“Forget the girl, what about me?” Twain asked. Dammit, if I can’t stay in the Arena, everything is going to get twice as complicated! It’s easy to walk about the guts and backstage if you’re a fighter, but for a member of the public? I don’t even know what I’d do.

“Eh? I mean, you’re cute.”

“Not that. A partner, I need a partner!” Twain scratched his head, irritated. Who can I ask? Cel? But I left her behind in the castle. Eleda? Oh, sure, that won’t be obvious, two princesses in the ring—I think anyone would figure it out at that point. Who else…

“I’m sorry, Twain, you’re a great friend, but I don’t see you that way.”

Twain glared at Spar. “A partner. For the fucking. Arena.”

“Oh, a second! Yeah, that sounds like a problem. Sorry.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

Spar sighed and patted Twain’s head. “I’m sorry I messed up your plans. I’m not sorry I punched that motherfucker in the face.”

Small consolation that is. Twain sighed. On the other hand, Saemel really needed a punching, and honestly, I’m not sorry Spar punched him, either. He curled his own hand into a fist. If we end up facing off again, I might just break that stupid nose of his, or worse. What if that was Moss he was treating like that? Red welled up in front of Twain’s eyes. He took a deep breath and forced the emotions down, but a remnant of hatred glimmered in his eyes. No—I won’t let him get away with that bullshit. Next time we meet, I’ll make sure he can never hurt anyone like that ever again.

“What’s this? A man is running out on the field!”

Draped in a long cape, a loose white linen mask hiding his face, a man pushed his way out of the stands and ran toward them.

The burly man held up a hand. “Hey, you, get back!”

Twain frowned. Is that a pillowcase on his head? A pillowcase, with two holes for his eyes and nothing else?

The pillowcase-clad man stopped in front of them and bent over, heaving for breath. The burly man moved to push him back. Before he could reach, the pillowcase man bounded upright and danced out of his reach. “I—I can be your partner!”

“You know this guy?” the burly man asked, looking over his shoulder at Twain.

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Twain started to shake his head, then stopped. Here’s a volunteer. Where else am I going to find a partner? Worst case, I can carry the team, or find a new partner later. “Er, no, I know him. He’s a, uh, a friend of mine.”

Skeptical, the burly man arched an eyebrow. “Do you accept the offer?”

“I won’t let you down!” the man assured Twain, pumping a twig-like arm.

“Sure. Why not.” Twain gave the man another onceover and sighed. Take on the Arena? I’m not sure this man could take on a stiff breeze. But who else do I have?

“Then so be it. Son, what’s your name?”

“Fe—Fe, uh, Feeeee…el.”

Brows furrowed, the brawny man gave him a strange look. “Feel?”

The masked man shook his head. “No, I mean… Fell.”

“Fell and Twain. Welcome to the Arena, son.” The brawny man smiled at Fell and glanced up, at the booth above.

Overhead, the announcer woman nodded back. “Ladies and gentlemen, a twist! Mystery man Fell replaces our disqualified Spar! Twain and Fell advance to the next round! And if you want to see more of our dynamic demon duo, there’s always the loser’s bracket!”

Twain raised his hand to the crowd. Some let out a halfhearted cheer. More than half stared down, silent, and a few booed. He sighed. It wasn’t a satisfying fight, but there’s nothing we can do about it.

Spar followed Fell and Twain back toward the box. The burly man stepped up to stop him. “Disqualified fighters must leave the arena.”

Spar gave him a look. “No.”

The burly man squared to Spar. He came up to Spar’s chest and had to crane his neck to look the man in the eye. “Leave.”

“No thanks. I’m going to stay with my friends.”

The two of them glared each other down, eyes narrowed. A vein bulged in the burly man’s forehead. Spar’s nostrils flared.

All at once, Spar winked and blew a kiss. “Find me after the fight?”

The burly man recoiled, but there was a faint blush on his cheeks. “You—”

Spar rushed past him, snatched up Fell, and ran for the passages into the Arena.

Glancing back, Twain gave the burly man a shrug and followed Spar.

The shadowy guts of the Arena enveloped Twain, cool and dark. Muscles unclenched in his back and shoulders as they instinctively unwound, grateful for the reprieve. He sighed out. “Why can’t we fight inside?”

“A few hundred sweaty, shouting people all packed in a tiny stone room? Your ears would go numb, not to mention the stink, princess,” Spar pointed out.

In the midst of struggling to wriggle free of Spar’s grasp, Fell twitched and fell still. He glanced at Twain, a hint of confusion around his pillowcase-masked face.

Twain rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we get it, I’m a sweet, delicate little creature who needs protection. Are you going to let our friend down, by the way? He seems a bit bothered.”

Spar glanced at his arms in surprise, then set down Fell. “I practically forgot I was holding him, he’s so light.”

Twain nodded at Fell. “Have you ever fought before?”

“I… I have strong magic,” Fell burst out.

Twain and Spar exchanged a glance. Twain spoke first, hesitant. “Er… you do know the Arena forbids magic, right?”

Fell jolted. He glanced from Twain to Spar.

“It’s true,” Spar said. He snorted. “I mean, everyone knows that. You’re joking, right, Fell?”

Fell glanced at his feet.

Shit. Twain sucked in a breath. “So… you’ve never fought before, then?”

He couldn’t see Fell’s face, but he knew the man blushed as he stared at his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

Spar burst out laughing. “Oh, damn. This is going to be good.”