The Arena blazed with lights. Fans whooped. Twain raised his hand to the Arena, soaking in the cheers. It’s not so bad, now that I’m used to the noise.

He glanced up at the stands, at the royal box. Empty. Did Cel fail? Annoyed, he frowned. Dammit. I’ll have to spend another day blighted.

Fell hunched beside him, head ducked, hands in his pockets. “Are you sure you want me here? I’m useless. I can’t fight.”

“I still need a second, regardless of whether you can fight or not,” Twain replied.

Spar thumped Twain on the shoulders so hard he stumbled. “Alright, kid. Get out there and give ‘em a good fight. I’d say clean, but we both know you’re filthy.”

Twain rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Spar. Appreciate it.”

“I mean… blight aside, you fight dirty.”

Fell nodded enthusiastically.

“You have to do what you have to do when you’re fighting darkfoe on the border,” Twain grumbled.

“And when you’re in an Arena?” Spar prompted.

Twain’s eyes twinkled. “Why waste effort you don’t have to?”

The brawny man shot them a look as the three of them approached the ring. He pointed at Spar. “You shouldn’t be in the Arena. Only fighters allowed.”

“Alright, then, remove me.” Spar crossed his arms and cocked his head at the man.

With a slow look, the brawny man sized him up. Despite the man’s burly shoulders and tall stature, Spar loomed over him, a virtual wall of muscle. “Fucking horsefolk.”

“I’m not horsefolk. I’m a unicorn.”

Twain tensed. Fucking shit, Spar, can you shut up for a second?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Sure you are, buddy.”

Spar gave Twain a look. Twain rolled his eyes. Not everyone is going to react that way.

The brawny man gestured them closer. “Alright, listen. I know there’s bad blood, but you keep it clean, alright? Or clean enough. You can kill them, but no unnecessary mutilation, okay? No one wants to see that shit.”

“Huh?” Twain asked. Who in the Arena do I…

The crowd roared again. Twain whirled.

Saemel strode out into the Arena proper. He threw his arms out, stoking the crowd. His previously wiry frame bulged with muscle. His red skin shone, barely containing them. Thicker than before, his horns thrust up at the sky, long and sharp. Black streamed around him, the aura so thick it obscured his form.

Beside him, Mare cringed, looking smaller than ever in contrast with Saemel’s new bulk. She glanced at Spar, then away, afraid to look. Dark bruises peeked out from under her fluffy hair, fluffed higher than ever as if to hide the marks.

“You know what, I take it back. Make it a bad fight. Nasty. Downright disgusting,” Spar muttered under his breath.

Twain narrowed his eyes at Saemel and nodded, once. He’s not getting off easy this time.

From under a heavy brow ridge, Saemel glared at him. He held out his hand. A massive spiked mace fell into his grip, easily twice as large as the last time they’d fought. Despite the size increase, his arm barely budged as it took on the weight of the mace.

“We meet again,” he rumbled.

“May this be the last time we cross paths,” Twain replied. He drew his sword.

The burly man raised his hand. High in the stands, the announcer’s voice rang out. “Saemel vs. Twain! The rematch of the week! Hold your breath, ladies and gentlemen! You won’t want to miss a second. Contestants! Ready!”

Twain stepped into the ring. Across from him, Saemel crossed over the ribbon delineating the edge.

“Ready! F—”

A hubbub from the stands cut the announcer off. Twain turned. High above, a parade of brightly-dressed women bustled through the stands. In the lead, a tall moon elf gestured on a sun elf, while an oddly-tall goblin with very short arms wobbled her way after them. Cel turned and waved at him.

“What’s this? Have we been graced by the princesses’ presence! Welcome, Your Highnesses! If you needed confirmation this is the match of the week, ladies and gents, you got it!”

Twain grinned. I thought you weren’t going to make it.

Cel’s eyes widened. Motion flashed through the corner of his vision. Instinctively, Twain threw himself into a somersault dodge. Upside down, he watched as a spiked mace threw up a wave of sand inches after his heels left the ground.

“Don’t you dare look away,” Saemel growled.

Twain landed, rolled, and came up to his feet. Red burned in his vision. His grip tightened on the sword. He stepped in and swung with all his strength.

Saemel smirked.

The sword struck home, slicing across Saemel’s stomach. A thin red line opened up, barely more than a papercut.

Twain staggered back. The reverberation rattled up his arms, leaving his wrists half-numb.

“Is that all?” Saemel chuckled. “My turn.”