The rain intensified.
What had been a steady fall turned into a relentless assault, drumming against armour, hammering the arena floor, turning the sacred circle into a large puddle.
Ryan stayed where he was.
The pain in his side had changed.
During the fight it had been distant—drowned out by adrenaline and panic. But now it had turned to sharp, insistent pulses. Every breath tugged at the wound where the dagger had slipped between his armour.
He pressed his gauntlet harder against it.
Blood still seeped through his fingers, though not as violently as before.
Ryan sucked in a slow breath through his teeth.
It hurts way more now.
Around him the arena had gone eerily still.
The only sound was the rain.
And the crowd.
Hundreds of hushed voices whispered beyond the mist-shrouded stands. The sound travelled across the arena like distant wind through trees.
No one shouted.
They only whispered, afraid to anger the Gods.
Ryan slowly lifted his head.
