Taybell charged across the ring. Startled, Fell stumbled back. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for the vial.

“Didn’t even bring a weapon? Is this a joke?” Taybell asked. Sand flew at her heels. Halfway across the ring already, she sped up, brows furrowed in confusion.

He yanked out the vial and pulled the cork. Dust flew into the air. He threw the entire vial’s worth upward, then sucked in a breath.

“No—you—” Twain put his face in his hands.

Spar laughed aloud and slapped his knee. “Amazing, just amazing.”

Three doses of fairy’s breath slammed into Fell’s face. He jolted and went stiff. Gently, he wavered on his feet.

“I’ve got you!” Taybell slashed at his neck.

The sword whooshed over his body harmlessly as Fell toppled backward and fell across the ribbon.

“Ring out!” the announcer called.

Taybell stared at the unconscious, stiff Fell, brows furrowed. Slowly, she looked at Twain. “Are you kidding?”

“I wish I was,” Twain sighed. He scrubbed his face, exhausted.

“Well, c’mon.” She gestured him on as she backed up to the center of the ring.

“Taybell opts to remain in the ring! Fell ring out, swap out for Twain!”

Fell sat up and blinked. “Wha… what happened?”

“You got a ring-out. Get out, I’m up.”

“I… what?” Fell retracted his legs over the ribbon and out of the ring, confused.

Twain drew his sword and stepped over the ribbon.

The second his foot crossed the ribbon, Taybell surged at him. He barely got his sword up in time to block as she hers flashed, angling for his heart.

Her sword slammed his out of the way and brushed by his face. He threw himself backward, but she lunged to meet. Her sword cut a line down his shirt, revealing swathes of gray skin. Faster than he could see, she slashed at him again. He barely ducked out of the way.

A third slash bit home. Red blood welled up and traced down his skin, brighter than he remembered. He dropped back into a defensive stance and parried her next strike. Sparks flew. Blood and sweat glistened in the air.

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“Stand still and let me gut you,” she growled.

Black shimmered in her eyes. A faint black aura glowed around her limbs.

Twain’s eyes widened. Blight! No wonder she's so strong!

Her sword fell. Cold lashed across Twain’s chest. He staggered back, raising his sword in an after-the-fact block. I didn’t even see that blow!

Another. Her sword streaked for his neck. He managed to snatch his head back, but barely, a breath between him and death. He lashed out and stabbed her. She parried back-handed, almost condescendingly, and thrust. Her sword pierced his shoulder.

Biting back a cry, Twain tensed. He resisted the urge to scream and forced himself to keep his guard up. He glared at the woman fiercely, anger in his eyes.

She laughed. “Pitiful fool.”

Twain glanced at the undead behind her, currently picking his nails with a cutlass. Darkness flickered in his eyes, and the same faint aura darkened the air around him. He narrowed his eyes. Him, too?

“Do you have time to take your eyes off me?” She yanked her sword out of his shoulder and thrust again. It flew for his heart.

“I concede!” Twain shouted.

Her eyes went wide. She thrust faster. “Coward!”

“Twain conceded! The match is decided!”

Twain backstepped. The sword sought after him. He tensed. Dammit, the match is over!

Lightning flew from the edge of the ring and struck Taybell. She jolted. Limbs spasmed. Twain fled over the edge of the ribbon and out of the ring.

“The match is over,” Fell growled. Lightning danced between his fingers, jumping the gap from one to another.

Taybell put up her hands and laughed disarmingly. “I didn’t hear, I didn’t hear. Sorry.”

Like shit you didn’t hear. Twain narrowed his eyes, but smiled and bowed. “Good fight.”

The burly man glanced from one to the other. Twain could practically see the thoughts churning in his head. We both committed an offense. It's his call.

"Neither of you do that again, or I'll toss both your asses out," the burly man announced at last.

As though she'd expected it, Taybell smirked. She bowed back to Twain and, with a bounce in her step, retreated.

“Looks like Fell and Twain are headed for the loser’s bracket! And on the winner's side... can anyone stop Taybell and Gene?”

Spar glanced at Twain as he retreated with Fell. “Those fighters are—”

“I know,” Twain grit from between clenched teeth. He clutched his stomach, holding the wound shut.

“Are you okay?” Fell asked.

Twain waved his hand. “I’ll… I’ll be fine. Probably.”

“I don’t know how much your herbs are going to help those gashes out,” Spar commented.

“You could heal me, like you healed Mare,” Twain suggested.

Spar glanced aside and clicked his tongue. “Ah… unicorn magic is more like a feeling. It’s… an impulse. A mood. An emotion. Uncontrollable and unpredictable.”

“And what emotion is ‘healing people?’”

“Who can say. It’s one of the greatest mysteries of unicornkind.” Spar stared to the horizon, eyes misty.

Twain shot a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Is it horny? Do you have to be horny, is that it?”

Spar slapped him. “Don’t demystify unicorns like that, it’s not nice.”

“Ow, ow, ow…” Twain staggered away from Spar.

Fell caught him and supported him gingerly, afraid to touch his wounds. Oddly, he kept his head twisted half away from Twain, as though afraid to look too hard.

“Afraid of blood?” Twain asked.

Behind the pillowcase, Fell’s eyes darted to him, traced the line where the flap of Twain’s shirt hung open, then instantly turned away. He gulped. “…Yes.”

Twain sighed. “The hell are you doing anywhere around the Arena, then?”

Fell said nothing, head turned away so Twain couldn’t see his face.