Morgana stretched out on a bed wide enough for three people, soft as a cloud and draped with linens that smelled faintly of jasmine. The Golden Swan Inn catered to wealthy merchants and visiting dignitaries, not lost princesses or would-be avengers. But that's exactly why she'd chosen it. No one would look for her here.

The bath she'd taken earlier had been almost decadent—hot water scented with oils, actual soap that didn't feel like sand against her skin. After months at sea with the Veyshari, washing in buckets of saltwater or cold streams, it felt like pure luxury.

She plucked another purple grape from the bowl beside her bed. The fruit here was incredible—plump, sweet, and fresh. She popped it into her mouth, savoring the burst of flavor.

Her fingers traced the edges of the folder Rook had given her.

Sir Bedivere, Knight Commander of the Star Knights. Her father's right hand. The man who'd taught her to hold a practice sword when she was seven years old, laughing when she'd nearly taken his eye out with an enthusiastic swing.

"Just like your father," he'd said, ruffling her hair. "Too much fire for your own good."

He’d once trained Arthur—Adom's father.

Morgana frowned at the memory of the quiet, serious knight who'd been like a shadow to her father.

She should have approached him when she last saw him. Told him she was alive. That his son had helped save her.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it. Arthur was still in the imperial army, still serving the man who'd murdered his General—her father. If she'd revealed herself, put Arthur in that position... what would it have done to him? To Adom? The boy needed his father as an anchor.

Maybe later, when she had more power, more allies. Maybe then she could rally Arthur to her cause. Tell him the truth about what had happened the night her father died.

"When you see the truth," Bedivere had told her father once, not knowing she was listening from behind a curtain, "you can never unsee it. And once you see it, you must act—or live as a coward forever."

Her father had seen some truth that night. And it had gotten him killed.

Now Bedivere was in chains, fighting as a gladiator. And tomorrow she'd go to the arena, see the layout, maybe even find a way to speak with him. He would know what really happened. He had to.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Enter," she called, sitting up and straightening her robe.

A young woman in the green uniform of the inn's staff backed into the room, carrying a large tray.

"Dinner, madam," she said with a small curtsy. "Cook's special tonight—roasted quail with honey glaze, persimmon compote, and saffron rice."

"Thank you," Morgana said. "You can set it on the table."

The woman placed the tray on the small table by the window, then efficiently arranged the dishes, cutlery, and a carafe of wine. The smells wafting from beneath the silver covers made Morgana's mouth water.

"Will there be anything else, madam?" the woman asked, hands folded neatly at her waist.

"No, that's all. Thank you."

With another small curtsy, the woman left.

Morgana lifted the covers from her dinner, inhaling the rich scents. The quail was golden-brown, glistening with glaze, nestled on a bed of saffron rice so yellow it looked like sun-warmed sand. The compote was deep red, studded with nuts and spices.

It reminded her of palace dinners—formal, elaborate affairs where no one actually enjoyed the food because they were too busy watching for daggers, both literal and metaphorical.

At least here she could eat in peace. Savor her last taste of luxury before diving into Vethia's underbelly to rescue a man who might not even remember her.

Morgana cut into the quail, the crisp skin giving way to tender meat beneath. The sweetness of the honey glaze balanced perfectly with the slight gaminess of the bird.

Just for a moment, with her eyes closed and the familiar flavors on her tongue, she could almost believe she was back in the palace, waiting for her father to finish his meetings and join her for a late supper, full of stories about his day.

Almost.

*****

The next day...

The ticket seller eyed Morgana suspiciously, his gaze lingering on her mask. "We don't usually allow face coverings in the arena."

"Religious observance," Morgana lied smoothly. The leather half-mask Rook had given her covered the upper portion of her face, hiding her distinctive blue eyes. "I'm from the Eastern Shores. We believe showing our full face to strangers invites evil spirits."

The man snorted. "Plenty of evil spirits already in the arena, lady. Don't need no more."

"I'm sure. Now, about those tickets?"

"What kind you want? Got upper stands for two silvers. Middle seats for five. Lower ring's ten."

"I want something closer to the fighters." Morgana leaned in. "Something where I can see their faces."

The ticket seller's eyebrow shot up. "Got a thing for bloodsport, eh?" He lowered his voice. "Box seats are twenty silvers. Gets you close enough to catch the blood spray if the wind's right."

"Perfect."

The man named a price that would have fed a family for a month. Morgana counted out the coins without hesitation. The seller's eyes widened slightly as she produced a gold coin to cover the cost.

"Didn't know religious folk had such deep pockets," he muttered, making her change.

