The gate behind Soren slammed shut, shaking the ground while the noise of the crowd dulled to just the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

  His eyes focused on the man across from him.

  Brek had broad shoulders, and his body was thick with muscle. His fur coat hung from him like a trophy, and a half skull mask covered the upper half of his face. The bone was bleached and carved to fit, with hollow eye sockets darkened by its shadow.

  His axe rested across one shoulder as if it were nothing more than a toy to him.

  The crowd shifted with unease as he entered, his reputation preceded him. Brek was a savage in every sense of the word. He was known to be ruthless in combat, and undefeated across the last three tournaments.

  Soren’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

  "I’m not ready for this."

  He adjusted his grip on his sword again, while trying to force his breathing to slow. He was nervous, he wouldn’t lie to himself about that. His palms were damp from sweat, and there was a tightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  But beneath his worry sat something more potent than his fear.

  This tournament mattered. Winning here was more important to him than anyone else.

  He could not afford to fall.

  Brek stopped a few paces away from him, looking him up and down.

  “You’re lighter than I expected,” he said, voice low but easy. “Whoever organized this fight did you no favours.”

  He grinned mockingly, staring at Soren with a sick amusement. No one moved after he spoke.

  Then Soren took a step forward, and met his gaze with defiance.

  “I didn’t ask anyone for favours.”

  A faint sound left Brek’s throat, not exactly a laugh.

  The match’s signal sounded.

  Brek's first step dug into the sand with force, and his axe came down in a vertical arc that felt like a building about to collapse.

  Soren shifted to the side quickly, barely missing the blade’s edge. The metal struck the arena floor with a loud crack that ran through the sand and into the stone beneath.

  The shock of it reverberated up through Soren’s legs and through his spine.

  Brek’s second strike came before the dust had even settled, this one horizontal and lower, in line with Soren’s neck. He dodged to the side, but the edge still sliced his shoulder as it passed.

  He felt the warmth spread down his arm first. Then the burning pain that came with it.

  The crowd reacted audibly now, with gasps and cheers.

  “That’s bad,” Jorge muttered from the stands as he leaned forward. “Too many of those and he’ll be out in no time.”

  Remi’s jaw tightened, trying to control her worry. “He just needs to last long enough for the match to be called a draw.”

  Faris shook his head slowly, concern etched across his features.

  “You don’t ‘last’ against someone like that.”

  Below them, Brek was advancing with an uncomfortable calm, like someone who had done this countless times before, and emerged victorious.

  He didn’t chase Soren across the arena. Instead, he was guided by every swing of Brek’s axe, being forced into a permanent defensive position.

  Every time the axe came down, Soren was forced to reposition. Every step Brek took toward him narrowed his space.

  The axe was not just a weapon. It was territory, dictating the distance between them and limiting Soren’s movement.

  Soren struck once, testing the gap between the heavy swings. His blade collided with the hilt of the axe, sending a vibration that traveled up his arm and nearly tearing the sword from his grip.

  Brek did not even glance at him, breaking the deadlock and kicking him back. Soren’s feet skid across the sand, his eyes wide from the kick as he looked up at Brek.

  “You’re quick,” he said. “But you don’t have the strength, or the drive for this.”

  The back end of the axe quickly met Soren’s ribs with a cracking sound. The impact lifted him off his feet, driving the air out from his lungs in a violent rush. He hit the sand hard, dust rising as he rolled on instinct, barely avoiding the next downward attack that split the ground where his chest had been seconds before.

  He forced himself upright, coughing slightly as he spat blood out onto the ground.

  “Even someone like you has a pattern.”

  Soren had been observing since the fight began. Brek favoured his right side when he went in for heavier strikes. There was also a slight drag in his left foot before he would do sweeping attacks.

  After every horizontal swing, there were a few seconds where he rolled his shoulders back, resetting for the next attack.

  Soren waited for it, eyes darting as he watched Brek’s body and the axe simultaneously.

