Lukren vs. Garsom:

  Lukren and Garsom stepped into the arena, eyes blazing with determination. Sunlight flashed along their weapons, casting sharp reflections across the grey sand. The tension mounted as they readied themselves, muscles coiled like springs.

  Fergus raised his hand, voice booming over the crowd.

  “Let the battle commence!”

  Steel clashed in a furious storm as the two warriors met. The crowd roared, leaning forward in rapt attention as their champions traded blow for blow.

  “I shall taste your blood, Garsom!” Lukren snarled, driving him back. “You shan’t beat me!”

  “We shall see, Lukren!” Garsom shot back, parrying with practiced precision. “I will not yield so easily!”

  They moved with lethal grace, each strike answered by a swift counter. Their duel became a deadly dance, sand kicking up beneath their feet as they circled and clashed.

  “What a display of skill from both contestants!” Fergus cried, pacing along the arena’s edge. “Impossible to predict who will emerge victorious in this grand showdown!”

  From the sidelines, Rocka watched with a pounding heart. The outcome of this match would shape the path ahead — and his own battle with Tragnash loomed ever closer.

  Traken approached from the upper stands, arms folded.

  “They’re evenly matched… maybe it’ll be like this for you and Tragnash, eh, Rocka?”

  Rocka stayed silent, trying to hide the anxiety twisting in his gut.

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  The fight surged toward its peak. Lukren and Garsom hammered at each other in a final exchange, sweat flying as they poured every ounce of strength into each strike.

  “Any moment now, one will gain the edge!” Fergus shouted, breath tight with anticipation. “Who will emerge triumphant in this epic clash of warriors!”

  The crowd held its breath.

  With a thunderous roar, Garsom stepped in and unleashed a decisive strike. His blade smashed through Lukren’s guard, shattering his stance and sending him sprawling across the sand.

  “Yes! Take that, you filth!” Garsom barked, chest heaving.

  “Damn it…” Lukren groaned, clutching his ribs.

  “And there it is, folks!” Fergus roared over the thunderous cheers.

  “Garsom of Gared?Naal emerges victorious in a stunning display of skill and determination!”

  The crowd erupted as Garsom lifted his weapon high, pride blazing in his eyes. He turned toward Kraken, the Battle Master, signaling for the right of the finishing blow. Rocka watched with a knot of admiration and dread tightening in his chest. His own fate loomed closer with every heartbeat.

  “Oh, what’s this?!” Fergus cried. “Garsom wants satisfaction! Does the Battle Master approve?!”

  Kraken gave a solemn nod.

  Garsom’s grin widened into something feral.

  “Looks like I shall taste your blood.”

  He seized Lukren by the head as the defeated warrior knelt, and with a brutal twist, tore it free. The arena exploded into wild, blood?hungry cheers.

  Rocka swallowed hard.

  “Garsom takes the head! A fine trophy for his Clan!” Fergus shouts with glee.

  “Well… that’s that. Garsom fought well. I suppose now it’s my turn.”

  Traken smirked as he watched the carnage.

  “Tall Tragnash… killer of Khargos, slayer of Saxons, pride of Clan Rak?Ash. Tengshe brings monsters to the field. Either way — good luck, Rocka. You’re going to need it.”

  Rocka ignored him. As Garsom strode out of the arena with his grisly trophy held high, Rocka headed to the armory to gear up. He took a war axe and shield, hands trembling despite his efforts to steady them. The axe felt heavier than it should, the shield cold against his sweating palm. His heart hammered as he stepped toward the arena entrance.

  Across the sand, Tragnash was already watching him — applying white paint to his face, shaping his features into a skull with tusks.

  Their eyes met.

  Tragnash smiled and waved.

  Rocka returned a hard, steady look.

  In response, Tragnash smiled wider, teeth gleaming against the white paint, and waved like they were old friends.

  The time for hesitation was over.

  With a slow, determined breath, Rocka walked into the center of the arena — toward his trial, his terror, and whatever destiny awaited him.