stunned for a crucial moment. Rophan sees the opening and pounces, tackling the orc to the ground with bone-jarring force.
The crowd explodes in bloodthirsty celebration. This is what they came to see—their champion pinning his prey, preparing for the killing blow.
But something's wrong. As the seconds tick by, Rophan doesn't deliver the final strike. He just holds Thoktar down, his massive chest heaving, those mad eyes staring down at his captive with something that almost looks like confusion.
"What's he waiting for?" the merchant's wife demands. "Finish him!"
That's when I see it. Thoktar's lips are moving, saying something only Rophan can hear. The minotaur's head tilts slightly, as if straining to understand words that should be impossible to comprehend.
"Now," I whisper to Nazim.
He nods and stands abruptly, shoving the drunk man beside him. "Watch where you're putting your hands, you pig!"
"I didn't touch you!" the drunk protests.
"Liar!" Nazim shoves him harder, and the man stumbles into the row behind him, spilling wine across an expensively dressed woman.
"My dress!" she shrieks, turning on the drunk with fury. "You clumsy oaf!"
"It wasn't me, it was the snake!"
And just like that, the carefully orchestrated brawl begins. Fists start flying, voices rise in anger, and within moments half the section is embroiled in chaos. Guards start moving toward the disturbance, shouting for order.
Perfect.
I rise from my seat and begin moving toward the arena floor, just another concerned patron trying to escape the violence. No one notices me slip past the distracted guards, down the service stairs that lead to the holding areas.
But as I reach the edge of the arena level, I pause for one last look at the sand below.
Thoktar still has Rophan pinned beneath him somehow, the massive orc's struggles growing weaker.