“All right scrubs,” Sir barks, marching down the line of us. Outside, the roar of the crowd reaches a crescendo. In here, dust falls from the ceiling and there’s a thumping as they stomp their feet. “Make a good show of it out there! Earn out what Master paid for you.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” we answer in unison.

Though I hate to admit it, he has made me a better fighter. We’ve been sorted into pairs, and Rosalind is my partner. K’sara and Mesto are matched, and Cenar and Todd are the other pair. Sir looks us over with a critical eye. I’m still trying to get used to having the leather bandoliers crisscrossing my chest. Once we’re in battle it will be useful, but I hate the feel of it against my skin. It’s restrictive. I roll my shoulders and neck to ease the tension.

“Look,” a new voice says. “Thrace has a new batch of scum.”

We all look out the door of our prep area. The gladiators prepare in a room under the arena. Wood slats form the ceiling, holding the dirt of the arena floor up. Rough walls divide the space into rooms off a central gathering area where the medics have workstations. Two men stand outside our door looking in. The first is bright purple with bulging muscles and a heavy, protruding forehead, and the other is as red as a majmun’s ass and smaller than I am. He has a rugged look to him with sharp features and piercing eyes that are just as red as his skin.

“Step back, Brisong,” Sir says, stepping to the open door of our area.

“Why, you going to do something, old man?” Brisong, the purple one, answers while cracking the knuckles of his hands in Sir’s face.

“Save it for the arena,” Sir answers him.

“How’s it feel?” Brisong asks.

“Tell us, Thrace,” the red one says. “What’s it like to be such a has-been?”

They’re obviously baiting him, but Sir doesn’t bother responding. In the ultimate show of disrespect, he turns his back.

“Scrubs—” he says, but then Brisong grabs him by his shoulder.

Sir moves with a blinding speed, grabbing Brisong’s hand and twisting. Turning into him, he forces Brisong to his knees as he twists his arm. Brisong cries out in pain as he drops. Sir brings his right leg up against Brisong’s neck, holding the arm by the wrist extended, his gaze locked on the red one.

“Try it,” Sir says. “You’ll lose your partner.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the red guy says. “We’re third on the ladder!”

“Try me,” Sir says.

“Stand down,” Brisong says, pain in his voice.

Red guy is leaning in, eyes burning hot with rage, fists coming up, ready to make a move. All of us step forward, making a semi-circle around Sir. It’s strange, because I don’t think about it. Over the week, Sir has earned our respect. I have every intention of escaping and taking Rosalind away from here, but that has nothing to do with the grizzled onyx warrior. He’s a cog in the machine, a warrior like us, surviving day to day. The red guy’s gaze shifts from Sir to us and he takes a step back unclenching his fists.

“Fine,” he says.

Sir nods and lets go of Brisong, stepping back as he does. Brisong rises, holding his shoulder and massaging the muscles.

“You’ll pay for that,” he hisses.

“For what? Being a ‘has-been’ who just kicked your ass?” Sir taunts.

Rage plays across Brisong’s face as he splutters, unable to form words. Red guy grabs his arm and pulls him away.

“We’ll see your people in the arena,” Red guy says over his shoulder.

The two of them swagger off. My scales itch and my palms burn with the desire to beat them both.

“Who was that?” Cenar asks.

“Number three team on the ladder,” Sir says, turning to us. “Dangerous and dirty. If any of you are lucky, you’ll rise to face them,” he says. “When you do, I’ll expect you to kick their asses, again.”

Murmurs of agreement rise from us.

“As I was saying,” he continues. “This is your first showing, so don’t you disappoint me. You’re at the bottom of the ladders, so no one is going to expect much. Don’t over show. Hold back.”

One of the lessons he’s stressed over the past seven turns is to not do more than you must to win. The arena is as much about show as it is about skill. We’ll be playing to the crowds. Please them and we advance; displease them and we end up in the Blood Games.

“Today should not be difficult for any of you. You’re not the sorriest lot I’ve ever had to work with.”

The closest he’s come to complimenting. Pride swells in my core taking me by surprise. How can I feel pride when I’m a slave? Rosalind leans close as Sir dismisses us.

