Spar craned his neck. “Hey, what’re you drinking on my back?”

“Blight. I got some at the Arena the other day. The Arena is definitely the source, they’re dealing it like angelwing or sleep-smoke.”

“Do you need to drink it, though?” Spar asked.

“I need to know more about it. How it feels. What it does to you. I don’t have the time to set up a serious study. As many people as are blighted in the Arena, we should have had an outbreak already."

He leveled a glare at the liquid. Rainbows shimmered and vanished on the viscous surface. "The capitol is on the verge of disaster. The best way to figure out the effects of this new kind of blight, and how to counter them, is to have one of us take it. Moon elves are resistant to blight. It’s the only logical choice.”

“’Resistant’ doesn’t mean it can't kill you,” Spar argued.

“I know that better than anyone.” Twain frowned at the bottle, then tipped it back and swallowed the black liquid in one gulp.

“Don’t—” Fell knocked the vial away from his lips a second too late.

Glass shattered on the street behind them. Twain bowed his head. Burning traced down his throat and splashed into his stomach. He scrunched his face as stabbing, acid pain exploded in his gut. “Ah, shit, that stings.”

Fell hovered, scared. “Are… are you okay?”

Warmth lit up his stomach and curled around his body. The pain faded away. His limbs swelled with strength. He flexed and grinned. “I’ve never felt so alive.”

Eight. Nine.

“We aren’t going to make it!” Fell shouted.

“Alright, now that we’re all juiced up,” Spar started. Familiar double doors loomed before them. On either side, a guard slowly guided them shut. Rather than slowing, Spar lowered his head and sped up.

“Spar—whoa!” Twain shouted.

The guards saw him coming and threw themselves out of the way. Spar burst through the closing doors. They burst open behind him. Spar galloped down the entryway, hoofbeats echoing down the short hallway.

Ten.

Spar leaped over a short fence into the Arena proper, throwing up a cloud of sand behind himself. He drew to an abrupt halt at the edge of the ring, and Twain and Fell half-jumped, half-got thrown off him. Twain executed a neat twist and landed on his feet in a low crouch, foot sweeping out to his side. Fell hit hard, tumbled head-over-heels, and came up in an awkward sit, spouting sand from his mouth.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Opposite them, a pair of familiar faces squinted down at them.

“Is this… legal?” Clarita asked the burly man, wolf-ears at half mast, brow wrinkled in confusion. Her short but frilly dress shifted around her, crinoline crinkling in the bell skirt.

The burly man sighed. “It’s probably the most legal thing they’ve done since they entered the Arena.”

Beside Clarita, the undead princess snickered. Tan riding trousers accentuated shapely legs, and a tight military-style jacket, epaulets and all, finished the look. “Hell of an entrance.”

Glancing from one to the other, Twain cozied up to the burly man. “Uh… are they… contestants?” Are they in disguise? It doesn’t look like it. There’s no masks, or… not that I’m wearing a mask, but I swapped genders, so…

“It’s an exhibition match. You two were slated for a BYE this round, so you got the exhibition instead,” the burly man explained. He narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the two of them. “Those two are princesses from His Majesty’s Harem. Injure them at risk to your life.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Twain said, snapping a salute. There’s a princess from His Majesty’s Harem right here, actually.

“Put up a good fight and lose convincingly. The match doesn’t count, so it’s all about making sure those royals can get their rocks off without getting their panties in a twist, got it?”

Twain nodded.

Beside him, Fell furrowed his brows. Confused, he glanced at Twain.

“Don’t you worry. You won’t even have to fake it,” Twain reassured Fell.

“Hey, what’re you boys talking about?” the undead called out.

I don’t even know her name. I really need to pay more attention to the other princesses. Twain stepped forward and offered her a hand, smiling. “Twain. Pleased to meet you…?”

The undead snorted and tossed her head.

Twain froze, hand outstretched. His smile twitched. Really?

A fluffy hand slotted into his. “Hi! I’m Clarita, and this is Brittany. We’re, um, we’re just here to test our skills. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was going to become an event.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Twain reassured her.

She turned big liquid eyes on him. A nervous smile stretched her lips. “I’m so sorry. I won’t let Brittany hurt you badly, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, darling,” Brittany replied, licking her lips. Her tongue cut a shocking swathe of red against her bluish, bloodless lips.

She noticed him looking and cocked her head, hands on her hips. “Oy, elf-boy, you’re stealing my grey-skin thing. You put on a good show last night, but there can only be one pale beauty around here, and it’s Brittany Blodhowl.”

“I’m sorry?” Twain said, taken aback. Internally, he cringed. Oh shit. They recognized us from the bar.

“And tell your strange friend back there the pillowcase look really isn’t working for him. Didn't before, doesn't now,” she added, flicking a hand at Fell. “I’m no fashionista, but damn.”

“I am so, so sorry. She’s always like this,” Clarita whispered to Twain.

“Damn straight I am.”

“There’s a reason her attendants don’t let her get too close to His Majesty unattended,” Clarita added, even quieter.

Twain nodded slowly, understanding passing over his face. Fair enough. I’m pretty sure Dayander wouldn’t let me near His Majesty, if he could stop me, and I’m no Brittany. “Did you two know each other before you arrived? You seem so familiar with each other.”

Clarita’s smile stiffened. “Ah…”

Behind her, Brittany crossed her arms. “C’mon, stop spreading rumors over there. Let’s get this show on the road.”