Anya
The new rosters are posted on a splintered board near the mess hall. My name is etched beside his. Valerius. A doubles match. My stomach clenches into a cold, hard knot.
It is a death sentence dressed up as an opportunity. The Warden must be laughing. Pairing the arrogant Alpha with the Omega Scrapper he despises. This is entertainment.
I find him in the armory, polishing his ridiculously oversized pauldrons. He sees my reflection in the steel and does not bother to turn.
“So, Scrapper. The Fates have given you the honor of fighting at my side.”
“The Warden has a sick sense of humor.” I select a pair of throwing knives from the rack, testing their balance in my palm.
He finally turns, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Do not worry your pretty little head. I have a strategy. It is quite simple. You will do exactly as I say.”
“And what is it you say, Valerius?”
“You draw their attention. Dart around. Be the annoying little pest you are. I will handle the actual fighting. When I deliver the final blow, try to look impressed.” He winks. “Your only job is to stay alive long enough for me to win.”
My hand tightens around the hilt of a knife. “You want me to be bait.”
“A clever little Omega, after all.” He claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that is more of a shove. “Do not get in my way, and we will be fine. Get in my way, and I will let them have you.”
He walks away, leaving me in the silence of the armory. The scent of oil and old steel does little to calm the fire in my gut. He thinks I am a shield. A pawn. He is about to learn how badly he has miscalculated.
The horns blare. We walk into the light of the arena side by side, a mockery of a team.
Our opponents are a matched pair from the Sunstone pack. Brothers, by the look of them. One is broad and carries a heavy, spiked flail. The other is wiry, armed with a trident and a weighted net. The net is the real threat.
The crowd roars. I see Nolan in the champion’s gallery, watching. His face is an unreadable mask of stone, but I feel his gaze like a physical touch. The bond hums, a low, distracting thrum beneath my skin. I force it down. I need my focus here. Not on him.
Valerius grunts. “I will take the big one. You keep the fish-catcher busy.”
He charges without another word, his sword clashing against the brute’s flail in a shower of sparks. It is all noise and fury. Inefficient.
The wiry one, the net-wielder, circles me. His movements are fluid, his eyes sharp. He is waiting for an opening. I am a coiled snake, my blades held low, mirroring his steps.
I risk a glance at Valerius. He is holding his own, but only just. The brute’s flail is a storm of iron, forcing him back step by step. I see the frustration on his face, the anger at being challenged. His pride is already wounded.
The net-wielder makes his move. He feints with the trident, and I dodge left. It is exactly what he wants. He spins, the net uncoiling from his arm in a wide, deadly arc.
I am already moving to evade it, my feet light on the sand. But I am not the only one in motion.
“Now, Scrapper!” Valerius roars.
A heavy blow slams into my back. It is not from an opponent. It is Valerius’s armored shoulder. He has shoved me. Hard. Directly into the path of the closing net.
He used me as a shield.
The crowd gasps. Time slows. The weighted ropes fly towards my face. There is no time to dodge. No room to escape.
So I do not try.
I use his momentum. I plant my back foot, converting the force of his shove into upward motion. I leap, not away, but forward. My boot connects with the arena wall beside me. I push off, a frantic, acrobatic twist that sends me soaring over the net.
I land silently behind the net-wielder. His eyes are wide with shock. He is still staring at the spot where I should have been tangled and helpless.
My blade slides between his ribs. Clean. Precise.
He collapses without a sound. I do not spare him a second look.
Valerius is in trouble. He has overextended, and the brute’s flail has caught his shield, ripping it from his grasp. He is disarmed and exposed.
I throw one of the knives I took from the armory. It sinks into the brute’s thigh. He howls, his attack faltering for a single, crucial second.
It is all Valerius needs. He recovers, thrusting his sword forward. The brute falls.
The silence in the arena is absolute. Then it explodes. The crowd is on its feet, roaring louder than I have ever heard. They do not see a betrayal. They see a breathtaking, unorthodox strategy. They see a flawless victory.
Valerius turns to me, his chest heaving, his face a thundercloud of pure fury. His eyes promise murder.
I meet his gaze, my expression perfectly blank. “We won, Valerius.”
I walk away first, leaving him to soak in the stolen glory.
The gash on my arm is deep. One of the weights from the net caught me as I flew over it. Blood soaks the sleeve of my tunic, a steady, warm trickle down to my fingertips.
I bypass the crowded fighter’s hall and head straight for the infirmary. It is a quiet, clean space that smells of antiseptic herbs and bleach. Usually, the healers are gruff ex-fighters who patch you up with the same care they would use on a torn saddlebag.
But the woman who approaches me is different. She is young, with kind eyes and hands that move with a gentle certainty.
“Sit,” she says, her voice soft. She gestures to a stool. “Let me see that.”
I obey, holding out my arm. She cleans the wound with a cool cloth, her touch surprisingly light. She does not flinch at the sight of the blood or the raw flesh.
“That was a dangerous move in the arena today,” she says quietly as she works, stitching the wound with a practiced hand.
“It was necessary.”
“For the victory? Or for your partner?” She glances up at me, her gaze knowing. “Valerius is not known for protecting his allies.”
Her directness surprises me. No one speaks so plainly here. “I protect myself.”
She nods, a small, sad smile on her lips. “I know you do. But it must be exhausting to have to watch your back even when someone is supposed to be guarding it.”
Her words hit a place inside me I keep walled off. A place that remembers what it felt like to trust. To have a pack.
She finishes the stitches and wraps my arm in a clean linen bandage. “I am Lena,” she says. “If you ever need anything. A patch-up, or just a quiet place to sit for a moment. My door is always open.”
I stare at her. Kindness is a foreign currency in this place. A weapon I do not understand.
“Why?” I ask, the word rough in my throat.
“Because this arena chews up good people and spits out bones,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “And I think you are one of the good ones, Anya. No matter what they call you.”
She knows my name.
She presses a small ceramic pot into my hand. “A salve. For the scarring. Use it tonight.”
I stand up, my arm throbbing with a dull ache. I look from her face to the small pot in my hand. It feels heavier than a sword.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
She just nods, already turning to help another wounded fighter.
I walk out of the infirmary, back into the shadows of the barracks. The sounds of raucous celebration echo from the mess hall. Valerius is likely telling a grand lie about our victory. Let him.
I retreat to my cell. In the quiet darkness, I open the pot. The salve smells of willowbark and something else. Something clean and calming.
For the first time in five years, I am not entirely alone.
