The lights are blinging. The screams are deafening. Yet I can hear my own blood pumping: It’s been a long time since standing in the arena has made me afraid.

For the semi-finals it feels like every human has flocked to the arena. They haven’t of course, all over the city the hrô celebration are swelling towards its culmination. Everywhere people are drinking, laughing, jostling. Here the usually already packed rows are flooded by spectators. They have assigned colors to my opponent and I. Now they’re pressing at the silver bars, colored ribbons tied to their wrists, screaming our names.

Our eyes are locked onto each other, both hoping our senses adjust faster to the overwhelming stimuli. But I have one advantage he does not: I can alter my pupils. I make a run for the weapon stand. And not a second to soon I realize. He’s fast. Faster than a body that size has any right to be. I grab two daggers and use the momentum to knock over the stand. Metal clangs against each other or the floor. I spin to see just how little air separates us now. His face is cold, neither fear nor overconfidence just concentration.

This is a fight between equals: We both know it.

He makes a run for a spear but must jump to the left to dodge my knife. He turns to get up, then I’m on top of him, dragging him into the air, away from the weapons. The crowd cheers.

His hand shoots up and grabs my talons. Not high enough. I bend down, shifting beak into fangs and sink them into his flesh. He jowls. But instead of letting to he pulls himself up, reaches for my now lowered wings and pulls. Pain and dread flash thru me. He’s ripping my arm out!

Then, in an instance the pressure is gone as the man’s hand is holding thin air. My instincts have reacted before I could even comprehend. You’re welcome.

He begins to fall. Cheers erupt. I don’t give him the time to land, dodging flailing limbs I latch onto his face and transform. His hands shoot out and try to grab mine. I shrink. Good enough.

My extra weight has shifted his center of mass, altering his position in the air: now he’s plummeting face first towards the ground. All he can do is curl up and take the impact on his shoulder instead. There’s an audible crack. He rolls of his shoulder, face contorted he gets to his feet, scrambling away just enough for my transformed weight not to hit him as I land.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

His arm is hanging limb. With one swift motion he grabs it and pops it back into its socket. Then I’m upon him. Before I can react, he slams his uninjured shoulder into me. I jump back and barely avoid the following punch.

Both of us are painting. I can taste iron on my tongue. He is holding his shoulder, eyes narrowed in pain. I’m doing the same.

We circle each other, neither daring to look away. I wish there was hate in our eyes.

He attacks first: Changing into a giant bear, mouth agape, sprinting towards me. I fall to the side. Too slow. The ends of his claws catch my side, ripping the fabric and skin. Red drops fall and sicker into the sand. I must force myself to look away. When has the sight of my own blood in the sand become unfamiliar? It burns sharper than I remember.

I blink and he’s in front of me. Attack after attack he drives me back, away from the toppled over stand where the daggers lie. I try to circle around, get to them, but he doesn’t give me the space. Cursing I fly into the air, ignoring my aching shoulder. He doesn’t follow, camping over the weapons instead. Shit.

People are yelling my name. My number. His. It’s deafening up here, surrounded by all sides. I shrink into a mosquito, smaller and smaller, until you can’t make out my form the ground or the rows. I fly down, buzzing drowned out by the noise. My opponent is looking around in a panic. I land next to a dagger. Breath in. Breath out. If he spots me, I’m dead. Wait for him to turn away. Now. My body flares back to human. I grab the dagger even before the transformation is done and impale the metal in his throat. He coughs. Blood gushes out of his mouth and neck, splatters over my hand. Still warm with life. He slams his head back, into mine. Sand and hair imprints into my wounds as skin bursts open. I stager back. He does as well, falling on top of me. The weight pins me down as I desperately try to squeeze out from under him. He grabs hilt of the dagger and pulls. Even with the noise, you can hear gurgling as he begins choking on his own blood.

Enhanced arms straining I push him off me just before he can stab me. I roll to the side, try to get away as far as I can. He reaches for me. The other hand is clutching his throat. He’s drooling blood, eyes red and unfocused.

He topples over. The crowed erupts as he begins to spasm.

It takes a full minute for him to stop flailing. When death finally settles in to make him his, both of us are grateful.

White ribbons, thrown by the crowed, land on him like corrupted snow. The fabric soaks up the red. I mark him as ours.