Sharaka reveled in the familiar smell of burned flesh and the enthusiasm of the crowd for a moment; she hated the cell, the ‘training’ and obviously Sophron, but the arena? She felt lava coursing her veins during the fights. The thrill of a deadly duel, the fear and anger of her opponents, the mad glee of the spectators: they all were primal and wild, a white-hot mixture that fueled her own excitement.

She dropped the short swords on the ground and walked away from the center of the arena, her snout held high to take in the cruel, intoxicating joy that came from the bleachers. She didn’t acknowledge neither Nive nor Mark on the way, and wordlessly walked the familiar route to the cell.

It was only when she breathed in the smell of the cells that she returned to reality. She was walking to her cell, diligently, with no worry other than her next fight. How many times had she already done that?

She stopped abruptly. She had lost count. She was adapting to her condition. She was accepting to be a slave, a commodity for the Empire’s entertainment. A property of Sophron. She found herself staring at Nive, who nervously drifted backwards. As always, the smell of fresh snow came from her hands.

“Is there any problem?” Nive asked with her weird smile; Sharaka couldn’t decide whether the human was genuinely fascinated by her or was simply more skilled than Sophron at hiding her conceit.

“How many times have I fought in the arena?” Sharaka asked flatly.

“I don’t remember the exact number... twelve? Fifteen? I know what you’re thinking, I’ve been talking to Master Sophron about that; you deserve to face some proper fighters and probably have a shot to qualify for the promotion,” Nive replied in a single breath.

“Do you think you’ll get results before I die of boredom in midfight?” Sharaka asked deadpan, hiding the shameful hope that started to burn in her chest.

“You have to consider there's no fighter that has been given the wooden sword after so short a period, so I’d be hesitant to give you such a chance if I were in his place. On the other hand there has been no fighter so quick at winning the crowd’s favor in the last years; that’s something I can work with!” Nive’s smile got larger, but smelled even more anxious.

“So that I can stop being a problem of yours, right Nive?” Sharaka tilted her head and smirked.

“You… I mean, I… how can I say this… I’d like to know more about you but it’s hard to make a heartfelt conversation with someone that can kill you in a blink of an eye. Wait, that came out wrong didn’t it?” Nive rubbed her hands even more jerkily.

“Oh no, I think I get it; I could say the same, at least about the killing part,” replied Sharaka, focusing on Nive’s face and smell to gauge her reaction.

“…uh, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Against Sharaka’s expectations, Nive’s reaction was completely devoid of fear. Was that genuine sorrow? Sharaka shot her one last glare and stepped down to the fetid corridor.

“Great news!”

Nive’s voice echoed in the corridor; Sharaka heard prisoners shuffle to attention, then relaxing again as the woman approached the viashino’s cell, followed by Lucius.

“You've been assigned to a deathmatch this week! If you win you get the chance to fight a second match, this time directly for your promotion!” Nive’s voice was filled was excitement; the woman was bouncing on her feet, a big smile on her face.

“Who's the unlucky bastard?” Sharaka replied, grinning smugly; she heard a few prisoners hold their breath.

“I didn’t get a name, but I understand he's a veteran of Aurelia’s stable,” Nive answered, moderating her bouncing. Sharaka replied with a puzzled look; she heard several sighs of relief.

“Aurelia is another lanista, a manager of arena fights, who has been Sophron’s rival for almost twenty years,” explained Nive; Lucius spat on the ground. “And I have to say Master had the short end of the rivalry stick in the last year, so to speak. Aurelia wants to make it official with a challenge: these fights have an important role in determining the popularity of the lanistas.”

“So either I die in the arena or Sophron gets fame and success. Just what I’d expect from him,” Sharaka said, grimacing.

“Well, he is the kind of guy who in a coin toss would make sure to have some profit even if the coin landed on its edge,” Nive chuckled. “But a loss in this situation would really hurt his position, so I believe he truly relies on your victory.”

