Page 17

We circled. The crowd's enthusiasm was waning as seconds stretched into minutes. No action. Boos rippled through the stands. Ignarath audiences—not known for patience. Or restraint.

“Fight, cowards!” someone shouted from the upper tiers. Others joined. Discontent spread like wildfire.

Harkon's eyes narrowed slightly, a reaction. Pressure mounting. Good.

I feinted. A quick step forward followed by immediate retreat. Testing. Probing. His response was minimal, a slight shift in his stance. Nothing more. But telling. He waited for commitment. For a real attack he could counter with that massive weapon.

I wouldn't oblige.

I continued circling instead. Forcing him to adjust. To follow my movement. Each step in the hot sand cost more energy. Each moment under the suns drained stamina.

Let him feel it first. Let exhaustion be my ally.

A flash of movement in the stands caught my attention—something out of place and causing trouble. I resisted a direct look, but it didn’t matter.

The momentary distraction cost me. Harkon lunged, his massive weapon arcing through air with surprising speed. I twisted aside and barely avoided the blade as it sliced through space where my head had been a heartbeat earlier.

The crowd roared in approval. First blood nearly drawn.

I countered. Blade flashing, scoring a glancing blow against his forearm. Not deep enough to stop him, but deep enough to sting. His eyes widened, something shifting behind them, awareness.

Awakening.

He came again. Movements no longer sluggish but precise. The shovel-axe whistled through the air, forcing me to dance backward. Sand shifted treacherously beneath our feet. Again and again, he pressed. Each swing more controlled than last. Finding his rhythm just as Vega warned.

I deflected. Dodged. Waited for openings. They existed, small windows as he recovered from each massive swing. Exploiting them meant getting dangerously close to the lethal edge.

And then I stumbled, my injured wing throwing off my balance for a critical fraction of a second. Harkon saw it. Adjusted and brought his weapon sweeping low across the sand. I leaped. Not high enough. The edge caught my leg, opening a shallow gash along my calf.

Blood welled and dripped.

That sent the crowd into a frenzy of cheers and fresh bets. Harkon's eyes gleamed with new intensity. Just as described. He was awake now. A predator fully engaged.

Pain lanced up my leg. I pushed it aside. Harkon moved differently now. More fluidly. Hesitation was gone from his attacks. His weapon was an extension of his body. Each swing flowed seamlessly into the next, forcing an increasingly desperate defense.

I needed to change the pattern, to break his momentum.

The next time he swung, I stepped into the attack. His eyes widened in surprise. I was inside his guard. Too close for his weapon to be effective. My blade flashed, opening a gash across chest—shallow but definitive.

Blood for blood.

He staggered back, momentarily thrown by the unexpected counter.

I pressed the advantage, blade dancing in precise, economical arcs.

Forcing defense rather than attack. Each strike calculated for maximum damage.

I targeted vulnerable points: inside his elbow, the junction of neck and shoulder, wrist tendons.

But Harkon wasn't finished. He recovered quickly, readjusting his grip on his weapon. He used the handle to block strikes while keeping his blade in constant, threatening motion. We fell into a deadly rhythm.

Attack and counter. Thrust and parry. Neither gaining clear advantage.

Crowd noise faded to a distant roar as my focus narrowed to the immediate: my next heartbeat, next breath, next exchange. Time stretched and compressed. Measured only in burning muscles and the sting of fresh wounds.

A vicious swing forced me to dive and roll across burning sand. I came up crouching, my scales coated in sand. Just in time to see Harkon charging, weapon raised high for an ending blow.

No time to dodge. No space to retreat.

I braced. Blade angled upward in a desperate gambit. His momentum carried him forward in an unstoppable avalanche of Drakarn fury. Impact jarred through our arms as our weapons connected. Force drove him backward, our feet sliding in treacherous sand.

We were locked together for a breathless moment, his greater weight bearing down. I forced my blade closer and closer to his throat as his eyes burned into mine. Searching for weakness. Fear.

He found neither.

With a desperate surge of strength, I twisted and redirected his force rather than opposing directly. He stumbled forward, overbalanced. Vulnerable for a critical moment.

My blade found a gap in the armor behind his knee. Cut deep and severed tendons.

Harkon roared, a bellow of pain and rage echoing off the arena walls as he collapsed. He still clutched his weapon in his claws. But the damage was done. He couldn't stand. Couldn't fight.

The crowd fell silent.

I circled to face him, my blade steady. Waiting. Protocol demanded he yield. Honor required it, even in the savagery of the pit.

“Yield,” I said, my voice carrying in the sudden quiet.

Harkon's eyes met mine. Rage gave way to something else—resignation, perhaps. Or respect. Slowly, deliberately, he tossed his weapon in the sand before him in formal surrender.

I glanced at Skorai's pavilion, waiting for judgment. The Tournament Master stood, face impassive. He extended his hand horizontally and accepted Harkon's yield.

No death today.

My leg throbbed, blood seeping into the sand. Smaller cuts stung across my arms and torso. My damaged wing ached fiercely from exertion.

But I had won. Survived. Advanced.

Guards appeared to help Harkon from the arena. As they passed, he paused and met my eyes. Slowly, he inclined head in a warrior's acknowledgment. I returned the gesture.

Respect for respect.

The crowd was already turning its attention to the next bout. The next spectacle. I limped toward the exit gate. Adrenaline ebbed, leaving exhaustion.

This fight had cost me. And they would only get harder from there.