Page 45 of Forging Darkness

I refocus on the gray-skinned monsters below. They are terrifying to behold, but the reason my heart stutters in my chest as these new beasts stride forward isn’t because of their horrifying appearance.

It’s because I know these beings. The Fallen.

Before being taken in by the Nephilim, I was only ever able to half-phase, which left me physically present in both realms but blinded to some objects in the spectrum world. The monsters that stalked my nightmares were never more than formless dark smudges, dreamlike and shrouded. But the scars I carry on my body are real enough.

The silver-clad warrior holds his weapon at the ready as the Fallen draw near.

How can this be considered an amusing sport? He’s ridiculously outnumbered and will be ripped to shreds before the crowd can work up a decent bloodlust.

The Fallen stop their forward progress a couple body lengths from their prey. They take a measure of caution with their next moves. Their gazes tick from one to another as they gauge who will make the first move. None of them appears particularly eager to be the first to engage the warrior.

My hands ache from gripping the railing. An urge rises in me to aid the lone combatant, but a lifetime of survival instincts beats it back.

I don’t want to watch the man be torn in pieces, but I can’t seem to look away.

It’s a Forsaken, it has to be.

Watching any living being fight to the death for sport is deplorable, but my conscience doesn’t prickle at the thought of Fallen and Forsaken ripping each other to shreds. As much as I fear the worst, I reassure myself it must be a Forsaken and ignore the voice inside reminding me that Forsaken don’t armor-up for their battles, or fight with shields and swords . . . or have auras.

The combat commences when a Fallen charges. He doesn’t slow his momentum as he swings a war hammer through the air, aiming the blunt end at the smaller fighter, who ducks and rolls at the last second to avoid decapitation.

The Fallen quickly changes his trajectory and arcs his weapon down with the force of both arms.

A flash of light reflects off the armored warrior’s sword as he snaps it up, catching the handle of the hammer before the spiked end can make contact with his chest.

The breath I’ve trapped in my lungs begins to burn. I release it in a rush, my gaze glued to the combatants bearing down on each other in the pit below.

The rest of the Fallen stand like statues around the two warriors. The hits the combatants rain down on each other look to be bone crushing, but they keep hammering away. Black blood oozes from a handful of wounds on the battling Fallen’s arms and legs, yet the smaller fighter remains unscathed.

Several minutes tick by and the Fallen appears to flag, his movements growing sloppy and slow.

Fatigue hasn’t yet set in for his opponent, who jumps, ducks, and rolls out of the way of the Fallen’s strikes with ease. He slashes his sword with vicious accuracy, nicking the Fallen in areas that cause the blood flow to increase, and for the first time I wonder if the armored fighter is playing with him.

Despite the blood leaking from multiple wounds, the Fallen rallies and presses the silver warrior back with a series of blows so quick, his opponent is only able to block.

They battle to the edge of the circle of Fallen, and the silver-armored warrior is pushed past the ring of monsters. The second his foot makes contact with the white sand beyond the closest Fallen, she becomes animated and joins her comrade in battle.

Seeing what happened, the silver fighter crouches down and then jumps into the air, launching himself over his two foes and back into the middle of the circle.

The female Fallen is just as tall as her male counterpart and fights with a broadsword easily the length of my body. The reach on her weapon is long enough to make it difficult for her smaller opponent to return her blows.

The silver warrior battles with a Fallen on either side of him, pushing back one only to have to turn and deal with the other.

Bloodlust drips from the spectators’ gazes surrounding me—Forsaken and Fallen alike. Several fights have even broken out around the stands.

To my left, a group of Forsaken heave one of their own over the railing and onto the arena floor. A beast on all fours darts out from one of the darkened tunnels and pounces on the Forsaken before she can get her footing. Its jaws—as long as an alligator’s with rows of teeth visible from my perch—clamp down on the Forsaken’s shoulder. The animal-like body is shaped like a giant dog but rather than fur, iridescent scales cover it from head to toe.

It gives its head a vicious shake, and a shriek of pain rises from the Forsaken. The crowd cheers as the beast drags its prey into the darkened tunnels.

What was that?

“Didn’t I tell you the Nephilim don’t know everything?”

The bloodthirstiness isn’t lost on Silver. Her eyes shine with savagery and her fangs have grown long enough to pierce her bottom lip. She swipes her tongue over the black liquid that oozes from the puncture wounds, and then shoots me a wicked smile.

The roar of the crowd spikes, and I look down just in time to see the head of a Fallen drop to the ground. The decapitated body sways on its feet for a few seconds before succumbing to gravity and thudding against the blood-splattered sand.

Another Fallen breaks from the ring to replace the one that was felled. Rather than surround their foe, both Fallen advance on the silver warrior, forcing him to fall back.

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