"The gods provide," Morgana replied, pocketing the tickets.

"Box Three, east side. Best view of the killing floor." He handed her a small bronze token. "Show this to the guards. They'll let you through the private entrance."

"When does it start?"

"First blood at midday." He grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "Last fight's the big one. The Fallen Star versus The Mountain. Been hyping it for weeks."

Morgana nodded and stepped away from the booth. The crowds were already thick around the massive structure known as The Pit—Vethia's largest arena. Unlike the elegant coliseums of the Empire, this was a crude, brutal place. No marble columns or intricate statuary. Just rough stone stained dark with years of spilled blood.

She joined the stream of people flowing toward the entrances. The crowd was a mix of everyone Vethia had to offer—merchants in fine silks, sailors with sun-darkened skin, nobles carried in palanquins, beggars who'd scraped together enough coin for the cheapest seats.

A group of dwarves pushed past her, arguing loudly in their guttural language. Their presence wasn't surprising—Marak maintained strong diplomatic ties with the dwarven kingdoms beneath the Northern Mountains. The trade in metals and gems fueled much of Vethia's economy.

Near the VIP entrance, four centaur guards stood at attention, their lower bodies those of massive war horses, upper bodies armored in gleaming bronze. They carried spears taller than most men and regarded the crowd with cold, impassive eyes.

Morgana showed her token to one of them. He examined it, then stepped aside with a curt nod.

The private entrance led to a series of corridors lit by glowing crystals set in the walls. The sounds of the gathering crowd grew muffled, then louder as she emerged into the open air of the arena itself.

It was staggering.

Tier upon tier of seats rose in a great circle around a central pit nearly a hundred yards across. Sand covered the ground, unnaturally white and pristine—for now. Morgana knew it would be stained crimson before the day was done.

The scale was overwhelming. The Imperial Colosseum in Sundar could hold perhaps ten thousand spectators. This place had to seat three times that number, easy. And it was filling quickly.

She found Box Three—a small, railed platform extending slightly over the arena floor, maybe fifteen feet above the sand. Close enough to hear the fighters' grunts and screams. Close enough to see their faces as they died.

Two other people were already seated in the box—a corpulent merchant in expensive silks and a woman dripping with jewels who had to be his wife. They eyed Morgana with obvious disdain but said nothing as she took her seat.

Below, arena workers were making final preparations, raking the sand smooth, checking the heavy iron gates that would release the fighters. In the stands, vendors moved through the crowds selling meat pies, wine, and betting tokens.

"First time?" the merchant asked suddenly.

Morgana turned to him. "Pardon?"

"First time at The Pit." He smiled, revealing teeth capped with gold. "You have that look. Excitement mixed with a bit of disgust."

"Is it that obvious?"

He chuckled. "I felt the same way my first time. Now I can't imagine missing a match day. There's nothing like it—the blood, the skill, the raw spectacle of it." He extended a fleshy hand. "Tiberius Vex, merchant."

Morgana shook his hand briefly. "Lyra."

"Just Lyra?"

"Just Lyra."

He looked like he might press further, but a sudden blare of horns cut through the roar of the crowd. The games were about to begin.

A man strode onto the sand from a small door at the arena's edge. He wore a crimson robe embroidered with gold thread, and in his hand he held a crystal that glowed with an inner light. When he spoke, his voice boomed across the entire arena, magically amplified by the crystal.

"CITIZENS OF VETHIA! HONORED GUESTS! WELCOME TO THE PIT!"

The crowd roared in response, stamping feet and banging on the wooden railings until the whole structure trembled.

"TODAY, WE BRING YOU BATTLES TO STIR THE BLOOD AND QUICKEN THE HEART!" The announcer's arms spread wide. "WARRIORS WHO RISK EVERYTHING FOR GLORY! FOR GOLD! AND FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT!"

Another deafening cheer.

"OUR FIRST MATCH—A SPECIAL TREAT! GORAN THE DESTROYER, CHAMPION OF THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES..."

A gate clanged open, and a man emerged into the sunlight. He was enormous, easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders like a bull and arms corded with muscle. He wore partial leather armor and carried a massive battle-axe that most men would struggle to lift.

The crowd's reaction was mixed—some cheers, some boos.

"...AGAINST THE BEAST OF THE LABYRINTH, THE NIGHTMARE OF CRETE, I GIVE YOU... ASTERION THE MINOTAUR!"

The opposite gate rose, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then darkness seemed to pour out of the opening, resolving into the massive form of a minotaur. Eight feet tall at least, with the body of a man and the head of a bull. Great curving horns jutted from its skull, and steam rose from its flared nostrils in the cool morning air.