“Joy and mirth, the blue slaver jerk wants me as his champion,” Sharaka said, rolling her eyes. “But I guess it’ll have to do. It’s time for training, right?”

“Oh, sure! I almost forgot about that,” Nive blurted, and stepped aside so Lucius could open the cell’s door. As she walked down the corridor, meeting the envious and spiteful eyes of the other fighters, she sighed deeply. Last chance for him, she thought; if this turns out to be a lie, I’ll burn the whole arena to the ground, and Nive is welcome to try and stop me.

Nive had to jog to keep up Sharaka’s pace. The viashino tapped nervously the blunt end of the spear on the floor and flexed her right armored arm as she strode toward the arena; Nero had allowed her to use her favorite weapon in the next two fights.

Sharaka entered the arena spitting a small burst of fire. No meaning in spending more useful energy. The crowd didn’t seem to mind that her entry was humbler than usual.

“And who can bar the Lizard Queen’s way to the wooden sword if not… the Dragon?” Shouted the illusion, eliciting another scream from the spectators. Sharaka grimaced at the word. Then her jaw dropped as she saw her opponent enter the arena.

Another viashino.

Sharaka was big, but her opponent was massive: his grim frown - yes, definitely a he, confirmed her nostrils - was at least a head taller than her, with the bulky build and the spikeless tail of the Inner Pass warriors. Had the imperial army covered so much ground in those three months?

“I… I’m Sharaka Tharnak Khozuti. What’s your name?”

“We're about to kill each other. Why should you care?” replied the huge viashino, assuming a fighting stance. He had a big round shield strapped on his left arm and a short sword in his right hand.

Sharaka was lost in the mental image of the Mother Forge soaked in viashino blood when she noticed the incoming lunge. She jumped back on instinct, striking her opponent’s shield with her tail to slow his advance, and retreated again as the larger viashino engaged her spear with his sword.

“Have all Outer Range viashino become shameful fighters, or just you?” He snarled. Sharaka noticed the bent, but unbroken, scales around his collar; he was captured years ago. She shuddered at the idea of such a long captivity, but her panic subsided a bit.

Sharaka sidestepped his next attack, focusing on the fight. She was faster on her feet, but he was clearly an expert with those weapons. She tried some quick strikes to his head and knees, but his reflexes were just too good. She had sparred with enough Inner Pass warriors to know that waiting for his stamina to wear out was not an option either: no chance to wound him without closing the distance and risking a nasty cut.

She started dancing around him, changing frequently grip on her spear to force him to adjust his style while she looked for an opening. He wasn’t used to face someone with her mobility, but he didn’t give up as much ground as Sharaka hoped.

She tried another shin-head combination, expecting him to retreat, but he shoved the point of the spear upwards with his shield and stepped forward; he turned the shield halfway to his side, making her next tail strike a glancing blow, then slashed at her head. She ducked under his sword and went for his unguarded side, but he sidestepped the attack with unexpected agility and used the resulting momentum to charge a powerful shield bash.

Sharaka stepped backwards, but the shield hit her on her armored arm before she could get out of reach. She allowed herself to be pushed several steps back to absorb the force of the blow, but her right shoulder strained painfully nonetheless. She shook the bruised arm and hissed at her opponent, who hit the ground with his tail twice to urge her to regain her stance.

If you even think of losing I will make your last agonizing moments feel like years of suffering. You have magic other than your fireworks. Use it.

Sharaka grimaced and hissed again at Sophron’s intrusion. She lowered her stance and shifted her grip to hold the spear like a javelin: a hunter’s stance, rather than a fighter’s. She inhaled deeply, breathing her frustration and the crowd's excitement in and turning them into raw, wild energy.

She shot towards her opponent, kicking back his shield with an echoing clang and hitting his exposed ankle with her tail. He thrust at her throat, but she pierced the crook of his padded arm with the spear and shoved it down. Before he could regain his balance, she grabbed the upper edge of his shield with her free hand and pushed down as she jumped on the wings of her unnatural might, her armed hand now high above her head.

