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Every instinct told me to shrink back, to fade into the background.
Champions, especially those of his rank, were unpredictable, and I had learned to steer clear of their capricious natures.
But today, I needed answers.
When the Champion bypassed me, selecting a delicate-looking Prize with cascading golden locks, I felt a pang of guilt.
I should’ve been relieved, but my worry for Ashale overrode that emotion.
Taking a deep breath, I called out. “Champion!”
My voice was surprisingly steady, cutting through the usual chatter.
Heads turned.
I felt a prickle on my skin from the numerous eyes on me, but I kept my focus on the Champion.
The chosen Prize sent me a withering look, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and annoyance.
I sensed the female’s fear.
But I plowed on.
“Have you seen Ashale?” I asked, desperately hoping for a hint, a clue, anything.
The Champion stopped, turning to meet my gaze.
His eyes scanned me from head to toe, and for a moment, I felt like a specimen under a microscope.
The weight of his attention was suffocating, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I swallowed, tasting the sharpness of my own apprehension.
His response, when it came, was curt. “Disqualified.”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
It echoed in my ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the arena.
Disqualified?
What could Ashale have possibly done to merit such a fate?
The implications were dire.
In the pits, disqualification didn’t just mean removal from a match.
It often meant a more severe punishment, sometimes even death.
My heart raced, the thumping loud in my ears, each beat filled with dread.
Once vibrant colors of the arena dimmed, replaced by a gray haze of shock.
The Champion, seemingly satisfied with my reaction, moved on, the delicate Prize in tow.
I barely noticed the female’s haughty smirk as they departed.
All around me, the world continued its frenetic pace, but I felt as though I were encased in a slow-moving bubble.
