The clamor sounded like thunder rolling out in one long, continuous boom. Horace looked up at the wooden ceiling and tried to imagine the hundreds of stomping feet above his head, but he was too lost in his thoughts to focus on anything external.

He stood alone in a long underground chamber where the gladiators prepared for their bouts. Wooden benches lined the walls. The floor was strewn with sawdust. Faint beams of morning light filtered through the cracks in the gate at the top of the ramp before him. In a few minutes, that gate would open, and then he would fight another man to the death.

He hadn't been nervous on his way over, but now that he was here a layer of sweat was forming across his forehead and under his arms. The words of the Prophet came to him. Whoever takes a life shall forever more be tainted. All hands will be turned against him and all doors will be shut to him, and he will know the meaning of despair.

He rocked his head from side to side to loosen the tight muscles in his neck. The cool weight of Lord Mulcibar's medallion bumped against his chest under his clothes. He'd decided to wear it for luck, even if it hadn't been particularly lucky for Mulcibar. He had returned to the nobleman's manor in the hours before dawn, only to find it locked up tight and no one answering the gate bell.

Wood creaked on old hinges as the gate opened, spilling daylight into the dank chamber. The roar of the crowd surged, drowning out everything else. Horace took a deep breath and started walking. Sand crunched under his sandals as he got to the top of the ramp. The pit of the arena was a vast oval, open to the morning sky. Tiered bleachers rose behind a stone wall.

Horace's stomach tightened when he saw the crowd of people, shouting and screaming and stamping their feet. He thought this would be a private duel, but evidently word had gotten out.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It's not every day people get to see the queen's favorite pet fight for his life.

He looked for Alyra and found her on the lowest row of seats. Surrounded by a sea of clapping, stomping citizens, she looked like she was about to cry. She hadn't reacted well to the news. In fact, he'd been shocked when she announced she was coming to the duel, despite his protestations.

Seeing her in the stands only made him realize how stupid he'd been. What was he fighting for? His honor? It didn't exist, not here and not back home anymore either. For the queen? Horace looked over Alyra's head to the covered box where Byleth sat with half a dozen of her court. The queen was leaning against a younger man in a bright-green tunic, smiling at whatever he was saying into her ear and not paying any attention to the spectacle below her. Horace released the breath he'd been holding without realizing it. What did he owe her? His life? His freedom? No, she might have the power to have him imprisoned or killed, but she didn't own him. If he was going to fight, he would have to do it for himself and by himself. Then Byleth glanced down and a look of sorrow flashed across her eyes. She blinked and it was gone, replaced once more by a mask of cool confidence.

A high-pitched creak cut through the cacophony. Across the pit, another gate rolled open. At first, the gaping tunnel beyond appeared empty, but then a lean figure strode into the light. Horace swallowed to moisten a throat suddenly gone dry. Lord Puzummu strutted into the arena in a tight-fitting suit of jet-black silk. The fabric rippled with every movement, making it look like he was wearing a slick second skin. A short cape hung from his shoulders, flapping gently as he turned in a slow circle, both arms raised to the crowd. The shouting and cheering elevated to a new level that made Horace want to crawl back down the tunnel. Yet a loud clang announced that the gate had closed behind him. “Once those gates shut,” Pomuthus had told him on their way to the stadium, “they don't open again until someone is dead.”

Let's get this over with.

A chorus of trumpets blasted. The people in the seats rose as one, and all eyes turned to the queen. Byleth stood up with a smile and lifted her arms. Her voice echoed through the stadium with the power of a hurricane. “People of Erugash, a challenge has been issued and answered. This day, Lord Puzummu of Ghirune—”

Cheers broke out amid the clapping of a thousand hands.

“—meets Lord Horace of Arnos—”

The applause turned to boos and jeers from the stands. A portly man in wine-colored robes flung insults about Horace's parentage from behind the retaining wall.

“—in sacred combat.” The queen looked down and met Horace's gaze. “Only one of them shall leave this place alive. The other will rise to the heavens to take his place among the stars.”

A procession of bald priests in robes of yellow and gold emerged from the far gate. Swinging incense burners and droning prayers, they made a slow circuit around the pit and left clouds of sweet smoke in their wake. By the time the procession walked all the way around the stadium floor and exited via the same gate, the sky had turned bright blue.

The trumpeters blew a shrill salute, and Byleth shouted, “Begin!”

