It was time.

  The gates of the arena groaned open, and Joran stepped out into the blinding sun. The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave—thousands of voices merging into one unrelenting storm of sound. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His eyes swept the stands once, then fell forward to the sand-covered floor where his opponent waited… or rather, where she would arrive.

  Behind him, the shadows of the inner corridor loomed, and within those shadows, Daurial remained tucked safely inside his cell.

  He had instructed her firmly—stay hidden. No matter how much she wished to watch him fight, no matter how curious or proud she felt, he couldn’t risk it. Even with a collar, someone might recognize her as a slave. And in a place like Korr’s Maw, a lone tiefling girl without an escort would be easy prey for those who saw her as nothing more than a commodity. He couldn’t bear that risk.

  So she stayed. Not in fear, but in trust.

  And Joran had entrusted her with more than herself. For the first time, he’d left behind his most prized belongings—his enchanted cloak, his everforge belt, his voidglass eye, and the small magical pouch he usually kept close. In the first two matches, he had brought them all with him, unwilling to leave anything unguarded in a cell that kept shifting between matches. But with Daurial now there, quietly proud to be of service, he’d trusted her to guard them.

  He felt oddly lighter without the gear—freer, almost.

  His clothes were the same from the previous day, but not in the state they’d been after battle. As soon as he left the cell, he had used a cleansing spell to purge every trace of blood, sweat, and grit from the fabric. The amulet rested coolly against his bare chest beneath his tunic, hidden from view but close as ever. His cloak remained behind. He wanted nothing weighing him down.

  Not today.

  Meanwhile, high in the stands, Sarrak reclined in the same spot he’d claimed for the previous match—hands folded, crimson eyes narrowed as he watched Joran step into the sunlight.

  It wasn’t long before he heard the quiet tread of sandals on stone—light, deliberate, climbing steadily toward him from below.

  “Well, well, well…” Sarrak drawled without looking down. “Look who clawed his way out of the healing ward. Should you really be moving around so soon?”

  Takeda emerged at the edge of his vision, ascending the final steps of the arena stands. The sunlight gleamed off the smooth steel of the katana at his hip. A new dark-blue kimono draped across his bandaged frame, but despite the wrappings and bruises, the ronin carried himself with practiced grace.

  “I insisted they heal me just enough so I could walk,” Takeda replied calmly, lowering himself beside Sarrak with quiet purpose. “I refused to miss this match. Not after what Master Joran has done.”

  Sarrak raised a brow and turned to look at him. “Master Joran?” he echoed. “Don’t tell me the arena’s passing out invisible slave collars now.”

  Takeda didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes locked on the arena floor, where Joran now stood alone, waiting. His voice was steady. Reverent.

  “No. I offer him the highest respect I know. He showed me mercy when he could have slain me. He fought with purpose, not pride. In our match, I found my spirit again—something I believed lost. For that, I will call him Master.”

  Sarrak studied him, caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. He tilted his head slightly, watching the stillness in Takeda’s face, the calm resolve in his tone.

  “Huh,” Sarrak muttered at last. “A little dramatic… but I guess being from another realm lets you get away with that kind of thing.”

  Then his gaze drifted toward the arena again.

  “Wait a second,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Is Joran… looking at us?”

  Takeda smiled faintly, but didn’t answer.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran stood in the heart of the arena, the sun casting long golden rays across the sand as the crowd roared in anticipation. Yet his gaze wasn’t on the gates or the cheering masses. He tilted his chin upward, scanning the tiers of onlookers—faces blurred by distance and shadow—until a glint of familiar blue caught his eye.

  A flash of bright azure silk.

  He focused, narrowing his vision. There, seated in the same place as yesterday, was Takeda—his posture upright, his face calm and composed despite the bandages that wrapped parts of his body. Beside him lounged Sarrak, draped in his usual relaxed sprawl, arms folded, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

  Relief flickered through Joran’s chest. They had come.

  And with that came an idea.

  Joran reached into the small inner pocket of his tunic and withdrew a thin slip of enchanted parchment—barely thicker than a leaf, pure white and faintly glowing. With a touch of his fingers and a subtle pulse of mana, the magic within awakened.

  He crouched slightly, shielding the paper with his body, and brought it close to his lips.

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  “Takeda,” he whispered, the words seeping into the parchment as glowing script appeared across its surface. “There is a tiefling girl in my cell—Daurial. I ask that you escort her to the stands so she may watch. I fear for her safety, but I trust you to protect her. Please… see her safely here.”

  When the message finished writing itself in curling silver ink, Joran whispered another spell—this one older, more delicate. The parchment shimmered, folding in on itself in a flurry of graceful motion until it took the shape of a small paper bird, its wings outstretched, its beak pointed toward the sky.

  Joran held it in both hands for a moment, then blew gently across its back.

  The little bird fluttered to life.

  It took to the air with a soft rustle, wings flapping in slow, graceful strokes as it rose high into the air—twisting and twirling through the currents like a real creature. It soared toward the viewing stands, weaving through banners and over cheering heads, unseen by most, guided by enchantment.

  Joran kept his eyes locked on it, following its path until he saw Takeda glance up and extend a hand calmly.

  The bird landed on his palm with perfect grace.

  Takeda’s brow furrowed slightly as the paper unfolded and returned to its original form—revealing the prince’s handwriting in luminous ink. He read the message silently, then looked up toward Joran.

  Their eyes met across the arena.

  Takeda bowed deeply from where he sat—a gesture of solemn respect—while Sarrak offered a casual wave beside him, as if greeting an old friend from across a tavern. The contrast made Joran’s lips twitch into the faintest smile.

