Kat wiggled her tail and bent down. She took a runner’s stance, bare feet digging into the sand, claws balancing her on all fours.

Opposite her, Dormeni drew her bow. Wood curved. The bowstring sang.

Kat launched herself across the ring.

Dormeni released an arrow and drew another in the same breath.

Kat threw herself to the side. An arrow rushed by, splitting her toast-colored fur. She dodged again, nimble body undulating. An arrow buried itself in the sand. Almost upon Dormeni, she bared her teeth in a wild grin.

Dormeni slotted a third arrow and loosed it almost simultaneously.

Kat leaped into the air. She turned her head to the side and snatched the arrow out of the air, teeth clamping down on the shaft. Kat bit. The shaft shattered. With a deft twist of her head, she caught the falling arrowhead. She slammed onto Dormeni, hands pinning the sun elf’s shoulders, feet digging into her hips.

The sun elf toppled backward, bow flying. Sand kicked up around her head, and her eyes lost focus. Clumsily, she grappled for a dagger on her hips.

Kat leaned in, pressing the arrowhead to the elf’s neck with her teeth, nubbly ears swept back.

“Hot,” Spar breathed.

Twain stared. “I thought beastfolk didn’t do it for you?”

Spar shrugged. “I know hot when I see it.”

“Where’s your damn morals?” Twain grumbled.

Spar grinned. “I ate ‘em.”

Dormeni struggled. Kat pressed the arrowhead in deeper. Red blood welled up, bright against dark skin.

“Dormeni!” Uldan shouted.

The sun elf stiffened. She glanced at him, then went limp. Reluctantly, she patted the floor twice.

“Victory! Jamie and Kat with a decisive win!”

Kat spat the arrowhead and stood, hefting a fist into the air. At the ring’s edge, Jamie jumped and punched the air, ecstatic.

Uldan helped Dormeni up. Heads bowed, the pair escaped the ring to the crowd’s jeers. Twain watched them go. Dormeni's ears drooped, but Uldan leaned up and whispered something, and she managed a smile. He smiled at that. Loss is only what you make it. There's still the loser's bracket. If they haven't lost heart, I bet we'll see them again.

The announcer stepped to the front of a shadowed booth, a broad smile on her face and both hands on her hips. She heaved a breath, and her voice echoed across the Arena. “Next up! An exotic matchup for your perusal! You won’t see this anywhere but here. Saemel and Mare, demons from distant Samsara!”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The two demons stood. Saemel shoved his way past Twain, ‘accidentally’ elbowing his head on the way past.

Twain narrowed his eyes. Fuck you too, buddy.

“Versus! Twain, a drow from the frozen northlands of Soanna! Drow rarely leave their homeland, so count yourself lucky to lay eyes on this specimen! And... Spar! Gods only know what this man is, ladies and gentlemen, but ‘human’ he isn’t! Beastfolk? Demon? Place your bets, or bet on the fight, but one way or another, we’re in for a wild ride!”

Spar glanced at Twain. “I knew I couldn’t pass as human. We should have just put unicorn.”

“Sure, and got you poached,” Twain reminded him. He stood and stretched, hands over his head.

“Yeah, but then they’d know I was lying and decide I was a human in weird makeup, or something,” Spar grumbled, following him out.

The burly man gestured them over. The five of them met in the center of the ring. “Alright, let’s make this a good, clean fight. Everyone ready?”

“I’m going to smash your head off your tiny little neck,” Saemel snarled, glaring at Twain.

“Ready,” Twain replied evenly.

The man nodded. “To your corners.”

Saemel lined up at the edge of the ring, Mare tucked behind him. On the opposite side, Twain glanced at Spar. “You want first fight, or...?”

“I only fight cuties,” Spar repeated.

Twain rolled his eyes and stepped forward. “Thanks.”

“Are you ready? Fight!”

Saemel held his hand out, palm up, as he stepped into the ring. A heavy, spiked club materialized and dropped into his hand. “You’re going down, drow.”

“To the contrary.” Twain drew his shortsword and stepped into the arena.

Saemel raced at him, and he charged in return. Saemel swung the heavy club. His body followed after it, thrown by the weight.

Twain jumped. The club passed under his feet. Midair, he slashed out at Saemel’s head.

Saemel leaned backward. The sword clipped the very tips of his horns. Grimacing, he bared sharp teeth at Twain and hefted upward. Tendons stood out on his neck, his shoulders and biceps straining.

Twain put his hands on Saemel’s shoulders and leapfrogged over the demon. He landed, ducked low, and cut at Saemel’s ankles.

Stumbling forward, Saemel dodged the blow. A thin line of pink blood leaked from his heels. He howled, enraged, and dragged the iron club through the sand.

A spiked wall of iron bore down on Twain. He rolled backward, out of the club. It whooshed by his face, spikes scraping the tip of his nose.

Saemel snarled, hefting the club over his head. “I’ll teach you a damn lesson about hitting on people’s girls!”

“I wasn’t the one hitting on Mare!” Twain protested.

He slammed the club into the ground. Sand flew in Twain’s face. He jerked back, but too late. Sand gritted in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, blinded. Damn, that smarts!

Saemel laughed. The club whooshed through the air.

Twain’s ears twitched. He jumped back. Saemel chased, club dragging as he ran, rumbling and hissing over the sand. The club’s heavy. He can’t keep up. Twain bolted, blind. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked the sand free. At last, the ring blurred back into focus.

Saemel ran at him, furious, but much slower. Half the ring stretched between them. “Die already!”

Twain dropped back. The ribbon came up at his heels. Halfway across the ring, Saemel kicked up a trail of sand.

Far enough. He sheathed his sword and drew his bow. In quick succession, he fired three arrows.

Swirling the club, Saemel stopped and slapped the arrows out of the air. He growled. “Pathetic drow. Is that all you have?”

Twain fired again, silent.

Darting to the side, Saemel put on a burst of speed and closed in. In a few breaths, he crossed the ring and arrived before Twain. The club loomed overhead, dark.

Twain dipped a hand into his pocket. A tiny vial glittered in the sunlight. He sucked in a breath, shook out glittery butterfly-light dust, and blew.