Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Caelvir stood alone at the center of the arena, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The blade hung low at his side, glinting faintly, a thin line of silver amid the desert tones. His chest rose with quiet breath while his eyes roved, expectant, yet the field before him remained empty.

He frowned.

The silence stretched unnaturally long. There were no opponents, no gate opening, no clash of metal, just him beneath the ever-watchful sun.

Then, a voice exploded into the air.

"Was that a meal or what?" the announcer's words cracked across the sky, bouncing off the arena walls. "Valkira's fight had teeth, spice, flavor, a dish to die for!"

A wave of cheers surged from the stands, still drunk on the bloodied thrill of the last match.

"But," the voice continued with syrupy cheer, "what's a feast without dessert, my dears? And oh, do we have something sweet for you today!"

A rumble of anticipation coursed through the crowd.

"On one side," the announcer practically sang, stretching the words like a bard in full theater, "we have The Cannibal Beast, yes, yes, again, his third round, no less!"

A few jeers rose while others clapped, but most leaned forward, waiting.

"He's come so far," the announcer cooed mockingly, "after all… who wouldn't, after slaying a child and a woman?"

That sent a roar of laughter echoing through the arena, a cruel, rising tide.

Caelvir's lips pressed into a thin line, unmoved.

"And on the other side, oh, you're going to love this, we've brought you... TWENTY MEN!"

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience like wind across wheat.

Then came a metallic clang. The gate creaked open.

From the far end of the arena, boots marched in. Twenty warriors in a loose phalanx formation strode out under the blistering sun, swords drawn and shields tight against their chests. The ground trembled slightly under the coordinated rhythm of their approach as dust kicked up around them like a slow, golden fog.

Caelvir narrowed his eyes.

Someone in the crowd shouted, "What's the point? The boy's meat!" Another joined in with a guffaw, "It'll be over in seconds!"

"Wait, wait, wait!" the announcer chimed in, his voice gleeful and hushed, as if revealing a magician's trick. "I forgot to mention something..."

He let the pause stretch.

"Look closely," he whispered dramatically. "Yes, closely at our twenty brave warriors..."

The crowd squinted, leaned, murmured among themselves.

"Do you see it now?" the announcer asked. "No? Let me help... They're blind."

A stillness dropped over the arena.

"Every one of them," he said with triumphant relish, "eyes gouged, sockets empty. And yet, here they are, ready to fight."

There was a beat of silence. Then came laughter, sharper this time, darker and continuous, like wolves howling at something twisted and divine.

"Oh, what a treat," someone muttered between wheezes.

Others watched in silence, eyes narrowing, minds spinning with calculations.

The betting stalls were already alive with renewed frenzy. Pouches of coin opened, silver gleaming under the sun.

Wagers adjusted, odds shifted like sand dunes in a windstorm.

Up in the Emperor's box, cloaked in shade and flanked by banners, nobles leaned forward in velvet-cushioned seats, murmuring among themselves.

Lord Masquien of House Hollowmere, a man draped in dark violet and shadowed grays, swirled his wine in a crystal goblet as he sank deep into a cushioned bronze chair too wide for most men and yet barely enough for him.

His robes were rich, gold-threaded, and spilled over a belly that looked like it had never known hunger or haste. Rings clung to his swollen fingers like barnacles on a drowned hull, and his jowls quivered as he chewed on dates, even while he complained of the heat.

The sigil of House Hollowmere—a flying green snake coiling around a sword—was embroidered subtly over his chest, silver scales catching the light as he moved.

"The boy is skin and bones," Masquien muttered, his eyes narrowing on the arena, his voice smooth and calculated, like silk gliding over stone. "He's a trickster, nothing more."

Beside him, Lady Venara of House Goldmere flicked her eyes across the field. Dressed in rich emerald green and gold, her gown flowed like a stream of water, with symbols of wealth and flow running through the fabric. Her cloak was embroidered with the sigil of her house, a dragon encircling a towering tree.

Her beauty was deliberate and her gaze sharp.

"But the men are blind, my lord," she said coolly, her voice steady.

"Hold on," barked another noble, Lord Talen of House Drakmore.

He leaned forward, all iron and intent, his fingers twitching over the rail as if he itched to be on the field himself.

His attire was deep crimson and black, rich and powerful, reflecting the fiery heart of his house. The sigil of House Drakmore, a lion's face with a single twisted horn extending from its brow, decorated the breast of his tunic.

His voice, like a thunderclap, carried the weight of authority.

"They have shields," he continued, his tone commanding. "They are buffed warriors. Their muscles alone are enough to break any of the boy's attacks, and armor will make them harder to fell." He chuckled darkly, the thought of a quick victory warming him.

At the far end of the group, a younger noble, Lord Faron of House Elandar, shifted uncomfortably. He was garbed in a deep, cobalt blue robe that contrasted the other nobles' more traditional hues. The single silver wing embroidered on his chest—a symbol of a flight never taken—seemed to whisper of ambition denied. One hand gripped his cup tightly while the other loosely rested on the armrest as he listened with growing unease.

"Provided they can hear his movements," Lord Faron said, brushing dust from his sleeve, "but with the crowd screaming, how could they possibly hear footsteps on sand?"

"Some will," said an older voice, cool and confident, belonging to a noble who had seen battles in both the court and the field. "I have seen men fight blind before. Warriors of the Ishan tribes. When trained, they hear breath, feel the shift of wind around steel."

"Trained or not," Venara countered, the words slipping from her lips like ice cutting through the tension, "they'll bleed today."

"And yet," Lord Masquien mused, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his wineglass, eyes gleaming with something darker, "if they do manage to surround him, if they trap him in the center, press in, tighten like a vice..."

"It becomes a butcher's game," Talen nodded, his grin widening at the thought.

"Unless," Lord Faron interrupted, his voice tinged with an almost desperate hope, "he butchers them first."

For a moment, there was only silence. Then came the hiss of gold coins sliding across tables.

No one knew for sure.

The uncertainty curled into the air like smoke, a perfect storm of chance.

A brittle boy, painted in whispers of madness.

Twenty blind men with steel in their fists.