“It’s too late. We’ve already lost. Clarita, we lost.” Brittany petted the transformed Clarita’s neck, rustling her ruff.

Sanity burst back to Clarita’s eyes. She shook her head, and her mane settled back into hair. Her fur lost its wildness, and her claws, fangs, and muzzle shortened. Climbing back to her feet, she looked at Brittany. “We… lost?”

“That’s what we get for taking on the professionals,” Brittany sighed. “It was fun, though. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Clarita whispered, staring at the hole in Brittany’s shirt.

Twain glanced at the pair, not sure he was supposed to have heard her. His brows furrowed faintly.

“What?”

Clarita smiled and curtseyed her tattered skirts to Brittany, then Twain, and exited the ring. Brittany followed her out, casting a final shrug at Twain as she went.

Fell jogged to Twain. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Twain said. He looked at his hand and clenched it. Am I fine? Is this what ‘fine’ feels like?

“Shit, it’s really about to come out,” Spar panted.

Twain’s eyes widened. He grabbed Spar by the mane and sprinted for the Arena’s exit. Spar jogged with him, eyes glazed, shaking his head every few steps.

“What’s going on?” Fell asked, brows furrowed at Spar.

“Nothing. Hurry up, let’s get out of here.” Focused on the exit, Twain sped his sprint.

“It hurts, I wanna let it out,” Spar moaned.

“Shut up! And hold your horn in. We’re almost there. Another few steps.”

“Please, I wanna,” Spar whined.

Fell glanced at the crowds. “Uh-oh, watch out.”

Twain spun. Some of the men in the crowd had jumped the fence separating the arena from the viewers. They raced after Twain, fists clenched, scowling furiously.

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He tensed and sped up, pushing Spar on. “C’mon, c’mon.”

“Ah, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just let it out.”

“No, it matters! It matters a lot! A little further, Spar, come on!”

The Arena’s exit gaped darkly before them. Twain pushed Spar ahead of him, into the darkness. Halfway through the door, Spar’s hips caught in the frame. “I can’t, Twain, I can’t!”

Twain glanced back. “Transform to human!”

“Not before I—”

Brilliant light flared from the darkened hallway to the Arena’s innards. Spar tossed his head, horn sparkling even in the low light. “Feels so good…”

“Human. Turn human, now,” Twain commanded.

Fell gasped, eyes wide.

Behind them, the angry fans closed the distance. “How dare you!” “Those are princesses, you filth!” “Even if she’s undead, she’s still perfect! Don’t touch her!”

Another flash of light, bright enough to blind Twain. He staggered forward before his vision returned, pushing the now-human Spar into the Arena. Behind him, Fell stumbled in, clumsy with fear.

“Get back here, you bastards!”

The door shut. Twain pressed his back against it. Someone slammed into it, then another, a tumult of blows. He fell forward a step, and the door cracked open behind him. Hands reached in, groping blindly.

Fell pressed against the door beside him. Barely any weight lifted off Twain’s shoulders. A hard shove pushed the door further open. Snarling, Twain shoved with all his might, and it shifted toward the doorframe a bare centimeter.

Spar pressed his shoulder against the door and slowly shut it. The men shoved and slammed at the door, but before Spar's slow, inexorable might, they might as well have been pebbles tossed into the wind.

The second the door clicked shut, Twain threw the lock. He breathed out, then turned to the other two. “The hell was that?”

Fell shrugged.

“Probably one of the most relieving moments in my life,” Spar replied.

“The rabid fans, or whatever that was, not you, you weirdo,” Twain replied, rolling his eyes. Do all the princesses have fanboys? Where the hell are mine? I could use a taskforce of brainless idiots.

After a second, he paused and frowned. No, I don’t need any fanboys. The idea of people slavering over my sister… he shivered, disgusted.

Muffled, the brawny man’s voice sounded through the ruckus on the other side of the door. “Get away from there!”

Twain stepped away from the door and rolled out his shoulders. He glanced at Spar, words on his tongue. I need to be purified. It can’t wait.

He opened his mouth, then hesitated. I can handle it. It’s not that bad. And the power… without Spar on my side, can I confidently say I can beat every other person in the Arena single-handedly? Fell can’t fight. Everyone else is hopped up on blight, too. Without that power, aren’t I asking to die?

“What?” Spar asked.

Twain shut his mouth and shook his head. “Nothing.”

Their room was empty when they returned. Twain hopped up onto his bunk. “Someone watch the door. I need to know if the blight is spreading.”

Spar leaned against the door. Fell sat in the corner, back to the wall, and eagerly stared at Spar blocking the door.

Twain shut his eyes. He gathered the moonlight inside him, then released it all at once, a single pulse bursting from his core. Silently, he waited.