  Without a word, Takeda rose to his feet, adjusted the sword at his side, and began making his way down the stone steps—disappearing into the shadows of the coliseum with purpose in his stride.

  Joran watched until he was gone from sight.

  Then, he turned back toward the arena’s center, rolling his shoulders as he prepared himself.

  “WELCOME BACK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” the announcer’s voice thundered through the arena, “MYTHICS AND MERCENARIES—YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS! IT’S TIME FOR PRINCE JORAN’S THIRD BOUT WITHIN THE SAVAGE SANDS OF THE MAW!”

  The crowd roared, a wall of sound built from every corner of the stands. Joran stood in the arena center, squinting toward the opposite gate as dust swirled around his boots. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, and the dry heat settled like a shroud over the battlefield.

  “NOW THEN—LET US MEET HIS OPPONENT!”

  A low rumble followed the fanfare as the opposing gate began to rise with a grinding hiss of gears. From the shadowed threshold stepped a short, stocky figure—dressed in a tight-fitting bodysuit lined with reinforced seams and strange metal panels. Her coal-black hair was bound in a messy braid streaked with soot and copper wire, and welding goggles rested atop her forehead. She walked with a swagger, her grin impossibly wide as she waved enthusiastically to the crowd.

  “INVENTOR OF KORR’S MAW! TERROR OF THE TESTING CHAMBER! SHE’S KNOWN FOR SHOWCASING HER DEADLY CREATIONS BOTH INSIDE AND OUT—THE FORGE QUEEN! THE GEARMAIDEN! THE MECH MATRON HERSELF… THRAZAAAA IRONSPROCKET!!!”

  The applause was deafening. Somewhere, steam whistles blew. Explosions of colored smoke flared from the upper terraces. Thraza jogged toward the center, practically skipping with excitement as her thick boots kicked up clouds of sand.

  Joran tensed automatically, fists clenching at his sides. His muscles still ached from the previous fight, and his instincts screamed caution. But as the dwarf approached, there was no trace of malice—only uncontained glee dancing in her soot-smudged face.

  “Sooo!” she chirped, stopping in front of him and planting her hands on her hips. “You’re Prince Joran, huh? Gotta say—you’re a lot more interesting up close.”

  Joran blinked, thrown off by her tone. “Oh… um. Thank you?”

  She was shorter than him by at least two feet, but her presence filled the space like a giant. Her grin never faded as she gave him a thorough once-over. “I saw your fight yesterday—whoo! Fire and fists, that was something! You’ve got flair, I’ll give you that.”

  He shifted slightly, unsure how to respond. “You’re… very enthusiastic.”

  “Oh, always! Why shouldn’t I be?” she beamed. “It’s not every day I get to test out my latest baby against a prince!”

  She leaned forward slightly, squinting. “Hmm. But where are your weapons?” she asked, eyes darting around his belt, then to the ground behind him.

  Then her face lit up with sudden realization. “Oh! Ohhh, right! Silly me—I haven’t brought mine out yet!” She smacked her forehead with her palm, leaving a faint smear of grease.

  Thraza turned and pulled up the sleeve of her reinforced bodysuit, revealing a bulky bracer wrapped around her forearm. Dozens of buttons, knobs, switches, and glowing runes were etched into its surface. She rotated a dial, pressed a series of switches in rapid succession, then jabbed her fingers into a final rune that pulsed bright orange.

  A deep, resonating thoom… thoom… thoom rumbled from the gate she had entered through. The ground vibrated with each pulse as something massive stirred behind the walls.

  Joran instinctively stepped back, eyes narrowing.

  Then it came.

  A ten-foot-tall silhouette barreled out of the gate, casting a long shadow across the arena sand. Its limbs hissed with steam-powered hydraulics, and the earth shook beneath its thudding steps. The automaton was humanoid in design—broad-shouldered with armor-plated limbs and a barrel chest—but its head resembled the sharp, snarling shape of a mechanical wolf, complete with glowing eyes and a snout that hissed steam like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils.

  It slid to a sudden halt beside Thraza, the ground gouging beneath its heavy feet. She slapped its side affectionately.

  “This,” she said proudly, “is my finest creation—Ironhowl Mk. IV. State-of-the-art enchantments, armor forged in dwarven fires, and enough firepower to level a small fortress!”

  The crowd roared again.

  Joran stared up at it, eyes wide. “Great…”

  The mech’s chest hissed open, revealing a cockpit wrapped in coils of tubing, gauges, and spellcore nodes. Thraza climbed in effortlessly, snapping the harness across her chest as she gave one final grin toward Joran.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, Dragon Prince,” she said, voice amplified slightly as the armor began to close around her.

  The chest sealed with a heavy clang, and the Ironhowl whirred to life—lights flickering across its surface as gears spun and pistons hissed. The metal giant took a single, thunderous step forward, steam jetting from its shoulders like a signal of war.

  “LET THE BATTLE… BEGIN!!!” the announcer roared.

  Joran snapped out of his awe and instinctively reached for his sword, calling it to him with a flicker of magic—

  And pain shot through him.

  A sudden, violent shock surged through his body like a lightning bolt, ripping a cry from his throat. He staggered back, muscles spasming, the familiar agony racing up his spine. His sword flickered in the distance but didn’t move.

  No.

  No… not again.

  He gritted his teeth, sweat instantly breaking out across his brow. His bracelet. The magic-suppressing shackle around his wrist—it had activated. He hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t used magic recently. But the spark, the resistance, the pain… he knew it too well.

  His magic was gone.