Horace had been paying so much attention to the pageantry that he didn't notice the prickling along the back of his neck until a gust of wind slammed into him. Sand scoured his face and got in his mouth. Coughing as the grit entered his windpipe, he turned away. Something hard smashed into his lower back, sending a lance of pain shooting up his spine. Before he could right himself, another heavy force punched him in the shoulder, and he collapsed to the soft ground with the wind howling in his ears. With eyes closed tight against the flying sand, he fought to stand up, and a powerful grip seized him from behind and hurled him upward. His stomach turned somersaults as his feet left the ground. He flipped over and crashed back down in the sand, twisting his left ankle on impact. Something hit the ground beside him, showering him in more grit.

In a burst of anger, Horace ignored his throbbing ankle and rolled to his feet. It took him a moment to locate his opponent in the center of the pit, just outside the cloud of flying grit. Lines of blood dripped down the nobleman's hands from a pair of shallow immaculata. His face showed the strain of using his zoana, but there was also ecstasy in the nobleman's eyes, a cruel type of bliss that made Horace want to run. Instead, he opened the gateway of his qa as he'd been taught. Power rushed into him, as hot as molten steel. He unleashed it, and a section of ground on the other side of the arena exploded, raining sand across the pit. It hadn't been what he was trying for, but the explosion distracted Puzummu. The winds died down enough for Horace to draw a full breath. He reached out with his power with the idea of using it like a lasso to restrain his opponent, but before he could create it, a blade of red flames appeared in mid-air and slashed at him. Hot pain sizzled down the front of Horace's chest and knocked him to his knees.

Ripping the smoldering scraps of his shirt away, Horace focused on Puzummu. He tried to unleash the same energy he had used against the demons at the palace, but he couldn't seem to differentiate the sensations churning inside him. Dodging another sweep of the flaming sword, he just seized the power and lashed out. In an instant, the fiery weapon and the last of the winds vanished.

Horace scrambled to his feet. Puzummu stood a dozen paces away, glowering as he swayed back and forth, his arms pulled tightly to his body as if he were struggling against invisible bonds. Ribbons of blood ran down from gashes at his temples.

Horace's qa pulsated inside him, brimming with energy, but the power was elusive. It thwarted his efforts to seize hold of it. Lord Mulcibar had said the Shinar dominion was unpredictable, that no one living understood how to tame it, but right now he could have used some instructions. He tried to reach deeper into his qa, hoping to find some enlightenment, but let off when Puzummu howled. The sound wasn't anything Horace had ever heard from a human voice. The nobleman strained harder, the tendons in his neck bulging as he bellowed and pulled against the invisible cords. Horace tried to put more of his strength into the bindings, but he wasn't sure how. Just thinking about it didn't seem to do anything.

A terrific roar filled the arena as the winds picked up again. Puzummu's cape fluttered behind him as the sand at his feet began to stir. Knee-high ridges rotated around him in a circular pattern like a pinwheel. Horace braced himself as the winds swirled around him. They pulled him forward toward the churning sands, which were growing wider by the second. A hole had appeared under Puzummu's feet, dropping down into the ground beneath the zoanii while he levitated above it. The blood ran more freely down the nobleman's head, down his neck and into his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes glowed with a faint yellow light as he continued to howl, and the moan of the wind rose in harmony with his voice.

Horace glanced up and saw the horror written on Alyra's face, and she wasn't alone. The crowd had stopped cheering. People on the lower tiers were moving back from the wall.

A boom like thunder crackled in the air. Horace staggered back and lost his concentration. He felt the bindings on his opponent slip away. Puzummu rose higher into the air, raising his arms as if welcoming the crowd. The ground beneath him had transformed into a spinning whirlpool, sucking sand into its maw. The wind swirled in the same direction, yanking Horace sideways. A cloud of sand showered over him. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to come up with a counterattack. The skin on the back of his neck writhed to the point where he wanted to reach back and claw it off.

He threw both hands out in front of him and poured out everything he had in one big push. He envisioned something like lightning bolts or a stream of fire, but all he saw was a mass of blurry lines like heat waves coming off a hot street. Puzummu convulsed as if he had been dunked in ice-water and fell to earth, barely missing the wide hole he'd created.

