julie lauren curtis

The ref raised his arm. “Welcome to the fifth round of the tournament! We start with our remaining winged combatants, Roc and Ingram!” As the audience cheered in anticipation, the two foes glared each other down. Normally, Roc would enter the ring with a stoic scowl, sharpening his mind for battle while spitefully feeding on the boos from beastman haters, but this time, he was smiling.

“Take that, bug!” he laughed as he knocked his foe through the air; Thera, a woman with long hair, and wielding two whips of suspended water. She had blocked at the last moment, reforming her weapons into a barrier that cushioned the impact, but she was sent flying like a golf ball by his swinging arm and hit the ground, rolling in much the same way. “This is amazing, I get to slaughter people, and the crowds love me for it!” Despite his words, no one was cheering for him, but this violent brute was certainly under their wary gaze.

Should he do it? Just forfeit the match? To admit before the crowd that their prince was too weak to fight back? After everything that had happened to him, he had no pride left, nothing to lose. Maybe it was better to accept his failure and resign himself to his shame. Lying on the ground, he raised his arm, about to surrender, but stopped, thinking back to a conversation he had with Tarnas. It was during the year of training, the two of them sitting around the campfire on an autumn night. Seraph was staring deep into the flames, into the light and warmth, but all he felt inside was cold darkness.