Page 55 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
Other barred entrances lined the edge of the arena in a wide, circular pattern, mirroring the layout of the dungeons below. The door of the farthest one creaked open with a grating screech.
A werewolf stepped out.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. There was no full moon. He must have found a way to hold his transformation.
He stalked into the arena, dragging a bobcat headed demon—a felyrix—by the neck behind him.
Both of these demons were from Kingdom Misophae, but once, they had called Kingdom Nocturne home. They’d been ruthlessly driven out when the vampires chose to sever ties with the demons alliance and form their own nation, casting the other night demons into Misophae as exiles.
Aryana’s heart sank.
The felyrix’s limbs were bound, leaving him unable to move. Yet, he did not try to struggle. Perhaps he knew what awaited him. As the werewolf reached the platform, he hurled the demon forward, dropping him at his clawed feet. The felyrix hit the ground on hands and knees.
With a single swift movement, the werewolf gripped the felyrix’s throat and lunged.
A cry tore from him as the werewolf bit into his arm, slowly pulling away, ripping his flesh. Crimson spattered in all directions.
Aryana’s stomach twisted. The spectators snarled and cheered. The werewolf raised his arms, gore running from his face as he chewed on the felyrix’s flesh. He swallowed and leaned in again, tearing the skin, causing a cry of anguish as he tore off the tissue between his neck and shoulder.
When the werewolf finished, he dropped his pain riddled kalator, trembling, into the dirt.
“Savage. Brutal. Just the way we want it,” the demon announcer’s voice crackled through the arena, thick with excitement. “Next Champion is from Kingdom Inferna, Noctyssa, the Hollow Mouth.”
The bars to the next waiting area along the arena’s side swung open, and Aryana’s stomach soured at the sight. A woman with horns and flowing midnight hair stepped out. She held a long lacerated whip in her hand. Aryana flinched as the demon from Inferna cracked the lash against her kalator’s flesh.
What was happening? These were theirkalators. They were meant to fight for the champions in the arena. A part of her recognized Zarathos had warned her that he needed to debase her, but… this? Why wound those who were supposed to protect them?
Aryana couldn’t tear her eyes away.
She wanted to. Gods, she wanted to. But something, some morbid fascination, fear, or duty, kept her rooted in place, watching.More champions and their kalators entered the arena. Her stomach churned with every grotesque act of violence. The bile burned her throat, and still she watched, as if blinking would somehow make it worse.
The announcer reveled in the brutality, his voice gleeful as he narrated each new spectacle of agony as if it were a prized performance.
With each champion that emerged alongside their kalator, Aryana’s stomach clenched further. Every act of cruelty twisted the knot inside her.
Shit.
If this was what the others had to endure, what was awaiting her?
Next, a gargoyle named Balafur from Kingdom Aeria arrived, accompanied by his kalator—a man-sized owl whose limbs twitched unnaturally, as if poisoned. Aryana’s grasp tightened on her own arms as she tried not to cringe.
Then Prince Kaelroch, the first champion of Terra Monstrum, marched into the arena gripping a half-human, half-burrow creature by the throat. He hurled it to the ground with a sneer before snapping the creature’s arm.
Aryana’s breath hitched. Her heart pounded hard enough to hurt. Each horrible deed chipped at something inside her, left her weaker, her spirit thinner.
And still she couldn’t avert her gaze.
“Next on our list, we have Valkotha the Harrower from Spiritu Malignos,” the announcer said.
A formicidra entered the arena, his eyes glowing, a clear sign a spectral had claimed his body.
Upright, humanoid features fused with his spindly, ant-like form, but his sharp, unnatural movements mirrored the jagged black cracks splitting his borrowed flesh. After claiming his spot on his podium, without a word, he glanced behind him and motioned for his kalator to follow.
Jesir stepped out cautiously, glancing around. The crowd broke out in cheers and boos at the same time. Noctyssa and a female who looked like her twin both snarled in rage. Imps were from Kingdom Inferna. This champion had taken a kalator from another nation.
Valkotha beckoned Jesir forward, then set him up beside the platform, almost gently, and Jesir gazed up at him in confusion. The formicidra patted him on the head and the booing in the crowd increased.
How dare gentleness be shown in this arena of death.
