Page 438 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Some part of my brain knew there should be fear here. I knelt, the movement like muscle memory as I bowed my head and pressed a palm to the dirt. Blew all the air from my lungs, then slowly drew it back in.

And there I waited.

Moros’ voice, magically amplified, rang out over the crowd with his usual, “Begin!”

And I watched.

Watched as—sure enough—the bulk of the fighters made a beeline for the weapons at the center.

Based on the way the scrawny woman just pissed herself, I figured I should probably be terrified.

I wasn’t.

Something about fighting stilled my mind. Soothed it, almost. And three demands rang from the depths of my consciousness, just like they had every time I was in the ring. A warm voice that rumbled like thunder. Male. Somehow my chest both warmed and ached.

Eyes up. Pick your ground. Hold the line.

Canting my head, I watched as nearly half the competitors took each other out over the weapons pit.

Watched as one of the biggest men collided with the scrawny woman. Watched as—holy shit—she climbed him like a fucking tree. In the next breath, she sank her fangs into his neck and pulled. His bellow was loud enough that I heard it over the crowd.

Pissing herself terrified and scrappy as hell. Noted.

The pink-haired woman cut down one of the warrior-looking types and seized a blade before making a beeline for me.

Sighing, I steadied myself, reaching for that voice. The one that guided my movements.

Use her momentum.

Duh. Eyes locked on her bloodthirsty blues, I waited.

And waited.

Just a few steps now.

I threw up my right hand like a shield, drawing her focus as her sword came down in a great sweeping arc. Her trajectory shifted. I yanked my hand back to guide her strike, rotating and shoving my body sidelong as the blade soared just past my shoulder.

My fingers met flesh and metal as I seized the pommel, my left hand slamming into her neck as I rocketed up and spun into her. Her momentum took the blade into the ground, and I shoved her with it, swinging my knee into the back of her legs.

I shoved her throat down atop her own blade—and yanked the pommel.

Her body hit the ground limply as I ripped the sword free, sending blood flying.

The crowd roared as I straightened. Glaring at the arena, I inventoried who was left.

The feral, skeletal one. The scarred blond. Four of the warriors.

An ear-splitting screech had me ducking, cowering, trying to cover my ears. Eyes watering, I looked up to find the other fighters had done the same⁠—

And something out of a nightmare was scuttling from the earth.

Skeletal.

Gray.

Like a seven-foot spider made of stone.

And there were more.