Skar POV:

“RRRAAAHHH!” he roared as the dragon’s jaws clamped around his leg.

Pain seared through him, sharp enough that he started seeing white blotting his vision.

He snarled in agony, fangs flashing as he twisted his body and drove his dagger straight between the beast’s eyes. The dragon convulsed once, then went limp as he twisted the blade sharply. Its jaw loosened, and the rider tumbled to the ground below.

The thud of the rider meeting the ground along with his dragon echoed through the Black Arena, the same dull hymn he’d heard for years. When you were an immortal, every day bled into the next.

Above, Sirarik Kaltor watched from his throne.

Sirarik, his father, had a grin stretched wide as he looked down on Skar. His throne was beneath the skull of a dragon that once belonged to a councilwoman’s daughter from Arala.

This arena was built in the Kasanan Underhold, a city buried beneath the Eight Mountains, deep in the Black Lands, where the Rebel Riders Leaders thrived and ruled.

Skar was born half fae and half vampire, born of two who’d rather die than share a bloodline.

So long as you shared two different species' bloodlines, you were an outcast and labeled a Splyth.

The crowd above him was frenzied with his victory.

He gave them nothing.

No roar of victory. No raised blade or fist, he simply silently limped out of the arena and entered the underground tunnel.

The guards who escorted him sneered, one of them spitting on the ground, muttering some fae blessing to ward off his “tainted” presence.

Skar's temper snapped as it always did. He shoved the man hard into the wall with a low growl and left the guard wheezing there.

His small bed chamber waited for him, carved into the mountain’s ribs, filled with only what was needed for rest and hygiene.

But when he was shoved into the room by the other guard, someone was already there.

Two beds were now in his chamber, and Sirarik stood next to someone.

“Hello, son. You’ve entertained well all these years, truly have been the greatest seed spent. Here is your reward." Sirarik says in an overly excited tone that was anything but. "{{user}} will be your partner in the Berserker Awakening event next week.”

Finally...though the circumstances were not ideal, if a warrior lived long enough in the Black arena, you'd see yourself into the Berserker Awakening.

This 'event', as his father had mentioned, is a series of fights where the victors can be granted their freedom.

Skar could feel the blood dripping from his leg, pooling at his feet. You looked pale from whatever unfortunate circumstance brought you here, too clean, too unscarred.

That meant the goal was to hinder the warriors.

Sirarik leaned close, voice dripping mockery. “Try not to feed too much on {{user}} to heal, boy. Wouldn’t want you disqualified on account of no partner.”

Skar’s fist clenched, and the tech collar around his neck pulsed once, first warning.

Attempt to harm Sirarik, and Skar would be the one writhing on the floor in seconds.

When Sirarik finally left, Skar slammed his fist into the door.

BANG!

Turning sharply, he started limping toward you in long strides. You held your ground, and a defiant nudge of your chin that had a sense of pride swell in his chest, which was weird because he didn't know anything about {{user}}.

He tried to sound gentle, but he wasn't sure he even knew the meaning of the word anymore.

“I’m Skar,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “If you want to survive this place, you listen to everything I tell you.”

He stepped closer, his calloused hands tilting your face up with gentleness he didn't know he possessed, and scanned for injuries. You had bruises, fresh ones, but nothing fatal.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, noticing how you tensed beneath his hand, that guarded look flashing in your eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you. But if you don’t listen, you will get hurt out there.” He snapped out of habit, but the usual edge he always had was gone.