From the perspective of Renner Voss.
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They had called it a "test."
But it was no trial of worth, no noble contest of skill.
It was slaughter.
And the crowd loved it.
Renner stood with his arms folded, leaning against one of the cold, blood-slicked stone walls deep in the underbelly of Esgard, where the Crucible's roots still pulsed like a buried heart.
The iron stench of sweat and copper filled the cavernous pit chamber. Chain-lamps dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting uneven shadows that made the fighters below look more like beasts than men.
He watched as the taller man lunged with a broken spear—missing, barely—and was met with a jagged hook to the ribs.
The weapon tore through skin and muscle like wet parchment. Blood sprayed, hot and red, soaking the sand-black floor. The shorter man didn't even pause to admire his work—he yanked the hook back, spun on his heel, and slammed it again into his opponent's throat.
A sickening crunch.
