Page 106 of What Lies Within Masks & Shadows

Then the roar from the crowd thundered once more.

Thalon lifted his sword into the air with a mischievous smile. “Let the games begin!”

The crowd thrummed with exhilaration,anxious and hungry for an entertaining fight.

Stretching beyond the tent-lined border, a vast expanse opened up, leading to the arena—marked by the cessation of tents. Alora couldn’t yet see inside the arena, but with each step closer, she caught glimpses of what waited inside. The night was dark, but a hundred torches—bound to the wooden walls—illuminated the inside as fifteen fighters prepared their battle-ready positions.

Garrik walked through the crowd with an air of pride, parting the sea with his sheer presence, and was escorted to an erected platform on the side by the lake. And before she could find her place amongst the shouts and roars, Garrik hauled her up to stand beside him.

The boards beneath her feet were vibrating—shaking so intensely she thought the platform may fall. But Garrik seemed unfazed by it and scanned the crowd with a devilish grin.

She did too. There was no stopping it.

It waselectrifying.

Before her, as far as the tree line and mere feet from the tents, the crowd moved in waves of unbridled excitement. Billowing with riotous roars of speculation and predictions as to the competition's outcome. The sounds of their screams were so loud she couldn’t hear her own calls to Thalon, who stationed himself beside her, beaming like a youngling waiting for their favorite dessert.

Alora had learned, through the maze of tents, that this tradition was a fight to the last. Seven rounds of extraordinary magic, sharpened blades, and cunning minds until a victor emerged. Nothing would be off limits. Mystic versus soldier—just like war. Then, each victor of their round would battle in the last until one remained. When questioned, Thalon had explained that most choose an ally, fighting side by side until their only choice was to abandon the alliance and turn on the other. Others fought in packs, while a few relied on their own abilities.

Forsaking the command by his hand, Garrik instead raised his voice, booming like two mountains colliding together. “Weapons ready?”

The roar that followed was momentous, clanging weapons and beating fists into the arena walls and air.

The elegant mask of the High Prince was ripped away. No trace of a royal High Fae of impeccable, distinguished bloodlines. It was replaced by something wholly roguish and irrepressible.

Without any need for horns or convincing speeches, every muscle rippled in Garrik’s body as he tensed forward. Enthralledin the intensity of the moment, those darkened eyes morphed into something utterly devilish, spearing into the crowd as he growled,“Rot an li vencath!”

Fight to the last!

As the last word escaped his lips, the fighterslunged.

Like rabid beasts, an outright brawl of steel, fists, and entertainment erupted.

Immediately, six fighters were conquered and yielded to various strikes while the others wrestled and bombarded their opponents with skill and agility.

Duck! To your left! Keep that sword up!

Watch your feet! Do you even know how to fight?

Come on, get up!

You call that a punch?

The crowd’s energy engulfed Alora to the point that her throat threatened to raw from her own shrieking. Ignoring Jade’s scowls and hisses as she dug her boots deep into the platform’s edge. Being outside the ring wasn’t close enough. She craved more.

Thalon beat his chest with a fist as he screamed at a young High Fae, “Get up! I’ve taught you better!”

Three fighters remained.

They prowled around each other with swords drawn and clenched fists. Searching for weakness to exploit. One pulsed magic through the air—a mighty lightning strike fell through the dark, scorching the ground between them—and sent two fighters onto their backs.

One fighter crawled his way across the charred, cracked dirt to the wall, collecting panting breaths before hands pulled him over. He stood with a nod and a heaving chest.

Out, but uninjured.

Two fighters remained—the Mystic and a soldier who fell on her back. Each positioned themselves apart from one another.

Talenciya, as the crowd screamed, held out her hand once more just as the soldier leapt into the air. The pommel of her sword cracked into the chest of the Mystic, rendering her immobile and breathless for a moment. The fight was a spectacle. Lightning and metal crashing together as the two gave their best performance.

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