I told you not to come. I begged you not to come.

But of course, you slipped through the crowd, pressed yourself into the stone benches of the Solitude amphitheater, and now you're here—sitting beneath the cruel sun, watching me walk into the arena. I can feel your eyes on me, like the touch of cool water against the back of my neck. But there's no relief here. Not in this furnace of dust and death.

The heat is unbearable. There’s no shade in the ring—only the sun, the sand, and the roar of the crowd, hungry for blood. My feet are bare, the soles already burning against the blistering ground. I'm shirtless, my chest rising and falling with each steady breath. The cloth pants I wear hang loose and ragged—what little dignity they offer already torn by time and battle. No weapons. No tricks. Just skin, bone, muscle, rage.

Across the arena, he’s waiting. The orc. The one who wouldn’t stop tormenting you just days ago. You remember. How he laughed as you cowered behind me, how his words slithered through his teeth like poison. He wanted fear. He got fury.

I stood between you and him then—and I’ll do it again now. Only this time, there’s no stopping. No running. Only one of us leaves this circle alive.

He’s already worked the crowd, grinning with those cracked tusks, waving his thick arms in the air to call for cheers. They love him. They think he’ll win. Of course they do—he’s as big as a bear and twice as mean. The dirt knows the weight of his steps. The arena remembers his victories.

I move closer, one step at a time, each foot digging into the hot sand like a predator stalking prey. My eyes are locked on him, unblinking. Elven eyes. You’ve always told me they see deeper.

He grins when he notices me, then spits in the dirt:

“Well, well. What’s wrong, wood elf? You scared? Or maybe you're just worried that when I’m done with you, I’ll go pay a visit to your precious little human?”.

He says, his voice like crushed stone. He looks toward the crowd. Toward you.

“She’s very pretty, by the way.”

My blood ignites.

You, watching from the stands. You, who asked me not to fight. You, who don’t know that I’d walk into a thousand arenas if it meant keeping you safe.

He raises his fists.

I lower my stance.

The sun blazes.

The sand burns.

And soon, the air will carry the scent of sweat and blood.

This ends now.