He looked up at her in disbelief, and her spear chipped the inside of his skull.

She twisted her left wrist to make his death as quick as possible, then she fell back on the ground, still holding her spear inside his head. After a moment’s thought, she broke the shaft of the spear, leaving the steel within the corpse. Her magical strength withered away as she regained clarity.

She half-heard the cheering of the crowd as she drew an incomplete circle around the corpse, then she inscribed the Farewell Rune in the gap and tossed the broken spear beside the body. She took a deep breath and lifted her arms wide open, channeling her mana within the rune as she remembered the shortest possible rite, a single line that she had repeated ad nauseam during her months as a battlemage.

“Itkerai, brother. May you be reborn in fire.”

A colossal pillar of deep red flames erupted from the circle, and the crowd fell silent. The flames became brighter and brighter as the viashino was sublimated, vanishing abruptly and leaving behind the unscathed ground of the arena.

I don’t know if you should be glad that thousands beheld your Return to the Fire, Sharaka thought, or outraged because they’re here for all the wrong reasons. Either way, now you’re free.

Her eyes were empty and her mouth silent as she returned to the cell.

She slid among the rags and put her palms against her eyes. Her hands were shaking. Her throat dry. Her stomach was twisting painfully.

She was almost a year of training away from being a shaman. From swearing an oath to serve and guide her kind. She squirmed, sinking her claws into the snout to prevent herself from screaming.

She had killed a viashino.

Murdered him. It was no culling. No mercy. A murder, under the order of a vedalken.

She was a shame.

A fraud.

She didn’t deserve her blood.

She didn’t deserve her Fire.

She deserved to be snuffed out.

The next week ground forward at an agonizing pace. Whenever Sharaka closed her eyes, the corpse of the viashino she had murdered appeared clear in her mind, but she kept meditating, shielding herself with the familiar words.

She would survive her enemies as fire survives moths.

One way or the other, the next would have been her last arena fight.

No armor was as hard as her willpower, no weapon sharper than her determination.

Sharaka had to force down each meal, repeating herself that she needed food to remain strong.

She was steel, and steel had no fear.

After Sharaka disemboweled another prisoner during sparring, Nero made her train in a corner by herself.

The very soul of fire forged her anew each dawn.

Wake, meditate, eat, train, repeat.

She was the mountain, and the mountain could not be challenged.

Wake, meditate, eat, train.

She would survive her enemies as fire survived moths.

Repeat.

Sharaka donned the armlet on her forearms, then hit the nearby wall; the thick padding beneath the metal absorbed the force of the impact satisfactorily. She already had similar protection on her shins, and no other armor: she wanted to be as light as possible while keeping the option to parry with her arms and legs. She picked up the spear and strode in the arena as the illusion announced her name.

“But alas, our Lizard Queen will have to give her best to avoid being scythed by her opponent today!” The spectators let out the loudest bellow Sharaka had heard from them. “You heard that right, folks! Coming back after the unforgettable match with the Golem last month, he’s here today to test the Queen’s mettle! I hope you have no regrets, folks, ‘cause ready or not… Here! Comes! The Reaper!”

His full armor resembled a skeleton, and his right hand carried a war scythe. Sharaka started running before the door was closed behind him; her growl was covered by the deafening roar of the crowd. The Reaper stepped forward and raised his weapon.

Sharaka aimed a firebolt at his helm and followed with a forceful spear thrust before the flames dissipated; the Reaper was forced back, but the armor seemed unscathed. She heard him mutter, and from his shadow shot a black tentacle that grabbed her ankle. Another battlemage!