“We’ve got this,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I agree.

Dirt falls from the ceiling as the crowd above goes crazy. Screaming and stomping, making the ceiling vibrate so hard that I wonder it doesn’t collapse under their excitement.

“Seven widows’ brides!” someone outside yells and the other gladiators rush into the center area.

“Tanir is hurt!” someone yells.

Rosalind and I exchange a look, and then we look at Sir. He’s standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head.

“That can’t be,” he says.

The gate that blocks the prep area from the arena floor clanks as heavy chains lift it. Two big creatures like the purple monstrosity that our new owner rides rush down the sloping hall to the main room, carrying a stretcher between them. Medics rush over, taking the stretcher and putting it on one of their tables. A heavily muscled, yellow-skinned creature with long black hair lies on top of it, green blood oozing from long, deep cuts that race across his chest. He grunts as they tend to his wounds.

Whispers and murmurs pass around as the gladiators gather to see how bad it is. Rosalind takes my hand, pulling me back from the crowd until we’re next to Sir, who watches with an impassive frown on his face.

“Who is that?” she asks.

“He’s the number-one ranked gladiator, top of the ladder,” Sir answers.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Was I there?” he barks.

Rosalind stares, not responding to his gruffness. He meets her steady gaze until his shoulders drop.

“Looks like wounds from a trinfar,” he says at last.

“What’s a trinfar?” Rosalind asks.

“Supposed to be illegal,” he mutters.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” I say.

“No, it doesn’t,” he says as a long low cry emerges from the center of the crowd. “Curse the Seven Widows.”

“Thrace,” Rosalind says, using his name. “Please.”

That jerks his attention to her, the frown on his face deepening.

“Animal, claws and teeth,” he says. “Green, orange stripes, weighs three to four hundred stone. Its claws ooze a poison for which there is no antidote, which is why they were banned. If that is what he fought, then someone is changing the rules.”

The high-pitched cry becomes a scream that cuts off, leaving a heavy, empty silence in its wake. The silence weighs across all of us as we exchange quick glances. Rosalind clenches my hand in hers, and instinctively I place an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. The ceiling above vibrates as the crowd screams in excitement.

“NEXT!” the cry echoes down the tunnel to the arena.

Thrace taps me on the shoulder.

“You two are up,” he says.

Nodding, throat tight, I walk up the ramp with Rosalind. The two wooden swords strapped to my back clap against me as we walk. Rosalind has a wooden staff that she taps the dirt of the tunnel with. We reach the heavy iron gate. Two wooden doors are closed on the other side of it, blocking our view of the arena, but now I hear an announcer, his voice echoing and doubling over as it reaches me.

The crowd oohs and aahhs as the announcer plays up the spectacle they are about to see. Rosalind shivers.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

This is the first moment we’ve had to ourselves since our capture by the Zzlo. She glances up, frowns, then nods.

“I’m fine,” she lies.

“What is it?” I ask. Her shoulders tense and the line of her jaw tightens as she continues staring straight ahead, as if willing the problem, whatever it is, out of existence. “Rosalind?”

“Epis,” she says at last.

The world falls out from beneath my feet. How could I have forgotten it?

“How much do you have left?” I ask.

“What I have is no longer effective,” she answers.

Two, maybe three weeks. That’s all we have. A sense of urgency makes my scales itch. Irrationally, I look around hoping to spot an escape, as if there could be one conveniently waiting for us.

“Okay,” I say, numbness creeping in and replacing the sensation of falling.

“It’s fine,” she says.

“For now,” I add.

“Yes,” she says.

“We have to escape,” I say.

“Of course we do,” she says. “We will.”

“Yes,” I answer as the gate clanks and then starts to rise.

The wooden doors swing open, and bright yellow light stabs into the dim tunnel, creating flashes in my eyes. My outer lenses snap shut, filtering out the light and clearing my vision. The arena is a giant circle surrounded by a wall behind which rises seats crowded with aliens of all shapes and sizes. When I step out first, the crowd roars so loud it’s deafening. Rosalind comes a step behind me, as we practiced. My larger size makes me an obvious target, which we plan to use to our advantage.