  “One. Two. Three—”

  He lunged at the last second, propelling himself forward.

  Brek stepped inside his guard instead, looking down at him with a menacing grin for a fraction of a second, before propelling his head forward.

  The skull mask slammed forward into Soren’s face. Bone met his flesh with a sickening crack, and white burst across Soren’s vision on impact.

  Before he could recover, the handle of the axe drove into his stomach and folded him in half, causing him to cough up even more blood that splattered across the sand.

  His hand rested on his stomach as he dropped to his knees, his eyes wide while his chest heaved from pain and shock.

  “You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Brek roared with a wild smirk.

  The next kick landed on the side of his face, snapping his head to the side and sending him skidding across the sand, covering him in dust and blood.

  In the stands, Elise watched with narrowed and fearful eyes, gripping the railing tighter without realizing it.

  “That kid is gonna die out there,” Jorge muttered in barely controlled anger. “This was never a fair fight!”

  Remi didn’t answer him. Her hands were clenching so tightly that her knuckles had gone pale.

  On the arena floor, Soren weakly pushed himself up again. Blood ran from his nose and into his mouth, and he had a cut across his cheek. His shoulder burned from the earlier slash, and his ribs ached with every breath he took.

  Surprisingly, Brek didn’t choose to advance his attack immediately. He walked over to Soren with heavy steps as he gripped his axe with both hands

  “Whoever signed you up for this,” Brek continued as he closed the distance, “should’ve waited a year. Maybe two.”

  The axe was brought up slowly, before descending again.

  Soren desperately brought his sword up in both hands, causing the two blades to ring through the arena and sparks flew in his face. The impact drove him flat onto his stomach, his face in the ground while his arms were sprawled across the sand.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  His grip had failed under Brek’s axe, which caused the blade to spin from his fingers and land several feet away.

  He didn't move after that.

  The arena went quiet once the dust had settled.

  Brek stood over him for a moment, his chest rising steadily as he let out heavy breaths. His eyes didn’t leave Soren, as if he was deciding whether there was anything left worth breaking.

  “I told you it wasn’t going to be fair,” he said, his voice lower now without any of the earlier amusement.

  He stepped back, turning slightly toward the center of the arena. He looked amongst the crowd, lifting his axe in the air just enough to signal the obvious conclusion.

  He had won, after all.

  But the announcement did not come.

  Instead—

  A rasping breath came from behind him.

  A sound of sand shifting.

  Brek gripped his axe on instinct, and turned around slowly.

  Soren was on his teeth.

  One leg shook violently beneath him. Blood covered his lower face, soaked through his clothing, and ran down his right arm. His left eye was swollen, half-closed.

  He swayed slightly, but he was standing.

  The crowd gasped as one, in both awe and horror.

  “Stay down,” Faris whispered, pleading under his breath.

  Brek stared at him in as much shock and confusion as the onlookers themselves.

  “You don’t understand,” he said finally, his tone surprisingly reasonable. “There’s no shame in losing here.”

  Soren’s leg continued to shake violently, before he bent over suddenly. His body still swayed as he picked up his sword, and straightened with visible effort. His head finally rose before staring at Brek, his functioning eye wide and manic-looking.

  “There is,” he answered hoarsely.

  Brek’s expression hardened under his mask. He moved again, with more intensity than he had shown throughout the whole match.

  The axe’s handle crashed into Soren’s side, causing flesh to give in under wood. Something cracked when it landed, a sound Soren felt more than he heard. The pain was blinding, blurring his vision and tearing across his torso.

  But he didn’t fall.

  The next blow crashed against his back as he tried to step inside the swing. He staggered back weakly, caught himself, and drove forward instead of retreating.

  He had stopped trying to read.

  Stopped waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  When Brek’s blade came down again, he didn’t dodge fully. The blade bit into his already injured shoulder, shallow but brutal, and he used the close proximity to thrust his sword into Brek’s abdomen beneath the fur lining.

