Page 5 of Bonded To The Arena Master

“Give me a weapon,” he says. “Let me die in combat.”

“You sold storm-fire to a merchant.”

“I fought during the western breach. I killed three Dazoneth.”

“I read your service record.”

“Then you know I have honor.”

“Had.”

Rage replaces his fear. His talons carve furrows through the sand as he struggles against the guards.

“Fight me,” he demands.

“If you retained the right to choose your death, you would not be kneeling here.”

I descend from the dais.

Each step brings the arena closer to quiet. The storm still shakes the walls, but the spectators cease their murmuring. Red dust skims over my boots. Wind catches my long black hair and drives it across the right side of my face, briefly covering the broken base of my primary horn.

I reach over my shoulder and draw the axe.

Its black metal head contains no ornament. An executioner’s weapon requires balance, weight, and a faultless edge. Beauty would add nothing to the sentence.

The guards force Vesh toward the block. One pulls his remaining wing clear. The other grips the back of his neck and bends him until his throat rests against the dark wood.

Vesh fights them until the chains bite into his wrists. He curses House Kraval, the merchant, the Council, and every Matron watching from the lower tier. His final curse belongs to me.

I take my position beside the block.

High above, lightning strikes one of Ti’lith’s spires. Silver light races along its protective sigils before vanishing into the storm.

Vesh turns one yellow eye toward me.

There is still hatred in it.

Better hatred than pleading.

I lift the axe.

His claws spread against the sand.

The blade falls once.

Bone parts beneath the weight. The edge strikes the block with a solid crack. Vesh’s body jerks against the guards, then collapses. His severed head rolls through the red dust until one small horn catches and stops it.

Blood darkens the sand around my boots.

No one speaks until the Matron’s representative rises. She examines the body and gives me a clipped nod.

The sentence is complete.

Voices return to the arena. Spectators leave their seats, already reshaping Vesh’s death into whatever version will purchase the most attention at court. Somewhere above, coins change hands over wagers that never offered meaningful odds.

I wipe the axe with a square of rough cloth.

The guards release the body and signal the Zonak assigned to remove it. Three of the small demons hurry onto the sand with a wooden litter. They keep their eyes lowered while lifting Vesh’s remains.