The stone beneath Arven's back was cool.
Almost pleasant.
He lay stretched out across the bench in the prep chamber, arms folded behind his head, one leg lazily crossed over the other. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, tracing the faint lines where the stone slabs didn't quite fit, small cracks running along the seams like a quiet warning.
The distant sound of cheering rumbled through the walls. The noise rose and fell in waves as the matches above played out, each roar of the crowd a little louder, a little sharper, then fading into a soft murmur until the next name was called.
His fight was last today.
Neither Veyra nor Evelyne was fighting.
They had already passed through this chamber, perhaps not this exact one, but others like it, with the same worn benches and the same scratch marks etched into the walls by waiting hands. Some fighters carved names. Others carved prayers. Arven's fingers brushed over the edge of one deep cut, feeling the groove without reading the words.
The fighters before him had come and gone, one by one.
The winners had walked out on their own.
The losers hadn't.
Some had limped. Others had been dragged. A few didn't leave at all.
Blood dried quickly under the blinding sun.
Soon, it would be his turn. Again.
He held the mask in his hand, rolling it slowly between his fingers.
It wasn't heavy. Not really. The weight didn't come from the material. It came from something else. A weight you didn't feel in the bones but in the mind.
The dull surface caught the torchlight, the uneven curves casting shadows across his palm. The jagged edge of the retractable jaw clicked when he tilted it, the faint metal rattle echoing in the quiet chamber.
He hadn't worn it since the day it was given to him.
Now it sat in his hand again, staring back at him.
How did it come to this?
Weeks ago, he'd been nothing. A cleaner. A servant. A name nobody bothered to remember.
Now he was becoming someone.
He waited, breathing slowly, the noise of the crowd growing distant again.
Then the voice came, cutting through the stillness.
"For the final fight today, we welcome back the crowd's newest favorite…"
It rang through the stone corridor, louder now, carried by the enchanted conduits. The announcer's voice was big, trained, theatrical.
"The Ghoul!"
The prep chamber shook as the crowd roared in response. The vibration reached up through the stone and into his bones.
Arven sat up slowly, his face unreadable.
"And his opponent, Darius, from the Calvari Mountains!"
The name didn't mean much to him.
He lowered the mask to his lap and reached for his gauntlets.
The cold touch of metal slid easily over his forearms, fitting with a familiar bite. He tightened the leather straps carefully, one after another, feeling the slight pressure settle into his skin. The clawed fingers, still slightly warped from Evelyne's forge work, clamped over his hands with a soft hiss.
His fingers flexed inside the gauntlets, the tips scraping lightly against the inner plates.
Then the mask.
He brought it up, holding it in front of him.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
The slits stared back at him like hollow eyes.
He should hate this thing.
And he did. But he also understood it.
Zane wasn't giving him a choice. This was the shape of his story now.
He pressed it to his face.
The jaw clicked into place.
The world narrowed instantly. The thin eye slits cut his vision in half, forcing him to focus. The air behind the mask felt stale, thin. He could breathe, but each breath came with effort, brushing against the cold inner surface.
He adjusted the strap. The hinge along the jaw clicked faintly as he tested the movement.
Open. Close.
The mask sat heavy on his skin, not in weight, but in presence.
His thoughts quieted.
The crowd wasn't waiting for Arven Kayn.
They weren't waiting for the damn janitor.
They were waiting for the Ghoul.
He stood. His boots pressed into the stone, steady, unmoving.
It was time.
The ramp leading up to the Arena stretched longer than it should have.
Each step echoed, a hollow sound rolling through the stone passage as he climbed. The closer he got, the sharper the air became dry heat pulling at his throat, the faint smell of dust thickening with every step.
The sunlight hit him all at once when he emerged at the top.
The sky overhead was a pale, merciless blue. The sun hung high and sharp, baking the sand beneath his feet until the air shimmered above it. Even through the mask, the glare stung his eyes, the thin slits barely enough to shield his vision. He squinted, adjusting slowly.
His feet pressed into the sand, each step leaving a clear mark as he moved forward at an unhurried pace. His posture remained loose, almost lazy, but his focus didn't drift.
The crowd roared around him.
Not for a name. Not for Arven. Not even for a man.
They roared for the Ghoul.
His boots crunched softly with every step as he crossed the wide arena floor.
Across from him, Darius appeared.
The man stepped into the sunlight like a statue come to life, tall, broad through the shoulders, every inch of him wrapped in steel from his neck to his boots. His armor shone under the sun, faint lines of dark-blue etching running along the chest plate and vambraces, almost like veins traced in silver.
His weapon was monstrous. A two-handed greatsword nearly as tall as Arven himself, the grip worn smooth, no flourishes, no wasted weight.
He wore a full helmet, black iron with a slitted visor. His stance wasn't stiff, but settled. Balanced. His hands didn't shift on the hilt. His breathing didn't rush.
This man had trained.
Good, Arven thought.
He didn't want another brute. He didn't want another scared amateur. He wanted someone who knew the difference between swinging to win and swinging to live.