  Not deep, but enough.

  Brek grunted in surprise, his eyes going wide for a moment before he brought his arm down and slammed his elbow into Soren’s jaw. Teeth clicked together as blood filled his mouth and spilled from his lips.

  He tasted its metallic tinge, feeling it run down his throat. Something in him tightened, as his gaze hardened, eyes narrowing.

  Though this time, it was not because of fear.

  Brek swung again, and Soren quickly stepped into the arc, ignoring the way his vision flickered as he moved.

  He hacked at Brek’s thigh, slamming his blade into muscle as blood poured down his leg. Then he slashed at his forearm repeatedly, causing Brek to scream in pure rage from the pain, as his grip around the axe loosened .

  The fight had changed by this point.

  It stopped looking like a contest and more like a rabid mauling.

  Soren endured blows he normally would have tried to avoid. Each one bent his flesh, split his skin, and deepened the red soaking into the sand. But he stayed close, denying Brek the space his axe had previously demanded. He slashed his opponent wildly in small motions, against his wrist, below his ribs, and inside his elbow.

  “He’s fighting like an animal,” Faris said as he let out a shaky breath

  Remi shook her head softly, her eyes distant and unable to comprehend what she was seeing .

  “No,” she said softly. “He’s fighting like someone who can’t afford to lose.”

  Brek’s swings grew tighter, seemingly harder for him to extend fully. Blood seeped from beneath his coat now, dripping into the sand and into Soren’s own blood.

  When he tried to create distance, Soren grabbed his coat with an adrenaline-fueled grip, propelled himself forward with everything he had left, and drove his blade upward beneath his ribs.

  This time it went deeper.

  Brek’s grip faltered as blood spilled from the blade's entry point, and began to run down from his mouth.

  The axe slipped from his limp hand and thudded into the sand.

  He dropped to his knees, head lowered and arms hanging loosely.

  A heavy silence fell over the arena and all its inhabitants.

  Soren stood over him, barely upright himself. Blood dripped from his chin and from his fingertips. His breathing was uneven and ragged sounding, but his eyes were wide and steady.

  They were cold.

  Brek looked up at him slowly, genuine shock visible in his eyes even beneath the skull mask.

  “You… should be down,” he said weakly, choking the words out.

  Soren stared at him, lowering the edge of his sword until it rested against his neck.

  “You were wrong,” he murmured with an uneasy softness. “It wasn’t unfair.”

  Neither of them moved after he spoke. Then the announcer’s voice rang out, shattering the stillness.

  “VICTORY! SOREN TAYLOR OF THE HOLLOW STAG!”

  The crowd exploded with applause and cheers.

  Sound crashed over the arena, awe and disbelief colliding into something almost hysterical sounding. People stood up as they clapped, and conversations erupted amongst even the most unlikely of people.

  In the stands, Jorge exhaled with utter disbelief. “He’s insane.”

  Faris didn’t look away from the arena, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Brek. Elise looked at Soren instead, like she saw something she never expected to see in him.

  Asta’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open before she finally spoke. “Where… where did you find this boy?”

  Remi finally released the railing.

  “He found us,” she said as her arms crossed over her chest.

  There was something unsettling in her eyes as she watched Soren remain standing there, blood-soaked and unmoving, long after the crowd’s noise had reached its peak.

  Below, Soren looked at his blade for a moment. He didn’t raise it to the crowd. He didn’t even look at them.

  He simply stood over Brek’s injured form, chest rising and falling with exhaustion.

  The fight had not been about victory at all. It was about survival.

  The survival of someone other than himself.

  The roars of the crowd still echoed even as he stumbled off the arena floor, his steps uneven and his legs burning.

  The name Soren Taylor of the Hollow Stag Company was still ringing over the loudspeakers, called out with disbelief and awe as those who had witnessed the fight cheered as he made his way back to the gate.

  His sword dragged slightly in the dirt behind him, his knuckles scraped raw and covered in drying blood.

