Mariana Marinova knelt on one knee in the center of the flooded arena floor, silver-blue hair plastered wetly to her shoulders and back, chest heaving with labored breaths.
Droplets ran in rivulets down her pale skin, tracing every curve of her voluptuous body.
Several meters away stood Venya Nightshade—wings half-spread, tail lashing the shallow water, crimson scales glistening under the colosseum lights. She was breathing hard too, but her grin was wide, feral, triumphant.
"I told you, Descendant," Venya panted, voice rough with exertion and glee. "Venya will get My Lord's reward."
Mariana's emerald eyes flashed—cold, furious.
"I've had enough."
She clasped her hands together—fingers interlocking so tightly the knuckles bleached white.
The water around Venya erupted.