The announcer's voice thundered across the Arena, echoing through the stands.
"Bets are now locked!"
"Darius stands at twenty-three percent!"
"And for the first time in this tournament…"
"The Ghoul leads with seventy-seven percent!"
The crowd's reaction was immediate.
They roared like a wave breaking over the sand, the chant rising in a rhythm Arven barely heard anymore.
It doesn't matter.
He kept his eyes on Darius, reading the way his boots settled into the sand. They sank just enough to give him a firm stance. A grounded fighter. Heavy center of balance. Strength-based. Likely built for counters.
Darius stared back.
There was no voice behind the helmet. No sign of emotion. Just a man hidden beneath steel.
One man behind a mask.
Another behind a helmet.
Arven flexed his fingers inside the gauntlets, claws resting lightly against the metal.
The Arena bell rang.
"Begin!"
The fight was on.
Darius didn't wait.
The moment the bell rang, the armored man surged forward with surprising speed. His boots tore through the sand, sending up clouds behind him. His greatsword rose high, angled for a devastating overhead strike meant to cleave straight through Arven's guard.
Arven's feet shifted.
He slid to the right, smooth and measured, letting the blade tear through the space where his chest had been. The greatsword slammed into the ground with a heavy crunch, sand erupting behind the strike.
Darius did not hesitate. His follow-up was immediate.
The armored man pivoted cleanly, using the momentum to spin into a second attack, the blade rising again in a tight arc aimed at Arven's lower ribs.
Arven dropped low, breath steady, feeling the rush of wind graze across his back as the blade missed by inches.
The sand scattered beneath both of them.
Darius stepped in again, his footwork sharp despite the weight of his armor. His third swing came fast, a horizontal cut with enough force to cleave a man in half.
Arven raised his left gauntlet just in time. The impact clanged loud as steel met steel, the blow hammering against the braced plates of his arm. The weight shuddered through him, but he let the force roll along his shoulder and stepped back, deflecting the blade off to the side.
The shock rattled his bones.
Arven circled left, staying light on the balls of his feet, boots sliding through the sand with each step. He kept distance, breathing steady. Darius was not a brute swinging wide and hoping to land. His footwork was sharp. His angles were tight. He didn't chase. He didn't overreach.
Darius pressed forward, steady and controlled, each step sinking just enough into the sand to keep him grounded without losing speed. He kept the blade low now, tip leveled toward Arven's chest.
Then came the thrust.
Direct.
Precise.
Arven read the timing and slapped the flat of the blade aside with his gauntlet, stepping just outside the line of the strike. The steel hissed past him, missing by a breath.
He snapped back with a counter,
a sharp jab aimed for the ribs.
His claws scraped across polished steel, harmless. The armor was too thick, the plates too well-fitted. No gap there.
No openings yet.
Darius shifted immediately, swinging his sword in a punishing overhead arc.
Arven didn't retreat. He stepped forward instead, toward the incoming blade, past the danger.
The sword crashed into the sand behind him with a deep, tearing sound. Grains sprayed upward, clinging to Darius's greaves.
Arven's right hand shot out.
His palm locked around the hilt of the greatsword, seizing it just above Darius's gauntlet.
For a moment, they froze.
Steel gauntlet locked against Steel claws.
Neither moved.
The tension was electric.
Then Arven twisted sharply, his lean muscle tightening under the gauntlets, vampire strength flooding through his frame as he ripped the sword free from Darius's grip.
The armored man staggered forward, caught off-balance, boots dragging through the sand as his momentum carried him half a step too far.
Arven didn't wait.
He pivoted with the stolen blade, turning his hips and driving the greatsword backward in a brutal two-handed thrust aimed straight at Darius's exposed side.
The tip punched into the thinner joint between the shoulder plate and the torso armor. The steel split with a screech. The edge didn't pierce clean, but it went deep enough to break the rhythm.
Darius let out a sharp, guttural shout as he crashed to one knee, armor clanging against the ground.
The crowd roared above them, a wave of noise swelling in his ears.
Arven dropped the sword.
His boots pressed into the sand as he stepped forward.
His gauntlet caught the back of Darius's helmet, fingers locking around the ridged plates. He yanked the man's head back, exposing the weak point at the neck.
The jaw panel on Arven's mask slid open, the hinge clicking softly.
His fangs bared.
He sank his teeth deep into the gap between the helmet and the gorget.
The blood hit his tongue immediately, thick, salted, laced with strength. It was a warrior's blood, heavy with grit, hot from the fight.
Darius spasmed once under him, armor groaning with the twitch of wasted effort.
Arven drank.
The taste was sharp. Coarse. Not refined. But it burned through him like fire.
Darius's arms sagged.
Arven ripped his fangs free, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth as he stepped back.
The armored man crumpled to the sand in a slow fall, limbs too heavy to lift.
The crowd's roar crested again, surging around the Arena walls.
The bell rang, long and loud.
Arven stood over the fallen body, breathing steady, the slits of his mask narrowing his vision to the sand beneath his feet and the broken fighter in front of him.
The fight was over.
But the crowd would keep chanting.