  The hallway leading into the coliseum area was cooler than earlier, and a bit dimmer. The roaring faded into a distant hum as the gate slammed shut once again. He exhaled a shaky breath and leaned against the wall, sweat dripping from his jaw.

  Brek had delivered, but his mind kept replaying it. How he’d changed the battle’s outcome. How he won.

  He heard distant footsteps from down the corridor.

  “Are you… okay?”

  It was Elise. Her arms were crossed, eyes flicking over the bruises and cuts on his face and arms, as well as his damaged armour. Her voice came again, with a concern in her tone he had heard from her before, at least not directed at him.

  “You… you looked like you were getting your ribs shattered.”

  Soren glanced at her for a moment, before giving a weak, crooked smile. “It felt like it too.”

  Behind her came Jorge, clapping a large hand on his shoulder, not gentle at all. “You won, kid. Brek is a beast. I’ve seen grown mercs give up after two hits from him.”

  Soren winced under the weight of the hand, but there was pride in his eyes. At least, the eye that wasn’t shut closed.

  “I didn’t… have a choice.”

  Remi stepped forward, her staff tapping once against the stone floor as she approached. Her pink hair was loose, and he couldn’t quite make out her expression.

  “Don’t do that again.”

  There was something hidden in her gaze. Concern, yes, but also a bit of pride. Maybe even relief.

  She placed a glowing hand over a bruise forming on his arm, and a gentle warmth pulsed through him.

  “This isn’t going to do much. We need to take you to the official healers, and you might be in recovery for a day or two. Brek has already been taken in.”

  He nodded weakly, closing his eyes for a moment as he relaxed into the sensation.

  “You didn’t freeze,” she said finally, offering a faint smile.

  Soren opened his eyes. He hadn’t even thought about that.

  “I won’t… not when I still have to reach Eirland.” He said softly, voice strained.

  Remi looked at him for a long moment, then smiled again and hugged him. It was brief, and honestly a little awkward, but it was genuine. The group made their way towards a designated path for participants to exit without having to deal with the crowd.

  “We’re all proud of you Soren,” Faris added, as they continued their way up the coliseum.

  They then passed through the upper levels, where the nobles and diplomats sat.

  “A lot of very important people were watching.”

  Soren followed his gaze toward a balcony to their right that overlooked the arena.

  The Valenne booth, still occupied and guarded by knights. Serana Valenne stood tall there, hands clasped behind her back as she watched the arena quietly.

  Soren nodded slowly, glancing weakly at her figure one last time.

  —

  Soren’s room was painted in a warm hue, and muffled sounds of music and celebration drifting through the window. He sat on his bed, shirt off with bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. Healers had come earlier, and were to check on him every few hours.

  His sword leaned against the wall, now clean, and catching the pink-orange hue from the sunset outside. He leaned back carefully after a moment, staring at the sky.

  Down the hall, the others were laughing softly and chatting. Elise was reading something aloud, while Jorge bellowed in response. Faris made a dry remark and Remi giggled softly. It felt as if the warmth and comfort of their voices carried into the room.

  Soren groaned slightly, then let his eyes close, one thought lingering in his mind.

  “I’m not done yet. Not nearly.”

  Once, I was the Shepherd of Souls. Now, I am forced to rule them.

  I was the Silent Hunter. A Reaper who guided the lost to the other side. I had no name. No emotions. No mercy. I was a necessity. Void of self. A tool of the Cycle. Until the Emperor pulled me from the void and stuffed me into the body of his son.

  Now, I am Voss Truechild. A Prince of the Empire. A Manaborn noble expected to wield the light of civilization. I have a name, a title, and a fragile mortal shell. But my soul is still that of a Reaper.

  And the Empire is rotting. The Damned are rising, twisting the laws of life and death for their own ambition. They think they are predators. They think the Empire is their hunting ground.

  They are wrong. The Reaper has returned. And I will set the balance right.