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The cloth is undyed grey, sturdy enough for market work and unadorned except for repaired stitching along one cuff. No house color marks it. No breeder's symbol closes the neck. I pull it over my head and tie my mouse-brown hair with the same leather strip I wore in my independent apothecary.

My bone-handled knife goes into the sheath at my waist. It is a tool, not an arena weapon, but its familiar weight steadies my thoughts.

I gather the remaining jetons, three sealed remedies, blank waxed paper, and Draxon's slate. The silver message continues glowing beneath the obsidian surface.

Grand Arena. Midday.

He told me where the law would face him. He left the choice of my place to me.

Demons entering a challenge may name a second to stand beyond the combat line, carry arguments, and guard the challenger's honor before the court. No human assigned as breeding property was meant to claim that position.

The Council voided my assignment.

For once, its cruelty leaves a useful opening.

I fasten my satchel and walk toward the guarded doors.

I am not going to the arena as Draxon's property, his dependent, or the silent cause of his exile.

I am going as his second.

I am going as his partner.

24

DRAXON

Red sand covers my boots.

I stand at the center of the Grand Arena in simple leather trousers and boots. No armor or house mantle covers my slate-grey carapace. The executioner's axe rests above the Council dais under guard.

The chipped human cup remains inside the leather pouch at my belt.

It is the only possession the Crown permits me.

Storm wind drives dust against my legs. Lightning forks between black spires beyond the walls. Old stains remain beneath the raked sand.

I have delivered hundreds of sentences here.

Today, I bring the law itself into the circle.

Every gallery is filled.

Volvath lords occupy the lower tiers. Trolvor nobles claim broad benches for their folded wings. Soz'garoth sit beneath warded canopies. Dark elf servants wait behind them, while humans remain along the highest walls.

Korgath watches from the noble stands.

He sits in the front tier beneath a metallic gold banner. Silver caps cover his broken horns. His blind right eye faces the sand while his red left eye tracks me.

He expected exile.

The challenge has given him a second spectacle.

That confidence will survive until he understands I am not asking the Council to return what it took.

The seven Matrons sit above the arena's eastern gate. Zira occupies the central throne, ivory carapace bright against black stone. Her silver-white hair moves in the storm wind. Both hands rest on her dark metal staff.

The challenge mark glows crimson in the sand before her.