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"Move."
The guard's boot caught me between the shoulder blades. I stumbled through the iron door into heat and noise that hit like a physical wall.
The arena.
Torchlight turned the sand orange. Thousands of voices merged into a single roar that vibrated in my chest. I'd heard crowds before—parade crowds, ceremony crowds, the polite applause when the prince reviewed the guard. This was different. This was hunger.
The iron door slammed shut behind me.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice cut through the noise, magically amplified. "Fresh meat for the Pits!"
The crowd loved that. Their laughter had teeth in it.
I scanned the arena. Circular. Fifty yards across. Ten-foot walls topped with iron spikes. No exits except the doors, and I'd just heard mine lock. The sand was dark in patches. Old blood, probably. The smell confirmed it—rust and fear and piss.
Across from me, another door ground open.
The man who stepped out was built like a siege weapon. Seven feet easy, muscles like braided steel cables, skin marked with so many scars I couldn't count them. He carried a gladius in each hand, the blades notched from use but clean. Sharp.
I looked down at my own hands.
Empty.
"Our reigning champion needs no introduction!" the announcer continued. "Forty-three kills in the Crimson Pits! Give it up for Krag the Render!"
The crowd screamed his name. He raised both swords and they screamed louder.
"And his opponent—" The announcer's tone shifted, almost bored now. "Kira Dane. Former royal guard. Convicted of treason and conspiracy. Sentenced to trial by combat."
Former.
The word hit harder than the guard's boot.
Krag started walking toward me. Not running. Walking. Taking his time. Why wouldn't he? I had no weapon. No armor. Just the prison rags they'd left me in.
"This is rigged," I said. My voice came out steady. Good. I'd take that.
"Everything's rigged, sweetheart." Krag's voice was surprisingly smooth. Almost friendly. "That's why they call it the Pits. You think they'd risk their champion on a fair fight?"
He was twenty feet away now.
"I wasn't even at the coup," I said. Stupid thing to say. Desperate. But my mouth kept moving anyway. "I refused to join them. That's why Valen framed me—"
"Don't care." Fifteen feet. "You're here. I'm here. That's all that matters."
"I can fight." I shifted my weight, falling into a ready stance. Muscle memory. My body knew what to do even if my brain was still screaming. "Give me a sword and I'll show you—"
"No."
He moved.
Fast. Too fast for someone that size. His right blade came up in a diagonal slash aimed at my throat. I threw myself backward, felt the wind from the swing across my face. Landed hard on my shoulder, rolled, came up in a crouch.
The crowd roared approval.
Krag followed up immediately. No showboating. Just efficient, brutal strikes designed to end this quick. I dodged the first two, deflected the third with my forearm—pain exploded up my arm but the blade skittered off bone instead of cutting clean through. Combat reflex. I'd drilled that parry ten thousand times in the guard.
It bought me two seconds.
I used them to put distance between us. My boots slipped in the sand and I nearly went down. Caught myself. Kept moving.
"You've got training," Krag admitted. He wasn't even breathing hard. "That's cute. Won't help."
"I was top of my unit," I shot back. The words came out between gasps. My forearm was screaming. "I trained with Prince Corvin himself—"
"Prince doesn't give a damn where you are right now." Krag came at me again. "Nobody does. That's the point."
He was right. I knew he was right. The thought tried to drag me under and I shoved it away because he was swinging again and I had to move or die.
I dodged left. His blade caught my ribs, shallow but burning. Blood soaked through the rough fabric. Not deep. Not yet.
The crowd was chanting now. "KRAG! KRAG! KRAG!"
I needed a weapon. Anything. I scanned the sand—nothing. The walls—too high. The doors—locked. My eyes went to Krag's swords. Two of them. If I could disarm him, take one—
He read my face. Smiled.
"Go ahead," he said. "Try."
So I did.
