The Arena was quiet at this hour.
The stone walkways still held the last of the night's heat, the morning sun just beginning to stretch across the upper walls. Staff moved urgently, prepping the next round of matches. The big boards hadn't been updated yet. Most fighters hadn't arrived.
Arven wasn't looking at the boards anyway.
He walked at his usual pace, loose in the shoulders, his steps steady but unhurried. His gaze drifted from torch to torch, not searching, just passing time. He wasn't here to train today. He was looking for Evelyne. He didn't know what he'd say. Maybe talk. Maybe see how close they were to meeting in the bracket. Maybe he just wanted to stand in front of her and figure out why she lingered in his thoughts.
He turned down the hall that led toward the sparring quarters.
"Hey! Ghoul!"
He stopped mid-step.
The word echoed down the corridor behind him, bouncing off the stone walls. He let out a long breath.
Of course.
He turned.
Three fighters blocked the hall just ahead of the central arch.
The one in the center was impossible to miss, even without armor. A beastman, tall and thick in the shoulders, black fur dusted with gray near the temples. He wore layered leather and steel plates, the handle of a heavy axe resting over one shoulder. His arms hung loose, but his weight was already shifting forward. Ready.
On his left, a woman with short brown hair and twin daggers gripped tight in each hand. Her stance was low, twitchy, built for speed, but her breathing gave her away. There was hesitation behind the bravado.
On his right, a bald man, broader through the waist, carrying a tower shield strapped tight to his forearm. His free hand was gloved in spiked metal. He leaned slightly to the side, positioning himself for a charge or a block.
Arven raised an eyebrow. "A fan club? Already?"
The beastman stepped forward, boots heavy on the stone.
"Heard some people lost a lot of money because of you," the man said, his voice rough and low. "Gamblers don't like surprises."
Arven said nothing. He already knew what this was.
"Rumor is," the man continued, "some coin's been promised if something happens to you before the next round."
The others drifted apart, spreading just enough to flank him. A triangle. Measured distance. They weren't amateurs. This was practiced.
Arven exhaled slowly and rolled his neck.
So. He'd pissed off the right people after all.
He stepped back, away from the tight corridor and into the wide center of the hall. Here, the tiles caught the morning sun, the space open, clean. No one else was around.
No witnesses.
"Well," he said, stretching one arm across his chest, his gaze steady on the beastman, "you'd better do it fast. I've got places to be."
They moved at once.
The first to reach him was the dagger woman. She came in low, her steps fast and sharp, blades glinting as she closed the distance.
Arven shifted to the side, letting her lunge slide past his ribs. One blade grazed the cloth of his shirt, just shy of the skin. He pivoted as she passed, caught her wrist mid-turn, and twisted sharply. Her momentum broke. He shoved her back hard, right into her shield-bearing companion.
The bald man caught her, but his feet slipped under the sudden weight. He staggered, struggling to brace himself, and in that brief opening, the beastman's axe came.
Arven saw the blade sweep wide, low and fast, aimed to cut him in half.
He stepped back and dropped low, feeling the blade slice the air where his face had been.
He rolled, using the spin to kick off the wall and land behind the shield fighter in a low crouch. The man wheeled around too slowly.
Arven grinned to himself.
This might actually be fun.
They regrouped quickly.
The dagger woman came at him again, her footing more careful this time, her strikes sharper. She aimed higher, for the neck.
Arven raised his forearm, caught the strike, and shoved her back with a quick elbow to the ribs. She stumbled but didn't fall.
The bald man came next. He swung his shield like a battering ram, wide and heavy.
Arven ducked low under it and hammered his knuckles into the man's gut, just above the belt. The hit wasn't enough to break him, but it made him grunt and drop his stance.
Then the axe returned.
The beastman's swing tore past, crushing a section of the stone wall where Arven had stood a heartbeat earlier. Dust spilled from the crack.
Arven circled, breathing steady. The timing felt clean now. He was reading their angles.
Am I really thinking about who deserves to die now?
Another swing. He slipped just outside the edge of the blade.
I used to flinch at the thought. Now I'm ranking them like wine.
"Nice axe," Arven said, stepping lightly to the side. "What's your secret? Let it rot in a sewer for a few years?"
The beastman roared and charged, full weight behind him, axe raised high.
Arven waited, legs steady.
Then, at the last second, he stepped in.
His hands caught the shaft of the axe just below the head. The beastman's eyes widened in the instant of resistance.
Arven's boots held firm. His grip tightened.
The beastman shoved, trying to power through.
Arven didn't budge.
A slow smile tugged at his mouth. "I was expecting more if I'm being honest."
He twisted suddenly, fast and sharp, wrenching the axe free of the beastman's hands. The momentum dragged the beastman forward, off-balance.
Arven spun and hurled the axe across the hall.
It crashed into the shield man's torso, slamming against his defense. The shield took the impact, but the force blasted the man off his feet and into the wall with a crunch. The stone cracked behind him as he collapsed.
Arven exhaled and turned back to the beastman.
"You're not getting that back."
The beastman snarled and threw a punch.
Arven caught the fist in his palm. He twisted the wrist, stepped in, and drove his shoulder into the beastman's chest. The man hit the wall, ribs folding against the stone.
Arven's fangs bared.
He sank them deep into the beastman's shoulder, right between leather and flesh. The bite tore through thick muscle, blood spilling into his mouth.
The taste hit him at once. Grease. Salt. Something old and sour. Rotten.
Arven ripped free with a sharp jerk of his head, spitting the blood out onto the stone. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his face twisted in disgust.
"Gods," he muttered. "What do you eat, for fuck's sake?"
The beastman groaned, his strength pouring out of him like sand through cracked stone. His knees gave way, body crumpling under its own weight.
Arven let him drop. No need to finish him.
He turned his eyes to the other two.
The bald man was still pinned, one knee planted hard on the ground, trying to lift the weight of the axe off his shield. The dagger woman sat slumped, one leg tucked under her, breath coming sharp and shallow, her grip weak on her weapon.
Arven studied them both in silence.
How did fighters like this qualify?
He walked toward them, his boots scraping softly over the stone, each step slow, each one deliberate.
The bald man pushed against the axe, trying to rise, but Arven lifted his hand slightly. Not a threat. Just a gesture.
"Don't bother."
His gaze flicked back to the beastman's twitching body on the floor.
The hunger stirred inside him. Cold. Steady. Heavy.
He could kill them. He should kill them.
It would be simple. Quick. Clean. Forgotten.
But something else rose in him.
Not here.
Not now.
Finish them properly. In the Arena. Where everyone could see.
He stepped toward the dagger woman.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her face flushed with panic, one hand trembling against her bruised cheek.
Arven raised his boot.
And crushed her nose with a clean, sharp stomp.
She screamed, collapsing onto her side, both hands clutching her face as blood poured between her fingers.
"That's for calling me 'Ghoul' like you meant it."
He turned and walked away, his pace steady, breath calm, not looking back.
In the shadow beneath the hallway arch, a younger fighter stood frozen, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He had watched the whole thing.
Arven passed him, glancing just once as he moved past.
"Next time," he said, his voice light, almost lazy, "let's settle it in the Arena."