Page 415 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Plan in mind, I glanced up—and immediately regretted it.

Barbed spikes were slowly descending—all webbed together in some macabre basket. We were on a timer, then.

For the first time since my first day in the arena, my heart began pounding. No doubt the goddamn point.

With another long-suffering sigh, I knelt, bowing my head as I pressed my palm to the iron-stained dirt of the arena floor.

Marlana had asked me why I did it after my first fight—why take that beat of prayer, why touch the earth before staining it crimson?

I couldn’t explain it. Not really.

It felt as ingrained as brushing my teeth.

I balled my hand into the dirt and came up with a fistful, running it through my fingers and rubbing the grit into my palm as it fell. My ears strained to hear the gentle twinkle of grains against stone over the expectant crowd, the whispers of voices that ran through my mind. Warnings, mostly.

Feeling the pressure of watching eyes, I looked up to Moros to find him… smirking. Amusement in the bitter lines of his face.

The pattern of thuds from across the ring drew me back to my opposition; tall, broad, wrapped in muscles fit for a sculpture, scars that spoke to Marlana’s claims that I faced a warrior today. His hair was a shaggy reddish-brown, something about it niggling at my mind. A lot of things irritated me these days. Not being able to fit a memory into the jigsaw of my past was the most common.

Canting my head as the last of the dirt slipped through my hands, I saw it—his intentions.

The man across from me would go for the axe.

I couldn’t explain how I knew it, only that I did.

He’d go for the axe and throw it to keep me occupied while he snatched the remaining blades. I’d reach the center a beat too late—he was bigger, his legs longer, and likely faster in a run, though more cumbersome if I could get him up close.

Three floors above us, the steady beat of drums began. Metal clinked as those spikes continued to lower—slowly, methodically, building the suspense.

Above the din, Moros barked, “Begin!”

I remained in place, crouching in the dirt.

The man did not.

The mammoth brute rushed for the center, sliding across the dirt toward the stash as I watched. His brows furrowed at my bored expression, or maybe the unmoving stance. Then he seized the axe and threw it. I rolled, arms tight as it soared past me with a thud. Scrambling back to it, I seized the handle from where it embedded in the earth, heaving until it came free. I whirled. The man’s sword was already descending, and I used both the shoulder and pommel to brace against it.

Using his momentum, I shoved both weapons backward, rolled, planted my feet in his sternum as he followed, and heaved him over my head. I grimaced when his blade took a chunk of the haft with it.

I likely had one good swing—maybe a throw—before the weapon was useless.

Knives, then.

Whirling, I found my feet and jumped as he lashed out with his sword. Unreasonably fast for a man of his stature.

“Ally!” he barked. “Wait!”

I swung the axe, and he nearly bent over backwards to avoid it. Somehow the brute kept his feet.

“Alvara!” he snarled, stumbling as he righted himself. “Look at me!”

Where the fuck did he think I was looking? The chains were rattling, metal creaking, the crowd bellowing. Our timer was ticking, and he wanted me to look at him?

“Alvara!” he tried again, irritation bristling up my spine.

“That’s not my name.”

Anger flashed across the warrior’s expression. “You know me, Alvara. A friend of Aren. Look at me.”