The battered wagon wheels rumble over one pothole, then the next, rattling the bars of our cage and scraping the rough metal along the cut in my shoulder. I tighten my jaw in an effort not to wince. It won’t do me good to remind any of the nine fighters locked in here with me that I’m injured.

Instead, I keep my gaze fixed on the dried blood still on my hands from my last match. The blood isn’t mine. It’s Yular’s, I think. Or maybe Mundag’s. Both trolls were thrown into the arena with me yesterday, and, like the rest of us, they chose to fight to the death to feed their families.

They just weren’t as brutal as me. Nor were they as desperate.

Crossing my arms over the thin leather armor covering my bare chest, I lift my chin and stare at the scarred face of the fighter across from me. Two bottom tusks rise over the ogre’s upper lip, the left one jagged and broken next to a gash that stretches from his mouth to his ear. His eyes catch on mine—then harden, letting me know he still has some fight left in him. I openly stare back, letting him know I’m all fight.

The sound of a horn announces our arrival, and the ogre huffs and looks away. No sense kicking things up in here when we might not even get paired today.

I can’t help the slight sinking feeling in my gut as the horn’s final note fades on the wind, reminding me there’s a real chance I won’t ever hear that sound again. The arena is unpredictable as fuck.

The wagon slows when it reaches the outer wall surrounding the coliseum complex, and heavy chains clank as the massive wooden gate swings open with a splintering groan.

Every foot the gate widens, chants of “Bloodguard!” from the arena build in volume like a brewing storm, rolling through the wagon.