On the opposite side of the arena, our opponents emerge. They’re big but not huge and look enough alike that they must be related. Yellow-skinned humanoids with large heads and massive tusks sticking up from the corners of their mouths. One of them has a trident and net, the other is wielding a large club. They raise their arms as they march straight ahead, waving at the crowd who responds raucously.

Rosalind and I march forward, but our opponents start jogging, picking up speed as they approach. Rosalind breaks to the right as I go left, making a V away from each other. Our opponents look at each other without breaking their run, then cross paths. The net and trident heads for me, while the club heads for Rosalind. I can’t suppress my smile, exactly what I’d hoped for.

Trident swings his net in a lazy loop around his head as I run sideways keeping myself facing him while moving farther away from Rosalind, forcing him to turn to follow me. He stabs towards me with the trident, growling. Facing him fully, I dance sideways to keep him moving, but now I’m slowly looping around towards Rosalind again as she does the same.

Trident throws the net, which I expect. It flies through the air in a slow-motion arc. Ducking my chin, I dive forward and roll across my left shoulder, continuing the roll until I’m close to him. I leap out of the roll, spread my wings, and pull the wooden swords. Trident turns, dumbfounded to find that I’m airborne. With surprise on my side, I have plenty of time to swing my weapons. I slam the wooden swords on either side of his head. With the loud crack still echoing through the stadium, his eyes widen, his mouth falls open, and then he drops the trident.

As I land over him, he slams down, unconscious.

“Visidion!” Rosalind cries.

Club has her on defense, swinging wild, forcing her into retreat. She dodges his clumsy swings, but he’s bigger than she is and has a greater reach. I throw the sword in my left hand. It circles through the air, hilt over blade, but misses my target, going by his ear. He glances to the side and Rosalind attacks. Ducking under his swinging club, she comes up inside his reach and lands multiple blows to his core. Her knee comes up between his legs with so much force I feel sympathy pain for him.

He screams at such a pitch it makes my ears hurt as he falls over backwards, curling into a ball on the yellow dirt.

The arena is silent. Too silent. I could hear the whisper of a distant star in this silence. No one moves in the stands. The crowd is stunned, and if it’s a good thing or a bad thing I don’t know. I go to Rosalind’s side and take her hand. Built above the crowded seats of the rest of the arena is a lavish raised box. Massive purple banners hang in front of it, each with a white hand painted in a red circle. The raised box has fancy seats in it, and a huge, fat alien sits there, staring down.

The crowd is staring at him, waiting, so Rosalind and I stare at him too. Thrace told us about him. This is the new king of Krik. He rules by brute force and fear. Nothing happens on Krik without his approval. The few stories I’ve heard about him make him seem little more than a bully. Looking at him doesn’t change my opinion.

Rolls of fat hang over the fancy robes he wears, and his face is pale to the point of almost seeming translucent. He’s so big his arms seem too short to reach his mouth, and indeed he has servants to either side, one holding a massive cup and the other a leg of meat. Others hover close to him, patting his face with towels, brushing crumbs from his belly, and fanning him. On either side of him sit those in favor with the crown. One of them catches my attention. A Zmaj sits there, wearing rough leather armor and staring down at me with cold eyes. His scales are edged yellow with hints of blue. A potential ally?

“Gladiators,” the king says, his voice a whining sound that makes my bones ache with the desire to punch him in his fat face. “You’ve fought well. Almost… too well.”

He lets that hang in the air, unclear about what that means for our fate. Slowly his massive head turns towards the Zmaj at his side.

“What say you, Arcan?” the king asks.

Arcan stares down, frowning, his wings rustling.

“They are undermatched,” he says at last.

“Yes, yes they are, impressive. They shall be moved up the ladder, four, no… six rungs!” the king declares.

The crowd erupts. The noise is deafening. Rosalind says something, but I can’t make out the words. We walk out of the arena, ears ringing with the excitement of the crowd. Now to find out what such a jump on the ladders means for our future.