Miri.
A vision of violence and temptation.
Chains unlatched, gates groaned open, and she stepped barefoot onto the sand. Her skin was bronzed and blood-spattered, sweat-slicked and glowing in the firelight. Her outfit was nothing more than torn leather straps and metal clasps, barely containing her. Her breasts were sheened with sweat, ribs flexing with every breath, thighs painted with grit and gore from a previous kill. Around her throat sat a black collar engraved with violet runes—alive, almost pulsing.
She radiated power and fury, but there was elegance too. She moved like a panther—low, silent, every motion deliberate. Every motion dangerous.
Her opponent, a massive orc wielding dual axes, laughed at the sight of her. "They send me a whore?" he barked.
Miri didn't speak. She just lunged.
The impact was a crack of bone and sand. She was on him in seconds—dodging wild swings, her fingers clawing across his cheek, ripping flesh. The crowd roared as blood sprayed, and Miri took it—drank it in. Her collar glowed dimly, as if absorbing something… darker.
The orc caught her once—flung her across the pit. She landed hard, rolling in blood and dirt. Her outfit shredded on impact—straps snapping, a breast exposed, a gash opening along her thigh. The crowd moaned collectively, a chorus of arousal and awe.
Miri rose slow, feral. Her bare skin glistened, her eyes locked on her enemy, gleaming with something primal. Her hair, black and matted with blood, framed her like a crown of wild flame.
She charged again—this time leaping onto his shoulders, snapping his neck with a twist of her thighs. His body fell like a puppet cut from strings.
Silence. Then thunderous applause.
Miri stood over the corpse, panting. The ruined leather hung from her hips in strips. One strap trailed between her breasts, teasing more than it covered. She turned—slowly—to face the crowd, and in that moment, her eyes locked with Nyxia's.
The world narrowed.
There was no crowd, no cheering, no blood in the sand. Just those eyes. Bright as dying stars. Burning with restrained power. And Nyxia's heart slammed against her ribs like prey realizing it had been spotted by the predator.
She saw her. Not the fighter. Not the star. Not the weapon.
A caged goddess in a collar of chains.
And Miri… smiled.
Something had seized her throat—the ghost of breath, the weight of memory, or perhaps the raw gravity of recognition. Not from past encounters, no. From something deeper. As if her soul, bound to the wild and wounded, recognized Miri not as an opponent, but as a mirror.
Boo leaned forward, whistling low. "Well, damn," she muttered. "Remind me to lose a bet on purpose if it means getting that close to her."
Darj smirked but kept his attention on the pit. Even he, ever the sardonic watcher, seemed… stilled.
Perseus's hand hovered near the hilt of his blade. His posture stiff. "That collar. It's void-etched," he murmured to Nyxia. "It's not just restraint—it's absorption."
"She's being fed on," Nyxia replied, her voice dry, mind racing. "That runework… it's draining whatever she pulls from the crowd. Rage. Lust. Pain."
And somewhere above them, from the private boxes veiled in shadow and silk, Arioch watched.
⸻
One gloved finger traced the rim of his wineglass as his other hand remained folded beneath his chin. His smile, half-lidded and maddening, curved just so. He didn't need to speak to be heard—his presence vibrated across the room like a whispered secret.
Eurydice felt it brush her spine.
She hadn't followed him—Arioch didn't command her. But the moment he vanished into the gloom, she'd known where to go. She took her place near the upper ring of the coliseum, where the silk drapes caught moonlight and turned it into illusions.
He did not look at her again.
Not yet.
But his words hung between them still, a promise and a threat woven into shadow.
Eurydice watched Miri too, the way her strength defied the collar meant to weaken her, the way she owned every moment—even as her body bore the toll of survival. Bruised, half-naked, gored but triumphant, she was beauty twisted into a blade.
And yet… Eurydice saw something more. She saw the ritual hidden in spectacle. The divinity within degradation. And she saw that Miri, even bloodied, still walked as if gods should bow.
That made her dangerous.
That made her useful.
Eurydice's lips parted in a soft, serene smile.
The pit master below gestured for handlers to retrieve the orc's corpse and Miri alike. She didn't resist as they approached. She lifted her arms languidly, allowing the chains to be fastened, letting the crowd see her fully—her nakedness, her power, her suffering, her control.
As they dragged her back through the iron gate, her eyes flicked once more to Nyxia.
Then to Eurydice.
Then she was gone, swallowed into the tunnels like an offering cast into a beast's mouth.
Silence lingered a breath too long.
Then Boo stood up. "I need to know everything about that woman."
Nyxia's hands gripped the railing.
"No," she whispered. "We need to get her out."
The pit handlers hesitated.
It was subtle—only a moment—but Eurydice saw it. So did Nyxia.
One reached for Miri's collar and paused. The other glanced toward the high box, where velvet shadows cloaked a single seated figure. Arioch did not rise. He merely extended one hand and rotated his fingers in a lazy curl.
Permission.
Command.
The handlers obeyed.
Miri groaned as she was hauled upward. Her knees buckled, blood slick against the sand-caked floor. Her skin glowed with a feverish sheen, and her muscles trembled from the aftermath of her last kill. Her collar pulsed erratically—no longer just suppressing, but almost twitching, sparking like a shorting wire.
She expected to be dragged back to her cell.
But the gate turned.
Not toward the tunnels.
Back into the pit.
Her head snapped up.
Confused murmurs rose from the crowd. Even the scent of the air shifted—charged, uncertain. Whispers coiled between gamblers and nobles. That wasn't how it worked. Two fights back to back? No healing? No water? No chance?
The announcer stepped into the spotlight with practiced bravado, his arms raised toward the roaring stands.
"Tonight's final challenge, blessed and bloodied by the gods themselves!" he crowed. "A duo forged in the depths of Shal'Thrakk! Raised in bone pits and suckled on war! Give your worthless cheers for the unstoppable carnage of—"
He swept an arm dramatically toward the newly opened gate as it groaned wide.
"—Gorran the Butcher and his charming sister, Veela the Blade!"
The crowd erupted.
From the shadows stepped a pair carved from nightmares.
Gorran was massive—eight feet tall, his arms tree trunks wrapped in iron bands and smeared with black ash. A serrated blade rested across his shoulders like a twig, and his tusked grin oozed glee.
Veela was lithe but no less dangerous. Her body was a lattice of scars and dark leather straps. Her hair was knotted with bones. A curved dagger danced in each hand, and her eyes held the same dead amusement as her brother's.
They did not speak.
They didn't have to.
They walked like wolves into a pasture.
The announcer turned back toward the gate where handlers were dragging Miri—limping, bloody, stripped of dignity but never of power—and faltered.
His brows furrowed. He leaned toward the slate in his hands.
"Uh… next contender… is… no, that can't be right."
He blinked. Read it again.
"Miri… again?"
A stunned hush dropped across the stands.
The announcer paled.
"This—this must be a mistake."
From above, a voice slid through the chamber—not spoken aloud, but whispered through minds like silk pulled across teeth.
<"It's not.">
Arioch's voice curled around the coliseum like smoke.
"Begin."