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The reality of Ashale’s situation, the dangers he might be facing, all struck me.
I felt cold, even as the arena’s temperature was anything but.
The noises, even the touch of the wind on my skin, felt distant, numbed by the shock of the revelation.
Disqualified.
The word reverberated in my mind, each repetition like a tightening vice around my heart.
Whatever the reason, whatever had transpired in his last fight, I knew one thing for certain: I needed to find Ashale.
And I needed to do it fast.
15
ASHALE
Victory pulsed through my veins, a heady rush that made my senses flare.
The iron tang of blood, my opponent’s and a little of my own, permeated the air.
The cold, rough stone under my bare feet, still slick with sweat and evidence of their fierce battle, was a tactile confirmation of my triumph.
My ears picked up the fervent whimpers and occasional cheers of the spectators, a symphony of awe and respect.
I took a moment to stretch, feeling the tightness in my muscles ebb away.
The adrenaline, however, still coursed through me, and I yearned to share my victory, to bask in it with Nova.
The anticipation of seeing her face, of feeling her embrace, was almost as exhilarating as the fight itself.
The promise of her touch was intoxicating.
Drawing in a deep breath, I began making my way to the Prize Pool.
Each step was a reminder of the reward that awaited me, a reward I’d grown to cherish more than any other — the presence of my fated mate.
The cacophony of the pit, the shrill cries of bets placed and debts settled, faded as my sole focus narrowed to the doorway that led to Nova.
However, as I neared, an odd sense of unease settled in me.
My steps slowed when I noticed the two unusually large guards flanking the entrance.
Their polished armor reflected the ambient lights, but their expressions were dark and foreboding.
The door, typically ajar to welcome the victor, was shut tight.
Brushing off the apprehension threatening to grip me, I approached confidently. “Move aside,” I commanded, expecting them to yield immediately.
They were, after all, just gatekeepers, and I was the pit’s reigning champion.
Yet, to my astonishment, they didn’t budge.
One of the guards, the larger one with a scar cutting across my cheek, stepped forward. “Not this time, Ashale,” he grumbled, his voice thick with veiled contempt.
His azure eyes, usually calm and calculating, flashed with irritation.
The rich aroma of the guard’s leather armor and the metallic undertone of the cold steel they wore filled my nostrils.