It carried no weapon. It didn't need one.

"Gods," the merchant's wife whispered beside Morgana. "It's enormous."

"FIGHTERS! TO YOUR POSITIONS!"

Man and beast moved to opposite sides of the arena, facing each other across the white sand. The minotaur pawed at the ground like a bull preparing to charge, while Goran hefted his axe, testing its weight.

A gong sounded—deep and resonant.

The minotaur charged.

Goran waited until the last possible second, then dove to the side, rolling and coming up in a fighting stance. The crowd cheered at his agility. The minotaur skidded, turning with surprising speed for something so large, and charged again.

This time Goran stood his ground. He swung the axe in a vicious arc that should have cleaved the minotaur's head from its shoulders—but the beast ducked at the last instant. The axe whistled through empty air, the momentum spinning Goran halfway around.

The minotaur's fist caught him in the back, sending him sprawling face-first into the sand.

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"GET UP!" someone screamed from the crowd.

Goran rolled, narrowly avoiding a massive hoof that would have crushed his skull. He scrambled to his feet, axe still in hand, and backed away, reassessing.

The minotaur snorted, tossing its massive head. Morgana could see intelligence in those dark eyes. This wasn't just a beast. It was thinking, planning.

"Asterion's new," the merchant commented. "Thorne bought him from a Cretan ship captain three months ago. Cost a small fortune."

Goran feinted left, then darted right, swinging his axe at the minotaur's leg. The blade bit deep, drawing first blood. The minotaur bellowed, a sound so loud Morgana felt it in her chest.

The crowd went wild.

Enraged, Asterion charged again, but his injured leg slowed him. Goran sidestepped and hacked at the beast's flank as it passed, opening another wound. Blood stained the pristine sand.

"I think the human's going to win," the merchant's wife said, leaning forward.

For the next few minutes, it looked like she was right. Goran darted in and out, inflicting cuts on the minotaur's massive body, wearing it down through blood loss and exhaustion. The beast was clearly tiring, its charges becoming slower, more labored.

Goran moved in for what looked like a killing blow, aiming his axe at the minotaur's neck.

That's when Asterion revealed he'd been playing hurt.

With shocking speed, the minotaur caught the axe handle mid-swing, yanking Goran forward. Before the man could react, Asterion's other hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground.

The crowd gasped as one.

Goran kicked and struggled, his face turning purple. He still had a dagger at his belt. If he could just reach it...

His fingers brushed the hilt.

Asterion slammed him into the ground with enough force to crack ribs. Once, twice, three times. Each impact drew a collective "ooh" from the audience.

Somehow, Goran still moved. He managed to draw the dagger, stabbing it deep into the minotaur's forearm.

Asterion roared, releasing him. Goran stumbled away, bloody and dazed but still alive. He'd lost his axe, but the dagger had bought him space.

The minotaur examined the dagger protruding from its arm with what almost looked like curiosity. Then, to the crowd's shock, it grasped the hilt and pulled the blade free. Dark blood welled from the wound, but Asterion seemed unconcerned.

It studied the dagger for a moment, testing its weight. Then it looked at Goran and—Morgana would swear to it—smiled.

"Oh no," she whispered.

The minotaur threw the dagger.

It caught Goran in the thigh, sinking to the hilt. He went down screaming, clutching at the wound as blood poured between his fingers.

Asterion approached slowly now, savoring the moment. The crowd had gone from rowdy to hushed, sensing the end was near.

Goran tried to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood across the white sand.

The minotaur reached him, flipped him onto his back with one massive hoof. Goran stared up, eyes wide with terror.

"Mercy!" he screamed. "I yield!"

Asterion leaned down, snorting hot breath into the man's face. For a moment, it seemed the beast might let him live.

Then it grasped Goran's head in one massive hand, his torso in the other.

"No, no, no!" Goran's pleas turned to screams.

The minotaur pulled.

What followed would haunt Morgana's dreams. The sound—like wet cloth tearing—was somehow worse than the sight itself. Goran's spine and entrails stretched between his separated halves, a grisly rope connecting what had once been a whole man.

The crowd erupted—some in cheers, others in horrified screams. The merchant's wife retched over the side of the box.

Asterion held the two halves of his opponent aloft like trophies, blood and worse dripping onto the sand below. Then he tossed them aside and raised his bloody fists to the sky, accepting the crowd's adulation.

"ASTERION THE MINOTAUR!" the announcer's voice boomed. "VICTOR OF THE FIRST MATCH!"

Morgana felt cold sweat on her brow. This was what Bedivere faced? This arena of death and dismemberment? How had he survived eight years of this?

