The heavy iron doors of the Arena stood slightly ajar, leaking the scent of black sand and violence into the corridor. Commander Thorne had his hand on the metal, ready to push through and start the bloodshed he so desperately craved.
But then he stopped.
He didn't push. He sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling like a bulldog smelling a cat in the pantry.
"Wait," Thorne grunted, pulling his hand back. He turned to look at Reed, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. "This smells... prepared."
"It's a gladiatorial pit, Commander," Reed said, keeping his face neutral despite the throbbing ache in his ribs where Seraphine had squeezed him earlier. "Preparation is part of the service. We raked the sand just for you."
"Too clean," Thorne muttered. He tapped his gauntlet against the obsidian wall of the Mezzanine hallway. "You want me in that pit. You want me focused on the beast so I don't see what's underneath."
