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It was time.
“Remember what I’ve always taught you,” I said, casting a final glance at my students. “A true warrior faces his challenges head-on, no matter the odds.”
With those parting words, I stepped out into the dazzling light, my senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the awaiting battle.
The arena stretched before me, the ground beneath my feet a testament to countless fights, and the deafening roar of the crowd washed over me like a tidal wave.
The fight was about to begin.
* * *
The qeth loomed large before me, sunlight glinting off his sleek, spotted fur.
His emerald eyes sized me up as if weighing his odds.
In this gladiatorial ring, anything was possible; the fiercest could be bested, and the weakest might surprise.
His sharp claws clicked rhythmically on the stone beneath, and the swish of his long tail created a hypnotic rhythm that was hard to ignore.
From the get-go, I braced myself for a challenging fight.
The qeth’s reputation preceded him.
I had witnessed his agility, strength, and cunning in previous bouts, making him a formidable adversary.
With a deep inhale, I caught the musty, feral scent of him, distinct from the mingled odors of the crowd, the earth, and the sweat of battle.
The clangor of the starting gong shattered the tension.
Instantly, we were on each other, a whirlwind of strikes, dodges, and parries.
But as the skirmish unfolded, something felt amiss.
Each blow from the qeth was devoid of its usual potency.
It was like sparring with a shadow, an imitation.
In one particularly sloppy lunge, I deftly maneuvered to his side and easily disarmed him, sending his weapon clattering to the arena floor.
Panting lightly from the exertion, I aimed my weapon at him, our roles now reversed. “Yield!” I bellowed, echoing through the vast space of the amphitheater.
Without hesitation, the qeth sank to one knee, head bowed in submission.
The crowd erupted in surprised murmurs.
Their hero, the one they’d placed their bets on, had conceded far too easily.
My heartbeat thrummed loudly in my ears, a rapid staccato over the murmured confusion of the spectators.
I scanned the qeth’s face for clues, but his features remained inscrutable, save for the rapid dilation of his eyes as they flitted to the antechamber — my antechamber.
The one where my students were watching.
A cold realization washed over me, chilling me to the bone.
The qeth hadn’t been fighting to win.
He’d been fighting to convey a message, or perhaps he was being coerced.