The next matches were a blur. Two women with curved swords and net-like artifacts that shot lightning. A man with skin like stone against three wolves the size of ponies. A pair of lizard-folk wielding tridents in a contest that was more dance than combat, until one slipped and caught a trident through the eye.

Blood and sand. Cheers and screams. Betting tokens changing hands as fortunes were won and lost on each death.

Through it all, Morgana watched with growing horror, thinking of Bedivere—her father's right hand, the man who'd once carried her on his shoulders during a festival, who'd taught her the proper way to hold a sword.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer was back, his crimson robe now spattered with flecks of blood from the earlier matches. "The moment you've all been waiting for! Our main event!"

The crowd's roar was deafening. People stood on their seats, waving banners and flags.

"Eight years undefeated! The pride of The Pit! The man who fell from the stars themselves! I give you... THE FALLEN STAR!"

Morgana's heart skipped a beat as the gate swung open. For a moment, the opening stayed dark and empty. Then he emerged, blinking in the sudden light.

Bedivere.

But not the Bedivere she remembered. Not the mountain of a man who'd stood at her father's right hand, whose laugh could fill a hall, whose mere presence had made new recruits stand straighter.

This man was a husk. Still tall, still broad-shouldered, but painfully thin. Where there had once been power, now there was only wiry endurance. His ribs showed through skin stretched too tight. Scars crisscrossed his body—some old and white, others still pink and fresh.

His beard, once salt-and-pepper, was now completely white, hanging past his collarbone.

And his eyes... Morgana had to look away.

Those weren't the eyes she remembered. They were hollow, empty—the eyes of a man who had died long ago but whose body hadn't gotten the message.

"Eighty consecutive victories!" the announcer continued. "Fifty-three kills! The man who cannot be broken! The legend who refuses to die!"

The crowd stomped and cheered, but Bedivere showed no reaction. He simply walked to the center of the arena, a sword in one hand, a small shield strapped to the other. His movements were mechanical, rehearsed.

"You don't seem impressed," Tiberius commented, glancing at Morgana's face. "Most people lose their minds when The Fallen Star appears. He's a goddamn legend."

"Is he?" Morgana asked, keeping her voice neutral.

"Are you kidding? The man's unbeatable. I've seen him take on three men at once. Slaughtered them all in under a minute." Tiberius leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement. "Did you know he once killed a rock troll with nothing but a broken shield? Used the edge to cut its throat. When he first came here, they had to keep increasing the odds against him. One opponent, then two, then three. Nothing worked."

"What changed?" Morgana found herself asking.

Tiberius shrugged. "Time, I guess. He's not as dominant as he used to be. Last few matches have been closer. Still, I've got fifty gold on him today."

"AND HIS OPPONENT!" The announcer's voice cut through their conversation. "THE TERROR OF THE MOUNTAINS! THE CRUSHER OF BONES! I GIVE YOU... THE MOUNTAIN!"

The opposite gate opened, revealing a man nearly seven feet tall. Unlike Bedivere, this fighter was the picture of health—heavily muscled, with skin the color of burnished copper. He wore a helmet shaped like a snarling wolf and carried a massive battle hammer.

"Kivius Marr," Tiberius whispered, almost reverentially. "Former champion of the eastern circuits. They say he killed his own master to win his freedom, then chose to keep fighting anyway. Loves it too much to stop."

Morgana barely heard him. Her eyes remained fixed on Bedivere.

"Let's see what you're made of, old man!" The Mountain's voice boomed across the arena as he pointed his hammer at Bedivere. "They say you can't be killed. I'm going to prove them wrong."

Bedivere said nothing.

"WARRIORS! TO YOUR POSITIONS!"

Protective wards flared to life around the arena—shimmering barriers of magical energy designed to keep the audience safe from the violence they'd paid to witness. In the higher tiers, people craned their necks for a better view. In the lower boxes, attendants passed out thin shields of enchanted glass that would block any blood spray or debris.

The gong sounded.

For a heartbeat, neither man moved. Then The Mountain charged, hammer raised high.

Bedivere sidestepped with surprising grace for a man so worn down. The hammer smashed into the sand where he'd been standing, sending up a cloud of white dust.

Then it began in earnest.

Fluid ignited around both men—that mysterious energy that elevated certain fighters beyond normal human capabilities. The Mountain's Fluid burned a deep orange-red, wreathing him like flames. Bedivere's was a pale blue, so faint it was barely visible.

They clashed in the center of the arena, weapons meeting with a sound like thunder. The impact sent a shockwave across the sand, rippling it in concentric circles. The seats trembled. Several people gasped.

