The arena was still buzzing from the first fight. Aiden stood in the center, the dust settling around him, the sting of the cut on his arm a dull throb. He watched as Rina was escorted through a side gate, her small form disappearing from sight. One. He had saved one.
The Hunter Chief rose from his bone throne, his face a mask of grim approval. "The prince has teeth! But can he bite twice?" He turned to the line of remaining "brides." His gaze lingered on Eira, a predatory glint in his eyes. "For this next round... a prize worthy of a true warrior."
A tall, slender man stepped into the arena. He moved with a liquid grace, a stark contrast to the first brute. He was dressed in tight-fitting black leather, and in each hand, he held a long, curved scimitar. He was handsome in a cruel, sharp-featured way, and he wore a thin, razor-sharp smile that never quite reached his cold, dark eyes.
The man bowed to the Chief, then turned his unnerving gaze on Aiden. "An impressive victory against that oaf," he said, his voice a smooth, silken poison. "But I am not an oaf." He then looked past Aiden, his eyes fixing on Eira. "And when I win, I will claim my prize. The elf. I've always wanted one. Their skin is so... pale. And they break so beautifully."
Aiden felt a flicker of anger, but he stamped it out. This was a tactic. A provocation. The old Aiden would have had a dozen sarcastic retorts. The new Aiden simply stared back, his expression blank. He didn't care about the man's words. He only cared about the two swords in his hands.
Eira, for her part, showed no fear. Her face was a calm, placid mask, but her eyes, when they met Aiden's, were like chips of ice. She was a variable, a factor in this equation, and she was calculating the odds.
"Begin!" the Chief roared.
The Blade, as Aiden mentally dubbed him, didn't charge. He began to circle, his scimitars weaving an intricate, hypnotic pattern in the air. He was a performer, and the crowd was his audience. He was waiting for Aiden to make the first move.
Aiden didn't. He stood his ground, his sword held in a simple, ready guard. He was the rock. Let the river flow around him.
"Scared, little prince?" the Blade taunted, his smile widening. "Don't worry. I'll make it quick. I want to get to my wedding night."
Still, Aiden didn't move. He watched the man's feet, the rhythm of his dance, the way his wrists moved. He was looking for a pattern, a flaw in the performance.
Growing impatient, the Blade attacked. It was a whirlwind of steel. The two scimitars became a blur of motion, a storm of slashing cuts and thrusts designed to overwhelm and confuse. The sound of metal on metal filled the air as Aiden parried and blocked, his feet moving in a careful, defensive circle. He was giving ground, letting the man expend his energy. The crowd roared, thinking they were seeing a dominant performance.
"You're good at running away!" the Blade sneered, launching a particularly complex spinning attack.
That was the mistake.
It was all for show. The spin was flashy, but it left him momentarily unbalanced and exposed. As he came around, his left side was completely open for a fraction of a second.
Aiden didn't hesitate. He exploded forward. He didn't aim for the man's body. He aimed for his weapon. With a sharp, precise strike, the flat of Aiden's blade connected with the hilt of the Blade's left scimitar.
There was a clang of steel, a cry of pain, and one of the scimitars went flying through the air, landing point-down in the dirt twenty feet away.
The Blade stared at his empty hand, his arrogant smile finally gone, replaced by pure shock. He was disarmed. He was vulnerable.
Before he could react, Aiden was inside his guard. He didn't go for a killing blow. He swept the man's legs out from under him. The Blade fell to the dirt with a grunt. Aiden was on him in an instant, the tip of his sword pressed against the man's throat.
"I yield," the Blade choked out, his face pale with fear. "I yield!"
Silence. The crowd was stunned. The flashy performer had been taken down by a single, simple move.
The Chief stood up, his face a thundercloud of fury and reluctant respect. He gave a sharp nod.
A guard moved forward and unchained Eira. She walked with her head held high, not even glancing at the defeated man at Aiden's feet. As she passed Aiden on her way to the gate, she stopped for a brief second and gave him a single, solemn nod. It was more thanks than he had ever received from anyone.
Two down. Three to go.
Aiden watched her go, then looked at the remaining three figures in white. Lyra's fiery glare, Talia's defiant stare, Seraphine's pale, watchful face. He was breathing heavily now, the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving a deep, bone-weary ache in its place. He had won again, but the fights were getting more personal. And he was getting tired.
