The next battle was even more humiliating than Flint against Jorren.
The boy and I waited patiently for the next duel, hoping that it wasn't us.
The old man looked down and read out the names. "Next up, we have Thalos Harbinger vs. Prentice Pule."
Thalos walked past us, and I could immediately tell that he was a threat. Not only was he a massive man, but he put out a massive amount of Aether. Whatever this man did for a living, it seemed he had trained on the side, preparing for this exact moment.
Prentice was much younger, maybe a year or two older than the boy.
He was shaking with fear as he walked toward the exit, carrying only a dagger. He wore clothes as if he was from the slums. Based on his size, that wouldn't surprise me. He didn't look like he ate more than one meal per day.
The crowd noticed too.
The cheers dulled as the imbalance became obvious. Some people laughed. Others leaned forward, curious. A few turned away before the gates even finished opening.
The two stepped into the sunlight.
Thalos rolled his neck, loose and relaxed, cracking it once as if warming up before a workout. His weapon was a broad cleaver made of iron.
He barely spared Prentice a glance.
Prentice stood stiffly across from him; dagger clutched in both hands like it might run away if he let go. His eyes darted toward the stands, then to the guards, then back to Thalos.
He swallowed hard.
The horn sounded.
Prentice moved first.
Not an attack, but a desperate rush, a burst of fear-driven momentum. He slashed wildly, blade scraping harmlessly across Thalos' armor.
Thalos sighed.
He caught Prentice by the wrist mid-swing and lifted him off the ground.
The crowd gasped.
Prentice kicked and screamed, dagger clattering uselessly into the sand as Thalos shook his arm once and sent the boy sprawling several feet away. Prentice hit the ground hard, the air knocked clean from his lungs.
"Get up," Thalos said, his voice carrying easily. Calm. Bored. This was not the type of enemy he had prepared for. A young boy with no skill was no match for this beast.
Prentice tried. He really did.
He made it to his knees before Thalos was on him again.
A single kick to the ribs sent Prentice tumbling. Another blow followed, both controlled and brutal without being lethal.
I felt the boy tense beside me.
This wasn't a duel.
It was a message.
Those who were weak would be weeded out very quickly. I now felt fear for the boy. There was no way he could take down some of these monsters.
Thalos almost looked disappointed. This was not the type of enemy he had prepared for either.
Prentice crawled, coughing, blood staining the sand beneath him. He reached for his fallen dagger with shaking fingers.
Thalos stepped on his hand.
The scream cut through the arena.
A few cheers sputtered out. Some people looked uncomfortable now. Others watched in silence, faces tight.
The horn should have sounded at that moment.
It didn't.
Thorne would allow this, of course. Injuries of all kinds were permitted.
Thalos waited until Prentice collapsed, clutching his crushed hand to his chest. Then he kicked again, straight into the boy's face.
Blood sprayed.
He kicked again.
And again.
Only then did the horn blare.
Thalos grinned and stepped backward, raising his hands in the air as the audience cheered.
The guards rushed in, dragging Prentice through the sand. The poor boy was unconscious now and bloody.
As he entered back into the waiting chamber, wiping the blood of his hands, he glanced to the side.
Toward us.
His eyes lingered on the boy.
Not with curiosity.
With interest.
I felt something cold settle in my core, though it could be because I'm made of metal.
"That," I said quietly. "Was horrifying. He will be a big competitor for us."
The boy didn't answer.
His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
Somewhere above us, Thorne was watching. And I was sure he was very pleased.
Because Thalos was the man that had been standing in front of us in line the day before.
The man that I was sure worked for Thorne. He was one of the few that Thorne had entered into the duels in order to change the trajectory of these battles.
"Next up," the old scarred man shouted. "We have Freida Summerford vs. Wren Parlos."
The boy froze.
"That's you, boy," I whispered. "Go on."
The boy moved forward toward the entrance to the colosseum, passing by the old man.
As soon as he stepped out into the light, the thunder of the crowd became even more apparent. It was deafening.
The seats surrounding the arena stood multiple stories tall, and every square meter was packed with people. Nearly a hundred thousand people all cheering, their voices joining together in one massive wave of sound, closing in on all sides.
This was nearly the entire population of the city. And all eyes were on the boy now. Moments from now, they would either be cheering for the boy or making jests about him.
At the very top was an enclosed section, with windows on all sides for viewing. Above the massive mixture of Aether these people held, I could feel Thorne.
He was here. He was watching.