The black aura met the light spells high above the Arena and snuffed them out. One after another, they popped out of existence, poof, poof, leaving the Arena in the twilight cast by the moon.

Someone in the crowd screamed. All throughout the crowd, people stood and rushed for the exits. Others hesitated, confused. “Is this a special magic effect?” “Some kind of demon magic?” “A transformation spell?”

Back facing the crowd, Twain smiled to himself. They can finally see the blight, huh? Took long enough to infuriate him.

Saemel swung wildly at him. The blood on his stomach, wrists, and back ran black, and his eyes turned black as well. Veins stood out on his already-bulging muscles. Backstepping, Twain watched carefully, dodging every swing. If one of those hits me, I’m dead.

Overswinging, Saemel drew to a halt for a moment. Seizing the gap, Twain gasped and pointed. As loud as he could, he shouted, “Blight! He’s blighted! The rumors are true, the Arena is infected with blight!”

Forgetting where she was for a second, the announcer’s shocked voice rang out. “Is that true? When? When did that happen?”

The crowd’s panic grew to a frenzy. Commoners shoved one another, struggling out of the Arena. In the princess’ box, Brittany and Eleda pushed the other princesses back protectively. The fae princess threw a pale, greenish hand upward, and a dome of magic surrounded the princesses. Commoners bounced off the dome, sliding away from the box. The dragon princess crossed her arms and stared down at the ring, mildly amused.

He relaxed a hair. The guilt at dragging the princesses into the spectacle eased. Everyone will be fine. They can take care of themselves.

Toward the back of the box, Twain caught a flash of blonde hair and a glimpse of Sabelyn’s fearful expression. At that, he smiled. So much for that thorough investigation of yours, huh, princess.

“Spar, can you distract Saemel for me?” Twain requested. He drew moonlight to him, coiling the magic into his core. That’s enough spectacle. Time to stop this circus before it gets truly out of hand.

“You got it.” Spar stepped forward eagerly, cracking his knuckles.

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Saemel threw back his head and screamed. Black energy radiated off of him in rings. Almost physical, the rings of blight slammed into Spar and Twain and threw them back. Distracted, Twain lost control of the spell. A burst of moonlight blasted out of his hands uselessly, and the spell dissipated.

In response, the Arena shimmered. Blight welled up from the sand underfoot and steamed out of the seats. The fighters burst out of the waiting box, eyes blackened, slavering mad. Fighters and staff streamed from the underbelly of the Arena, all of them black-eyed, black-blooded darkfoe.

In the princess’ box, Cel shivered and dropped to her knees.

Darkness rushed up inside Twain. He gagged, almost choking on it, and tripped, then toppled to the sand. No! I won’t give in! Clawing at the ground, he dragged himself away.

Blight surged from the ground and twisted in the air. Black rushed all around him, churning and beating at his senses.

Twain sagged to the earth. I can’t escape. It’s everywhere.

Spiders rushed out of the Arena and charged through the stands, each one pulsing with blight. They reached the remaining audience, and screams rang out. One after another, people stiffened and collapsed to the floor. They stood up slowly, eyes black.

The blight coursed through him again, twisting like poison in his veins. His stomach twisted. He retched, body bucking, and writhed in the sand, fighting the blight. It burned, bright red with anger, threatening to overwhelm him. His vision narrowed to a tunnel. Dark encroached, black leaking into his eyes. Half-blind, he reached out. Someone—someone please—

A hand caught his. Calm rushed through him, countering the blight with a rush of icy cold. Twain shuddered. He grasped on for dear life and drew himself closer, grabbing with his other hand as well. “Please, please, don’t let go, don’t let go—”

“Hold on. I’ve got you,” Spar said. He put a hand on Twain’s back and dragged him in, surrounding him with a brilliant, pure aura.

Like a freezing man offered fire, Twain leaned in to him and huddled as close as he could. The blight ate away at the edges of his sanity, but Spar’s aura forced it back and held it at bay. The only point of light in the blighted Arena, Spar beamed bright to the sky, a brilliant pillar of white.

Spar glanced down and snorted. “Hell of a plan, Your Highness.”

Twain scowled. “Shut it, you.” None of this was supposed to happen. I had no idea the Arena was this much of a powder keg!

“Can you purify this?”

He looked at Spar, then slowly turned to the Arena. Blight simmered all around him. It bubbled out of the sand underfoot, oozed through the cracks in the seating, stirred and lifted on the wind. Blighted fighters charged in all directions, some racing for the crowd, some mindlessly fighting one another. A few charged for him and Spar, black-tinged eyes locked onto the light.

“I…” he started. He gestured and drew moonlight into himself, gathering it around his body. Overhead, the moon gazed down, bright and cool, supporting the spell.

Blight twisted in his veins. Twain gasped, distracted, and lost control. Moonlight burst out around him in a wobbly aura, not even half the spell.

“Dammit!” Twain grumbled.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Spar muttered.