Page 688 of Fated Mates of Breeder Prison

Every instinct told me to shrink back, to fade into the background.

Champions, especially those of his rank, were unpredictable, and I had learned to steer clear of their capricious natures.

But today, I needed answers.

When the Champion bypassed me, selecting a delicate-looking Prize with cascading golden locks, I felt a pang of guilt.

I should’ve been relieved, but my worry for Ashale overrode that emotion.

Taking a deep breath, I called out. “Champion!”

My voice was surprisingly steady, cutting through the usual chatter.

Heads turned.

I felt a prickle on my skin from the numerous eyes on me, but I kept my focus on the Champion.

The chosen Prize sent me a withering look, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and annoyance.

I sensed the female’s fear.

But I plowed on.

“Have you seen Ashale?” I asked, desperately hoping for a hint, a clue, anything.

The Champion stopped, turning to meet my gaze.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe, and for a moment, I felt like a specimen under a microscope.

The weight of his attention was suffocating, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I swallowed, tasting the sharpness of my own apprehension.

His response, when it came, was curt. “Disqualified.”

The word hit me like a physical blow.

It echoed in my ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the arena.

Disqualified?

What could Ashale have possibly done to merit such a fate?

The implications were dire.

In the pits, disqualification didn’t just mean removal from a match.

It often meant a more severe punishment, sometimes even death.

My heart raced, the thumping loud in my ears, each beat filled with dread.

Once vibrant colors of the arena dimmed, replaced by a gray haze of shock.

The Champion, seemingly satisfied with my reaction, moved on, the delicate Prize in tow.

I barely noticed the female’s haughty smirk as they departed.

All around me, the world continued its frenetic pace, but I felt as though I were encased in a slow-moving bubble.

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