Arena Master's Pov
Going back to the pack's lands felt like placing a mountain of stone upon my soul.
But I had no choice. I had to go. I had to fulfill the blood-soaked part of the agreement I had made—to sharpen my blade as an executioner once more.
I dressed in silence. As I fastened each piece of my armor, I stared at the hollow man in the mirror. By the time I reached the pack house, no one would meet my gaze. What I saw in their eyes was not fear. Not even hatred.
It was disgust.
To them, I was no longer a brother—only a shadow who had sold his soul to witches.
"One more warrior died," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, empty.
"So that you may continue to breathe."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Now," I continued, "I need an honorable one to take his place."
"KURBAN!"
The shout tore through the hall.
"You want another sacrifice!" a voice screamed, raw with hatred.
"Another piece of flesh to entertain witches and wealthy vermin!"
Normally, I would have made him pay for those words.
Instead, I met his eyes.
"I said honorable warriors," I hissed coldly.
"Not filthy dogs."
The humiliation cut deeper than any silver whip. Silence fell.
A young male—barely eighteen, trembling—stepped forward. I accepted him. I knew he wouldn't last two days in the arena.
As I turned to leave, that scent reached me again.
Fresh flowers. Spring.
Beautiful. Impossible.
For a brief moment, my steps faltered.
Then duty pulled me back.
⸻
The Arena
By the time the arena filled, the hunger in the stands had become tangible. The Queen herself was present tonight. Because of that, a special spectacle had been prepared—one where witches would take center stage.
Three massive wolves were dragged into the sand, bound in heavy chains.
Eighteen years ago, creatures like these would have forced witches to hide behind layers of talismans. Now, the artificial gleam in their eyes proved their souls were shackled by spells.
"Warriors, take your positions!"
The chains loosened. Claws tore into the sand.
Then she appeared.
Hecate's Executioner.
Her armor was black obsidian, exposing more flesh than it protected. She looked less like a warrior and more like an angel of death. Purple light pulsed through her veins, and her long black hair moved as if alive. The silver whip in her hand pulsed in perfect rhythm with the stones buried beneath the arena floor.
"One rule only," she declared.
"Kill—or be killed."
The wolves attacked.
The witch rose into the air, carried by magic. Her whip cracked down on the first wolf—and it froze mid-motion. Black smoke poured from its fur, the stench of burning flesh filling the arena. Within seconds, it was engulfed in flames. Its scream echoed against the stone walls.
No one covered their ears.
The second wolf lunged. The witch merely raised her hand.
Flesh separated from bone.
The brutality was so swift the wolf never had time to cry out.
The third wolf tried to flee.
Some in the crowd screamed in delight. Others in fear.
The witch let it run.
She toyed with it, like a cat with a doomed mouse. Then her whip snapped around its neck, lifting the wolf into the air with her. The silver burned through fur, skin, bone. One final motion—
The head tore free.
Silence fell.
Then applause erupted—late, uneven, shocked—before swelling into a blood-drunk symphony. The witch looked at me and smiled.
This was no performance.
It was humiliation.
"Bring in the next warrior," I commanded.
⸻
Soren entered the arena.
Old—but still imposing. His eyes held no fear, only acceptance. After what he had just witnessed, he had already made peace with what was to come.
The witch rose again, clearly intent on prolonging the spectacle.
Soren did not attack.
He stood still, as if refusing to play this game.
I slipped into his mind.
One word.
"FAMILY."
He moved instantly.
The whip grazed his leg; a low growl tore from his throat, but he did not stop. With a powerful leap, he lunged for her throat. She struck his nose with the handle of the whip, sending him crashing into the sand.
The crowd roared.
"KILL! KILL! KILL!"
The witch raised her whip for the final blow.
And then—
The world stopped.
The stones embedded in the arena darkened all at once. The agonized howls of thousands of trapped wolves exploded outward, a physical wave of pain that shook the stands. The witch's smug smile shattered into pure terror.
The stones cracked.
They could no longer contain what was bound inside them.
And for the first time in eighteen years, something slipped beyond my control.
Darkness swallowed everything.