Chapter 247: v3 - 8: The deathly course I

Chapter 247: v3 Chapter 8: The deathly course I

The next morning, they were awakened before sunrise.

The guards entered the quarters without warning.

"Up."

Robert was already sitting up by the time Cassian opened his eyes.

He listened for a moment.

Then looked toward Cassian.

"They’re taking us out."

Cassian rose from the bed.

His body protested immediately.

His ribs were better.

His leg was stronger.

But neither was fully healed.

He ignored the pain.

The others dressed in silence.

No one knew what waited for them.

They were led through the corridors.

Past the same iron gates.

Past guards.

Past other quarters.

The further they went, the louder the sound became.

A distant roar.

Then another.

Then thousands of voices blending together until the stone walls seemed to vibrate with them.

Cassian recognized the sound.

The crowd.

He had heard it before.

But the last time he had entered the Arena, there had been no time to look.

They had been shoved through the gates, thrown into the sand, and surrounded by screaming spectators before he had even understood what was happening.

Then the wolves had been released.

This time was different.

They weren’t being rushed toward a fight.

They were being brought there deliberately.

Presented.

Cassian walked through the final passage and emerged into the open.

He stopped.

The Arena revealed itself before him.

He had seen it before.

But never like this.

The enormous circular structure rose around the sand, tier upon tier of stone seating climbing toward the sky.

Thousands upon thousands of people filled the stands.

Men and women.

Merchants.

Soldiers.

Nobles dressed in elaborate clothing.

Commoners leaning over the railings.

Children perched beside their parents.

Banners hung from balconies high above, some bearing the colors of wealthy houses, others displaying the insignia of the Arena.

The sunlight struck the pale stone walls.

Drums sounded somewhere in the upper levels.

The crowd surged and shifted like a living thing.

Cassian’s gaze moved slowly across it all.

During the wolf game, he had seen only fragments.

A wall.

A gate.

The sand beneath his feet.

The faces nearest to him.

Now he could see the whole thing.

The scale was almost absurd.

This place had not been built merely to contain fighters.

It had been built to entertain thousands.

And they had come here to watch men die.

Cassian’s expression hardened.

Robert came to stand beside him.

"Quite a place."

Cassian glanced at him.

Robert gave a low whistle.

"I knew it was big from last time."

He looked up toward the highest rows.

"But being here again feels like something else."

Cassian said nothing.

His eyes moved across the spectators.

Some were already pointing toward the newcomers.

Others shouted.

A few waved.

Some appeared to be placing bets.

They weren’t looking at prisoners.

They were looking at the newest entertainment.

Cassian’s gaze lowered briefly to the mark on his arm.

Then he looked back toward the Arena.

He understood something now.

The wolves had not been an isolated punishment.

That had been the beginning.

This place had a system.

A business.

And they were part of it.

A horn sounded.

The crowd gradually quieted.

A man stepped onto a raised platform overlooking the arena.

He lifted one hand.

Silence spread in waves.

Robert leaned slightly toward Cassian.

"The introductions are starting."

Cassian looked toward the platform.

Attendants stood nearby with wooden plaques.

Another man carried a long list.

Robert watched them.

"They’re calling the new fighters."

Cassian’s eyes narrowed.

One of the attendants stepped forward.

The announcer spoke.

The crowd answered.

Robert translated.

"Fighter number three hundred and twelve."

A man stepped forward.

The crowd cheered.

Not everyone.

But enough.

The announcer called another.

"Three hundred and thirteen."

Another man stepped forward.

More cheers.

Cassian watched.

The numbers continued.

Three hundred and fourteen.

Three hundred and fifteen.

Three hundred and sixteen.

They were not the first.

They were not even close.

The Arena had seen hundreds of fighters before them.

Some had died.

Some had survived.

Some had become champions.

And some—

Cassian glanced toward the portraits lining the far walls—

had become something more.

The announcer called another number.

Robert looked toward Cassian.

"That’s you."

Cassian turned.

"What number?"

"Three hundred and nineteen."

An attendant approached.

He placed a wooden plaque in Cassian’s hand.

319.

Cassian looked at it.

That was what he was now.

The announcer called out.

"Carlo!"

Cassian raised his head.

Thousands of eyes turned toward him.

He stepped forward.

For the first time, the crowd was seeing him.

Not as the man who had fallen into the ravine.

Not as the Duke of Ashford.

Here, he was simply Carlo, Fighter Three Hundred and Nineteen.

And that was precisely how he intended to remain.

He kept his expression blank as the crowd reacted.

Some shouted.

Others pointed.

A few merely watched.

The attention lasted only a moment before the announcer moved on.

Cassian stepped back into the line.

He was one of twenty new fighters standing in the Arena.

They had come from different elimination games.

Some had survived the wolves.

Others had survived different trials.

They had never fought together before.

They barely knew one another.

But all twenty now stood beneath the same mark, carrying new numbers and waiting for their first official Arena match.

The announcer continued calling them forward one by one.

Cassian watched the men around him.

Some looked nervous.

Some tried to appear confident.

Others stared at the crowd with expressions ranging from fear to excitement.

Cassian understood the significance.

This was their introduction.

The crowd was being given twenty new fighters to remember.

And from this moment onward, every one of them would have a name—or rather, a number and a name—that people could cheer for.

The announcer finally turned toward the far end of the Arena.

Cassian followed his gaze.

His expression changed.

Something had been constructed there.

A series of wooden platforms stretched across the arena.

Some were fixed.

Others hung from heavy chains.

They stood at different heights and distances from one another.

Between them lay a deep pit.

At the bottom—

rows of sharpened wooden stakes.

Cassian’s eyes narrowed.

Above several of the platforms hung enormous axes.

Each blade was suspended from a heavy wooden frame.

They swung slowly from side to side.

Back.

Forward.

Back again.

The blades passed across the gaps between the platforms.

The crowd began cheering.

Robert stared.

"Oh."

Cassian glanced at him.

Robert swallowed.

"I think I know what we’re doing."

Cassian’s gaze remained fixed on the course.

One platform.

Then another.

Then another.

Swinging axes.

Open gaps.

Spikes below.

There was nowhere to fall.

Robert looked at him.

"We have to cross it."

Cassian said nothing.

A horn sounded.

The crowd erupted.

The announcer raised his hand.

Then pointed toward the first fighter.

"Number three hundred and twelve."

The gates opened.

The first man stepped toward the course.

Nineteen new fighters remained behind him.

Cassian watched.

The crowd watched.

And somewhere in those thousands of faces, people were already deciding which of them they would remember.

Tomorrow, perhaps, some of these men would have names worth shouting.

Others would not make it across.

Cassian tightened his grip around the wooden plaque.

319.

The game was about to begin.

--

Tbc