CHAPTER 313: UNDERESTIMATED II

"So what next?" Isla asked me, as we both came out of the hall after the announcements.

Around us, fighters familiar with each other greeted with loud laughter and handshakes, while ignoring the others, as if keeping a certain hate alive would help them win their fights. Their camaraderie was loud, but it was selective.

Jokers.

If Rachel was any right about her facts-finding about the contests, then friends are usually pitted against each other first. It was foolish to show any form of camaraderie, as it would interest the contest managers to test the waters with the comrades, to make the combat more interesting.

Before I could answer Isla’s question, however, I noticed two ladies approaching us—the only other two females beside us who had been present in the hall.

They were bulky, to an extent–probably why I had been a laughing stock, like bulkiness was a ticket to victory.

Their footsteps carried a certain intention, their gazes sharp, sizing me up like I was meat tossed into a den.

Join the queue, ladies. Although, I hoped for their sake, I wouldn’t be pitted against them... because then I would teach them not to judge a book by its cover.

"Hey..." The taller one greeted, her head jerking in my direction.

My response was to cock a brow that spoke louder than words: what the hell do you want?

"We just want to make an acquaintance..." she continued, her voice a poor attempt at sounding casual.

Isla scoffed. "With your possible enemy in the duel?" She pointed at the taller one’s companion, a smirk tugging her lips. "What about her? Is she dumb?"

The shorter one hissed, stepping closer, maybe planning to hit my friend. But her feet rather stopped against a wall I had put up without making a fuss.

She hissed again—an odd sound, sharp and forked. She must be serpent, I thought, and stepped away, her slit-pupiled eyes narrowing.

"Magic people," she announced to her friend, who now scrunched her face in disgust.

What now?We are not worthy of being their friends?

I laughed. "Why do you look like you’ve eaten your friend’s shit?" I asked the taller one, sliding my hands into the front pockets of my trousers.

Her nostrils flared. "Magicians are not real fighters. They just employ tricks to cheat and win a match. You lot shouldn’t be here. Combat skills will be tested, and I doubt you will be leaving here alive."

I nodded dramatically. "I see. Thanks for your concern, but we’ll be the judge of that. Us and the barbaric spectators."

She furrowed her brows, probably contemplating why I had called the spectators barbaric. Her hand twitched, but instead she tugged at her friend’s sleeve.

The short one glared at me, eyes spitting venom, before they both turned away.

Around us, a few of the male fighters had been watching. They were now chuckling at our lack of unity, as if there was supposed to be one in this madness.

"Let’s go for a walk around the pack," I suggested, my tone light but my thoughts already shifting gears. "Since Rachel said the colonies have been merged together, I think I have a lot to see... that would also explain why I hadn’t seen familiar faces since I entered the pack."

Isla nodded. "Let’s."

And off we went.

–

The merged colonies had created a strange mix of chaos and order. The streets were busier than I remembered, the energy almost suffocating.

Traders shouted prices of their goods, trying to outdo one another, while customers bargained with the kind of sharp tongues that could cut flesh. The smell of roasted meat clashed with the sour tang of unwashed bodies, mingling into something uniquely pack-like.

We passed the market, where stalls of fruit glistened under the sun, their vibrant colors almost distracting. Children darted between legs, chasing one another with pebbles clenched in tiny fists. Some people gave us curious stares, their eyes darting toward the emblems stitched onto our shirts—emblems that marked us as competitors, emblems shared after Timothy’s speech.

That was when the jeers started.

"Fighters, eh? Look at them strutting."

"Two small women in the games? Ha! They won’t last a round."

One woman spat on the ground as we passed. Another pulled her child closer, as though the sight of us would corrupt him. I felt Isla’s posture stiffen beside me, but I only smiled, keeping my chin up.

We bought skewered meat from a stall, the vendor’s hands shaking as he took our coins but his lips trembling with insults he didn’t dare speak out loud. I bit into the meat with relish, savoring the smoky flavor, watching the way people whispered around us.

What’s the deal? Was it because we were magic wielders? Or rather female magic wielders?