"Incredible," Tiberius muttered. "Even past his prime, the old man's still a force."

But Morgana could see it wasn't right. She'd witnessed Bedivere fight before—in training yards and once, memorably, against assassins who'd infiltrated the palace. This was a shadow of that power. His movements were crisp, efficient, economical—but lacked the overwhelming force she remembered.

The fighters separated, circled. The Mountain feinted, then launched a barrage of hammer strikes. Bedivere blocked some, dodged others. His shield dented under the impacts.

Fluid was fueled by emotion—everyone who studied combat knew this. The emotion that had originally triggered a person's awakening determined their power's nature. Anger, fear, joy, sorrow—each created a different manifestation. And the stronger you felt that emotion, the more powerful your Fluid became.

Bedivere caught a hammer strike on his shield, countered with a thrust that opened a shallow cut on The Mountain's arm. The crowd roared.

Morgana remembered a conversation from years ago. She'd been nine, watching the Star Knights train in the palace courtyard. Bedivere had found her hiding behind a column.

"What emotion powers your Fluid, Sir Bedivere?" she'd asked, always curious.

He'd smiled—a real smile, not the empty expression the man in the arena now wore. "Hope, Your Highness. My Fluid awakened when I was a boy, the day your grandfather announced the end of the border wars. I was a refugee, had lost everything. That moment gave me hope that things could be better."

Hope. Not anger or rage like so many warriors. Hope.

And looking at him now, what hope could possibly remain? Eight years as a slave, fighting for the entertainment of crowds. What was there to hope for?

The Mountain's hammer came down in a crushing overhead blow. Bedivere caught it on his crossed sword and shield, dropping to one knee under the force. The sand around him cratered from the impact.

For a moment, it looked like he might collapse. Then he twisted, sliding out from under the pressure and slashing at The Mountain's leg. The bigger man howled as blood sprayed across the white sand.

The crowd went wild.

"He's still got it!" Tiberius shouted, slapping his leg in excitement. "The old wolf's still got teeth!"

But Morgana could see the difference. Bedivere was fighting with skill and experience—but the raw power was gone. His Fluid flickered weakly around him, barely maintaining its pale blue glow.

The Mountain recovered quickly. He adjusted his grip on the hammer, spinning it in his hands. "That's the last blood you'll draw from me, old man," he growled.

Bedivere said nothing, circling cautiously.

They clashed again, weapons creating a blur of motion too fast for normal eyes to follow. Sparks flew where metal met metal. The ground shook with each impact. Sand swirled around them in miniature tornadoes, lifted by the pressure of their Fluid emissions.

A normal human wouldn't stand a chance against either of them. But to Morgana, who had seen real Star Knights in their prime, it was like watching a faded copy of a masterpiece painting. The brushstrokes were right, but the colors had dimmed.

"His last match was closer," Tiberius commented, leaning toward Morgana. "Took a nasty cut across the back. Some people think he's finally slowing down enough to be beaten."

As if hearing this, The Mountain redoubled his assault. His hammer became a blur, striking from all angles. Most fighters would have been overwhelmed, but Bedivere's defense was impeccable.

What he lacked in power, he made up for in technique.

The Mountain overextended on a swing. Bedivere slipped inside his guard, scoring a cut across his ribs. The bigger man roared in pain and anger.

His Fluid flared brighter, deeper red now—almost crimson. Anger was his fuel, clearly, and Bedivere had just given him more of it.

"KILL HIM!" someone screamed from the crowd.

"FALLEN STAR!" others chanted.

The Mountain charged again, hammer raised high. But instead of dodging, Bedivere stepped toward the attack. At the last possible instant, he dropped to one knee, thrusting his sword upward.

The blade caught The Mountain in the armpit—one of the few gaps in his armor. Blood cascaded down the sword, over Bedivere's hand, onto the sand.

The hammer's momentum carried it forward, catching Bedivere on the shoulder with a sickening crunch. He went down, sword ripped from his grip.

Morgana gasped.

The Mountain staggered back, clutching his wounded side. The sword had gone deep. Blood poured between his fingers, turning the sand beneath him red.

Bedivere lay motionless for a moment, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, clearly broken at the shoulder.

"Gods," Tiberius whispered. "I've never seen him take a hit like that."

The fighters faced each other, both wounded, both breathing hard. The Mountain still had his hammer. Bedivere had only his small shield, his sword lying in the sand several feet away.

"Seems your luck has finally run out, Star," The Mountain growled, his voice strained with pain. "Any last words before I crush your skull?"

Still no words from the old Knight.