I feinted right, dove left, came up inside his guard. My hand closed around his wrist—the one holding the left gladius. For half a second I thought I had it. Then his other hand came around and smashed the pommel of his right sword into my temple.
The world tilted. My grip loosened. He ripped his arm free and kicked me in the chest.
I flew backward. Hit the sand hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My vision doubled, tripled, tried to decide which Krag was real.
All three of him walked closer.
"You're tough," he said. Almost sounded regretful. "But tough doesn't mean shit in here. You know what does?"
I tried to answer. Managed a wheeze.
"Survival," Krag finished. He stood over me now. Both blades ready. "And you're not gonna survive."
"Wait—" The word barely made it out.
"Nothing personal." He raised the right gladius. "But they paid good money to watch you die."
The blade came down.
I rolled. Not fast enough. The gladius punched through my left shoulder and pinned me to the sand like an insect in a collection. The pain was white and absolute. I heard myself scream.
Krag yanked the blade free. Blood poured hot down my side.
"That was for the crowd," he said. "This is for you."
He raised the left sword. Center mass this time. The killing blow.
I stared up at him. At the angle of the blade. The way he shifted his weight to his back foot for the thrust. The specific rotation of his shoulder. My mind locked onto every detail with crystal clarity.
Not begging. Not crying. Just watching. Learning.
"Any last words?" Krag asked.
"Forty-three," I said. My voice was wet. Blood in my throat, probably. "You said forty-three kills."
"That's right."
"Memorize that number," I told him.
He looked confused. "Why?"
"Because it's about to change."
He drove the blade through my chest.
The steel was cold. Colder than anything I'd ever felt. It went in just left of center, punched through something vital—my heart, maybe, or close enough—and suddenly I couldn't breathe at all. Couldn't move. The world started going gray at the edges.
I kept my eyes open. Kept watching. The angle. The technique. The exact point of entry.
The crowd was cheering.
Krag pulled the sword free and stepped back. "Make it forty-four," he called out.
They roared for him.
I lay in the sand, blood pooling around me, and everything went dark.
---
I woke up.
The cell. Stone walls. Single barred window. Straw pallet beneath me that smelled like mold and someone else's sweat.
I sucked in air. My chest worked fine. No hole. No blood. I touched my shoulder where the first blade had gone through—nothing. Intact.
What the hell?
Voices outside. Boots on stone. The same guard patrol I'd heard before. Yesterday. Right before they came to drag me to the arena.
I sat up slowly. My body moved without pain. Without injury. Like the fight had never happened.
But I remembered. Every second. The sand. The crowd. The blades going in.
The door at the end of the corridor clanged open. Heavy footsteps approaching.
"Get up, traitor," a familiar voice called. "Time for your debut."
The same guard. The same words. The same tone.
I looked down at my hands. Turned them over. No cuts. No bruises.
The footsteps stopped outside my cell.
"I said get up."
I lifted my eyes to the barred door. The guard stood there, keys in hand, same expression of bored contempt on his face.
"What day is it?" I asked.
He blinked. "What?"
"The date. What's the date?"
"The twenty-third," he said. Like I was stupid. "Same as it was an hour ago when you asked the first time. Now move, before I—"
The twenty-third.
Yesterday was the twenty-third.
Today should be the twenty-fourth.
The guard unlocked the door. It swung open with a rusty squeal. "Last chance. Walk out or I drag you."
I stood. Walked to the door. Stopped just at the threshold.
"Something wrong with you?" the guard demanded.
I looked past him. Down the corridor. Toward the distant noise of the arena. The crowd was already gathering. I could hear them.
Waiting for me to die.
Again.
"No," I said slowly. "Nothing's wrong."
Everything's wrong, my brain screamed. You died. You felt it. And now you're back and it's yesterday and none of this makes sense—
The guard grabbed my arm. Started pulling me forward.
The iron door at the end of the corridor came into view.
Behind it, I could hear them chanting.
"KRAG! KRAG! KRAG!"