The Reaper went for a wide slash; unable to dodge, Sharaka was forced to use the spear to parry. The scythe’s movement defied her prediction at the last moment, and the blade lodged itself deep into the spear’s shaft. Sharaka hit the Reaper with a large blast of banefire that incinerated the scythe’s shaft and the shadow tendril; she dislodged the blade from her spear as the smoke cleared out.

The armored man advanced as if nothing had happened, raising his arms in a tight guard. Sharaka had expected the Reaper to survive – his armor was clearly enchanted - but remaining completely unharmed was a bit much; she swore when she recognized the very same smell of her cell bars coming from the Reaper’s armor. Now there was no doubt: Sophron wanted her dead. Sharaka kindled her wrath and let the mana flow in her body.

Sharaka aimed at the Reaper’s left armpit, one of the few vulnerable points in his armor, and the point slid between the plates with little resistance. But the Reaper had closed his arm around the spear on reflex, and the sudden movement broke the damaged spear in two. The point was bloodied as it fell off, but not as much as Sharaka hoped; she stepped back. The Reaper was wounded, sure, but he didn’t seem fatigued as he followed her toward the edge of the arena.

The Reaper lunged for her claws with his own right hand, and Sharaka struck away his hand hard using the spear’s shaft like a quarterstaff. She smelled rotten meat again, and the wood started wilting; Sharaka dropped the weapon as it quickly turned into a blackened, crooked stick. The Reaper was keeping his limp right hand close to his chest: judging by the angle, the wrist was broken.

But now I’m probably screwed, Sharaka thought while she pumped more mana in her limbs. From the Reaper’s left hand came waves and waves of the penetrating stench of decay, ready to taint her with some deadly plague; his armor protected him from fire, and touching it would surely trigger that damned illusion. She could try to elbow him in the helm and hope to break his neck, but if the Reaper just jerked his left hand in the wrong direction Sharaka was doomed. On the other hand, only the hands seemed to be able to carry magic…

The Reaper dashed toward her, his shadow becoming a tendril again. She didn’t have time to think; her right hand grabbed his left forearm and twisted, while her left hand closed around his neck and squeezed hard. The Reaper’s elbow snapped, but his gorget held until the armor’s magic had seeped into her mind.

She was holding the axe. No, she was holding the Reaper’s neck, Sharaka told herself. What had the scholars taught her about nightmare-illusions? Think! “A trap of memory and trauma, impervious to reason…” Think! “…but emotion can pierce through.” She let a blast of scorching frustration explode from her heart. Around her, her tribe watched in grim silence. Not enough! She tried again, but she kept hearing her mother’s last tune. Think! “Search for your inner flame, the fuel of your Fire.” She pictured Sophron in her mind. Smug, spiteful slaver.

…But he was not the one she truly hated. He was not the source of her anger.

Sharaka hated the humans that had maimed her mother. Sharaka hated the spirits and the healers, because Tharna had been marked for culling. Sharaka hated Hisk, who had brought down the axe. Sharaka hated herself, because she blamed him and he had no fault. Sharaka hated herself again, because she was too weak. She had allowed herself to be captured, murdered one of her own. Sharaka deserved to be punished.

She deserved to die. But she was not the only one.

And at that thought, she felt a dark flame engulf her. It drenched every inch of her body, swelling and burning. Nothing else mattered.

Her nostrils smelled the dirt of the arena, the magic of the Reaper’s armor. The black magic in his limp fingers that were brushing against hers. She felt the plague spread to the hand. She felt the pain. It didn’t matter.

The gorget collapsed under her new strength. Once, she’d have enjoyed the sound of his last rasping breath. It didn’t matter.

As the armored man fell on the ground she opened her arms wide. Sharaka closed her eyes, and let her mana flow outwards. When it touched the outer walls of the arena, she burned a circle in them. Then she focused inward, and imagined her heart turning into a burning, blinding Itkerai rune. A wide pyre, larger than the mass rites she had performed at the front. Maybe it was big enough to contain all her sins. It didn’t matter.

She ignited her mana, and everything became fire.