Then came the male.

He stepped out from a cluster of men around a joint, his eyes crawling over our figures with undisguised hunger. His smirk was lewd, his voice dripping with mockery and audacity. "I’ll give you both a bag of money if you warm my bed tonight. Fighters or not, you’d make better whores than warriors."

My smile didn’t falter. My hand twitched ever so slightly. In the next breath, his body folded, his hands shooting to his groin. A strangled scream tore from his throat as he fell to his knees, writhing, face pale and slick with sweat.

Gasps rose.

"Witchcraft!" someone shouted.

"He’s dying!" another wailed.

The man clawed at the ground, his voice high-pitched and broken as he called for help, for mercy. His cries drew a crowd, the circle tightening around us with frightening speed.

"They should be stoned!" one man yelled.

"Bring them before the council!" another roared.

People spat venom, their mutterings rising to chants. One even threw a bowl at us.

My hand flicked lazily, and the bowl shattered against the invisible shield I had wrapped around Isla and myself. Not a shard touched us.

A smile curved my lips as I let my eyes sweep the crowd. Fools. All of them. Not worthy of my time, let alone my magic.

Inside the sphere of protection, Isla chuckled, her eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Are you sure you didn’t overdo the deed? The man is still on the floor..."

She wasn’t worried—no, she was enjoying the spectacle. Feeding off the thrill of being the center of attention, same as me.

I shrugged. "It doesn’t matter. He deserved it. Should we blow our way through these people and continue our excursion?" My tone was lazy, my gaze sweeping over the faces contorted with anger and disgust and that desperate thirst for retribution.

They wanted blood. My blood.

"They should retribute their ass," I muttered under my breath, the corner of my lips twitching.

Isla laughed outright, though she leaned closer. "At this rate, we might be disqualified from the competition, and that would ruin the well-laid plans. So, I guess you rein that fire in. Maybe we should walk out calmly, since they can’t penetrate the ball?"

"You don’t know these people," I said calmly, eyes narrowing. "They’d stand in front of the ball, hoping it crushes them. More grounds to execute me."

"And we can’t let that happen. The queen won’t be pleased. We were supposed to lie low until the right time, until you have won the contest."

I bit my lower lip, thoughtful. "Maybe we should disappear."

"They know where we live." Isla’s voice dipped. Then, after a pause, she smirked. "We need an intervention rather... ah, here it comes."

I followed her line of sight and saw them—guards pushing past the mass, their formation sharp, their presence slicing through the chaos like knives. The crowd parted, murmuring, some stepping back reluctantly, others still shouting curses.

"What’s going on here?" A voice boomed, firm, commanding. The guard chief, most likely. His words silenced the noise like a hand pressing over a mouth.

While waiting for a response, I saw them then—three women stepping into view.

The brides.

Claire, radiant and stiff-necked, Adam’s chosen. Naomi, all sweet-faced, Noah’s bride. And Lilian—my step-sister one time, for Daniel.

They arrived with maids trailing behind them, carrying bags bursting with fabric, jewelry, and perfumes. They must have gone shopping together.

Besties, I concluded in amusement, holding back the laughter threatening to spill at their over-made-up faces and extravagant gowns.

Were we in ancient times?

The crowd found its tongue again. "She killed this innocent man!" The chant rose, fingers pointing at me, their eyes hungry for a scapegoat.

I laughed then, unable to hold it, the sound ringing loud and mocking in the tense air. The women frowned instantly, their eyes narrowing on me. They didn’t recognize me of course, but they didn’t like what they saw—if their glares were anything to go by.

"He is not dead," Isla offered smoothly in my place, since my laughter refused to stop. "And he deserved it. He tried to turn us into prostitutes, despite seeing the emblem we have on our shirts—those given to the fighters."

The guards exchanged glances. One, following his chief’s signal, walked up to the groaning man. He nudged him with his boot, and at that moment I let my thread of magic loosen.

The man gasped sharply, clutching at his chest and groin area, the sound loud enough to confirm his very alive state. Relief and humiliation mingled on his face as he curled up, breathing raggedly.