The arena floor was stained with dirt and sweat. Aiden's breath came in ragged gasps, the cut on his arm screaming in protest. Two down. The thought was a small, cold comfort against the exhaustion that was beginning to seep into his bones.
The Hunter Chief stood, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "The prince is clever! But cleverness does not stop a club. Or two." He raised his voice, addressing the crowd. "Let's see how he fares against the Gronk Brothers!"
Two figures stomped into the arena. They were orcs, massive green-skinned mountains of muscle, each one wider than Aiden was tall. Small, piggy eyes glared from beneath heavy brows, and thick tusks jutting from their lower jaws dripped with saliva. In their hands, they wielded crude, enormous greatswords that looked like they were forged from slabs of iron.
The larger of the two pointed a thick, grimy finger directly at Rina. "We want the little one," he grunted, his voice like rocks grinding together. "She looks soft. She'll make a good wife."
The other orc laughed, a disgusting, guttural sound. "For a while."
Rina let out a terrified shriek, scrambling back against her chains. "No! Please, no! I don't want to marry an orc!" Her voice was thin and desperate, a needle of pure fear that pierced Aiden's heart.
Something inside Aiden snapped. The cold, tactical part of his brain was overruled by a hot, protective rage. These... things... wanted Rina. The cheerful, clumsy, kind-hearted girl who made soup and prayed for her grandmother. The thought was obscene.
"BEGIN!" the Chief roared, his voice filled with glee.
The orcs didn't have strategy. They had momentum. They charged side-by-side, a wall of green flesh and swinging steel. There was no finesse, no artistry—just brute, overwhelming force.
Aiden dodged to the left, the first greatsword smashing into the dirt where he had just been standing, sending up a shower of dust. He immediately had to parry the second orc's horizontal swing, the impact nearly wrenching the sword from his hand. The sheer force was staggering. He was like a man trying to stop a landslide.
He was forced back, his feet sliding in the dirt. He couldn't block them head-on. He was faster, but they were everywhere at once. One orc would swing high, forcing him to duck, while the other would swing low, forcing him to leap. It was a brutal, punishing rhythm.
He managed a quick counter-thrust, slicing a shallow gash across the first orc's arm. The orc didn't even flinch. He just grunted and swung back even harder.
They were wearing him down. His muscles burned, his lungs screamed for air. He made a mistake. He dodged a swing from the orc on the right, but he didn't see the other one circling around behind him.
A massive, club-like fist slammed into his back.
Aiden cried out, the air driven from his lungs. He flew forward, crashing to the ground in a heap. His sword skittered out of his reach. The world spun. He could hear the crowd's bloodthirsty roar, Rina's sobbing screams.
The first orc stood over him, raising his greatsword high for the final blow. The shadow fell over Aiden. This was it. He had failed.
But as the sword began to fall, Aiden, acting on pure instinct, kicked out with all his remaining strength. His boot connected with the orc's knee. There was a loud crack, and the orc bellowed in pain, his swing going wild as he collapsed.
The second orc, seeing his brother fall, let out a roar of rage and charged blindly.
It was the opening Aiden needed.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his back. He didn't go for his sword. He ran straight at the charging orc. At the last second, he dropped into a slide, sliding through the orc's legs and popping up behind him.
The orc, confused, tried to turn. But he was too slow. Aiden launched himself onto the orc's back, wrapping his arms around the creature's thick neck. The orc flailed, trying to dislodge him, but Aiden held on with the desperate strength of a man who had nothing left to lose. He squeezed, his entire being focused on this one task.
The orc's flailing became weaker. He dropped his sword with a clatter and sank to his knees, then fell forward, unconscious.
Aiden rolled off him, gasping for air, his body screaming in protest. The first orc was still on the ground, clutching his broken knee, whimpering.
Silence.
The entire arena was silent. They had just watched their two massive champions be taken down by a exhausted, bloody prince.
The Chief slowly rose from his throne, his face a mask of disbelief and fury. With a snarl of disgust, he waved a dismissive hand.
A guard, looking almost frightened, unchained a sobbing, hysterical Rina and quickly led her away.
Aiden watched her go, then collapsed to one knee, his sword lying on the dirt beside him. He had won. But he was broken. He looked up at the remaining two figures in white.
Lyra, her eyes burning with a terrifying, fanatical light. And Seraphine, her face pale and unreadable.
Two more. He didn't know if he had the strength to even stand.