Page 105 of The Blood Moon Oath

Sable laughs, the sound light and genuine. For the first time in what feels like forever, the tension in the room eases.

Chapter

Fifty-Six

TORIN

The roar of the crowd is a dull hum in my ears as I stand at the edge of the arena, my blade resting casually against my shoulder. The air is electric, thick with anticipation and bloodlust. The arena itself is a masterpiece of the wilderness—no polished stones or orderly structures here. It’s a natural amphitheater carved into the forest, ringed by towering trees whose twisted roots snake into the uneven ground. Jagged rocks jut out at odd angles, and patches of moss and grass create an unpredictable, slippery terrain. A shallow stream cuts through the far side, its bubbling water masking the murmurs of the gathering warlocks.

The scent of pine and damp earth mixes with the metallic tang of anticipation in the air. Warlocks crowd the natural ledges, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of enchanted torches mounted on the surrounding trees. Their expressions are twisted in excitement, hunger for blood, or outright disdain. A few chant my opponent’s name, theirvoices rising in a rhythmic chorus that echoes through the woods.

Most of them aren’t rooting for me. Why would they? I’m the brawn behind Kael and Finn, the Reaper whose reputation precedes him but never really garners any loyalty. They see me as a blunt instrument, the chaos to Kael’s order and Finn’s strategy. Useful, but not someone you bet your coin on in the long run. Not someone you trust.

I smirk to myself, rolling my shoulders to shake out the tension in my muscles. Let them think what they want. Let them sneer and whisper about how I’m nothing without Kael or Finn to rein me in. By the time this fight is over, they’ll remember why the Reaper doesn’t need anyone to clean up after him.

My opponent is already in the center of the arena, pacing like a caged animal. He’s brawny, a mountain of a man with shoulders wide enough to block out the moonlight filtering through the canopy above. His sneer makes my fingers itch to cut it off his face. He looks out of place here, his size almost comical in the wild and uneven terrain. No, this arena isn’t for men like him. It’s for those who thrive in chaos.

Like me.

The uneven forest floor beneath my boots feels like home, every dip and crack a challenge I’m ready to meet. I shift my grip on my blade, letting the weight settle in my hand. The crowd’s chanting grows louder, their voices blending with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of some nocturnal animal.

“Rogar the Mighty,” they call him. Mighty my ass. Despite his size, he relies heavily on flashy magic. Warlocks like Rogar rely on the crowd, the show, the spectacle of it all.

Me? I don’t need an audience. I fight for the thrill, the blood, the satisfaction of watching someone like Rogar realize too late that they’re nothing.

I glance over my shoulder, catching Sable’s eye. She’s perched on a rocky ledge just outside the ring, her green eyes glowing in the torchlight. There’s worry there, hidden behind her usual fire. I don’t blame her. She’s only just starting to understand how this world works, how we fight for more than survival—we fight for dominance, for respect, for everything.

“Rogar the Mighty,” they call him. Mighty, my ass. He’s just another one of Rothgar’s dogs, snarling and snapping because his master’s got him on a leash.

Behind me, I feel Sable’s presence like a flame licking at my back. She’s close, watching me. Always watching. I glance over my shoulder, catching her eye.

“You nervous, kitten?” I ask, my voice low and teasing.

She scoffs, her arms crossed. “For you? Never.” But there’s a flicker of worry in her eyes, one I’d recognize anywhere.

I take a step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “Don’t fret. I’ll make it quick. The first round always sets the tone, and I intend to set it bloody.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile, but then her expression softens. She reaches out, her hand brushing against my arm. “Torin,” she says, her voice quieter now. “I know you’ll win. I’ve never doubted that. But before you go out there... I need to say something.”

I arch a brow, tilting my head. “You getting all sentimental on me, kitten?”

“Shut up and listen,” she snaps, but there’s no real bite to her words. She takes a deep breath, her gaze locking with mine. “You were the first one here to show me kindness. Real kindness. You might be unhinged, mostly insane, but... you made me feel like I wasn’t just a prisoner. Like I was... someone.”

The confession hits me harder than I expect. I’m not good with feelings. I never have been. I’ve spent my lifelocking them away, burying them under scars and chaos, because the moment you let yourself feel, you give someone the power to hurt you. But this—her—she’s different. She makes me want to feel, even when I know better. Even when it terrifies me.

She steps closer, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. “I don’t know when it happened, but I fell in love with you, Torin. You, with your chaos and your blades and your maddening charm.”

I stare at her for a long moment, my throat tight. Then I grin, leaning in close enough that our foreheads almost touch. “Kitten,” I murmur, my voice low and rough. “You don’t just tell a man you love him before he goes into a fight. Makes him think he’s got something to lose.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t pull back. “Do you?”

“Damn right I do,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But don’t worry. I’ll make this bastard bleed for daring to step into the ring with me.”

I step back before she can say anything else, turning toward the arena. The world sharpens, my focus narrowing as I stride toward Rogar.

The announcer’s voice booms, declaring the start of the first round, but I barely hear it. My gaze is locked on Rogar, who’s grinning like he’s already won.

“You ready to die, Reaper?” he taunts, his voice carrying across the arena.

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