Horace gulped for air as the wind died down. He was feeling light-headed, and his stomach roiled like he'd swallowed a barrel of eels. He watched Puzummu crawl to his knees. A thin trickle of blood ran down the nobleman's chin from the corner of his mouth. With a muted growl, he raised a hand and curled his fingers into a fist. A gust of air buffeted Horace to his knees. Another sudden gust knocked him flat on his belly. The sand continued its swift descent into the whirlpool, sucking him along. Horace tried to push up onto his hands and knees, but he couldn't find any purchase. Taking a deep breath, he projected his power again and winced as a strange twinge erupted behind his forehead. He ignored the sensation, just wanting to end this nightmare, but his zoana didn't feel right. Instead of the energy flowing out of him, it felt like it was being yanked from his mental grasp.

The second-heart in his mind's eye thumped in a frantic rhythm, beating faster and faster. All the while, the wind battered him like iron fists, but he hardly felt it as terror seized hold of his brain. Echoes of his fights with the demons and the mud-monster flashed across his mind. Part of him was screaming to get up and continue the fight, but the rest just wanted it to be over. He was outmatched.

Horace fought through the fear and reached for his powers again. It was like trying to draw water from a nearly empty well. He pictured the magic seizing his opponent, but a blast of solid air clouted him in the nose, shooting pain through his skull. With blood running down the back of his throat, he made one last effort, raising his hand in the direction where he'd last seen his enemy. The zoana answered his call, running along his arm and out through his open palm.

The wind ceased and the sky reappeared, azure blue above the walls of the arena. Was it over?

A furious yell answered him, and Horace found himself back on his feet. He touched his nose. It was broken, but he wouldn't bleed to death. Puzummu stood just a few yards away. His face was remarkably pale and he appeared to be trembling, shaking so hard Horace expected to hear his teeth chatter. The nobleman raised his hand as if to—

Horace threw himself to the side as a bolt of blue-white lightning shot across the distance between them. The electricity sizzled along Horace's back and shoulder as the bolt missed him by inches. He almost tripped in the sand but caught himself, whirling around to keep sight of his enemy. Smoke rose from Lord Puzummu's blackened fingers as they followed his movement, like a hunting dog trailing its prey. Horace didn't know what to do. He was tired—physically and emotionally—and he just wanted this battle to be done. Puzummu had shaken off everything he had thrown at him, but he had enough strength left for one more attack. Horace took in a deep breath through his nostrils, feeling the power trickle inside him. He needed to get close. He needed a knockout punch. So he did the last thing he ever thought he would do. He charged.

Lord Puzummu smiled, revealing the hollows of his cheeks. The ends of his burnt fingers began to twitch. Sprinting at full speed, Horace delved into his qa for the Shinar as best he could, but it was like trying to catch the wind. He got a tiny hold on it, but there was no time for anything complicated. He shaped it like a spear, thin and sharp, and let it go.

At first, he didn't think the attack had any effect. A nimbus of crackling energy surrounded Puzummu's hand. Lightning flared like a second sunrise, its incandescence filling the arena pit. At the same moment, an intense cold burned against Horace's chest, but he barely noticed as he twisted out of the way of the blast. He landed face-first in the sand, arms extended to cushion his fall. He looked up, prepared to be cooked alive. Lord Puzummu stared back at him. Then a gout of bright blood spurted from the nobleman's shoulder as his right arm sheared away. He fell onto his side, blood pumping from the severed stump. His mouth opened and closed, but only a shallow groan emerged.

Horace wanted to throw up. Legs shaking, heart pounding, he teetered away from the fallen noble. Mulcibar's medallion was cool against his flesh.

The crowd stared down at him with barely a sound. Gone were the jeers and the catcalls, gone the cheers for his opponent. Alyra stood alone at the edge of the retaining wall, her face wet with tears.

Horace started the trudge toward the gate by which he had entered, but he hadn't gone ten steps before the queen's voice filled the stadium. “None shall leave,” she said, “until one of the two combatants is dead.”

He stopped and looked back. Lord Puzummu was lying on his side, somehow still alive and conscious even as blood soaked into the sand under him in a growing pool of crimson. Horace glanced up at the queen. Her eyes watched him as if she were desperately hungry. Like they wanted to reach down and pick him up.

“Then kill him yourself,” he said. “Majesty.”

Horace reached out with one hand, and the gate flew off its hinges with a loud snap. The dozen paces to the tunnel seemed to take him hours, but by the time he reached the shadowed ramp, the crowd had found its voice again. There were many boos, to be sure, but in the background he heard something else, a chorus of “Belzama! Belzama!”

The back of his neck tickled for a moment and then subsided as the trumpets blared.