18 – Morning Star

Sunlight blinds us as we enter the arena, its warmth a cruel mockery of a beautiful day. The sky stretches endless blue above, decorated with lazy white clouds that offer no relief from the scorching heat. In another life, it might be a day for picnics or swimming. Here, it’s a day for dying.

The crowd’s bloodlust hits us like a physical wave. Hundreds of faces blur together in the stands, but one catches my attention—a man with twisted scars and krum-bloated features, spittle flying as he screams for our deaths. His skin glows angry red from sun and drink, veins pulsing in his neck as he leans over the arena wall.

“Beg!” he shrieks. “Beg for mercy, you glippy whore!”

A little girl, no older than seven, joins the chorus: “I hope they cut your lobcocks off!” The innocence of her voice makes the words more horrifying. Her mother beams proudly beside her, as if her daughter had just recited a sweet poem.

Papa’s face flashes in my mind. Will I see him again? Braam and Isaiah are strong fighters—Isaiah’s two-week survival proves that much—but the Fat Man knows this too. Today’s matches have left no survivors. Whatever killed those men now waits for us.

I study the arena floor, reading its violent history. Fresh blood stains the dust, some patches still wet enough to gleam in the sunlight. Scraps of clothing and broken weapons litter the ground like discarded toys. A torn shirt flutters from a protruding spike, its owner presumably among today’s dead. New vegetation sprouts from the central boulders and containing walls, and a wooden cart lies splintered on the far side—that wasn’t here yesterday.

Isaiah settles cross-legged beside me, eyes closed in meditation. He’s stripped off his shirt, wrapping it carefully around his right hand, each fold precise and deliberate.

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to keep the edge from my voice.

“Preparing for the fight,” he replies without looking up.

Braam snorts. “Do you not fight standing up?”

“I’m not fighting. I’m preparing.”

“Don’t you start going sharmootah on me too,” Braam warns me, but his words die as the far gate groans open.

A baldagaar storms through, and my heart stops.

It towers twenty-five hands high, built like a petrified tree trunk. Four handlers struggle with chains hooked to its massive collar, their muscles straining as they barely control its advance. A metal band circles its head, angled to cover one eye like some twisted crown. The other eye glows like hot coals in a forge, pulsing with malevolent intelligence. Where its right hand should be, a massive spiked ball dangles—a weapon grafted to flesh and bone in some nightmarish fusion.

“Is that a war mace attached to his arm?” I whisper, my mouth dry.

“Morning star,” Braam corrects grimly. “Bigger than any I’ve seen. Probably attached to a chain so he can use it like a whip.”

“When we tell this story later, we’re calling it a war mace. Morning star sounds too delicate.”

Braam’s laugh is grim. “Agreed.”

The beast’s skin stretches grotesquely, a patchwork of stitches and discolored flesh. Fresh blood decorates its bare torso like macabre paint, telling the story of today’s earlier fights. Its steel collar gleams dully, massive compared to the ones we wear, but serving the same purpose.

When a handler prods it with a spear, the baldagaar snaps the weapon like kindling. The morning star whips out with terrifying speed, crushing the man against the wall with a wet crunch. The sound reminds me of Papa crushing beetles in the garden, only magnified a hundredfold.

The other handlers flee, the gate slamming behind them with metallic finality. I turn to share a look with Isaiah, but he’s vanished—probably hidden among the boulders, his “preparation” complete.

“Glippy little coward,” Braam growls. “Just you and me then, I guess.”

I drop into a running stance, power humming through my proths. The familiar sensation of stored energy courses through the mechanisms. “Try not to let my dust blind you,” I grin, then launch.

The world blurs as I close the distance, aiming a kick at the baldagaar’s face. It dodges with impossible speed—how can something so massive move so quickly? Before I can recover, its fist hammers my back, sending me sprawling. Pain explodes through me, reminiscent of that day on the Sacred Platform. My earlier confidence evaporates like morning dew, replaced by the cold certainty that this fight will test us beyond anything we’ve faced.

Braam charges with a war cry as I struggle to my feet. The baldagaar meets his charge, but Braam rolls under its swinging arms to grab a dangling collar chain. They struggle for control, Braam’s muscles straining against inhuman strength. The crowd roars at this display of raw power, betting coins changing hands rapidly in the stands.

I circle to the creature’s blind side, but it tracks me with unnatural awareness. Braam seizes the opportunity to whip his chain end across its face, knocking loose a yellowed tooth. The baldagaar responds with terrifying speed, hurling him into the broken cart. The morning star follows, pulverizing wood as Braam barely rolls clear. Splinters rain across the arena floor.

The crowd roars its approval, their bloodthirst growing with each near-death moment.

I leap for the beast’s head again, but it ducks with that impossible agility. Its counterattack drives me into desperate evasion. Sand explodes where the morning star impacts, and I use the cloud as cover to land a solid kick to its chest. It stumbles but recovers instantly, its red eye fixing on me with murderous intent.

I run, keeping my pace deliberately slow. The beast follows, then lunges. I dodge, but a thrown krum cup catches my temple. The momentary distraction is enough—massive fingers close around my throat, lifting me skyward. The crowd’s screams fade to a distant roar as blood pounds in my ears.

Dark spots dance in my vision. Papa’s face. My brother. Solomon’s laughing sneer. Instead of crushing my windpipe, the baldagaar draws back its mechanical arm. The morning star gleams dully as it arcs toward me. I block two strikes with my proths, but the third shatters my ankle mechanism. Gears and springs scatter like fallen stars, each piece a testament to Papa’s craftsmanship now broken.

Suddenly the grip loosens. Braam has opened the beast’s leg with a jagged piece of metal, dark blood flowing freely. The baldagaar responds by hammering him to the ground, but he deflects the morning star with his makeshift weapon, metal screaming against metal.

He stumbles to my side, clutching broken ribs. The baldagaar kneels, shaking sand from its eye. Its breathing comes in ragged gasps that sound almost human.

“It’s about time you joined us!” Braam shouts.

Isaiah sprints forward, something wrapped in his shirt. He leaps onto the baldagaar’s back with surprising agility, smashing a rozker against its eye. The poisonous plant’s spines pierce the beast’s flesh, its deadly toxins seeping instantly into the tissue. Angry red welts form immediately where the spines make contact, the flesh beginning to blister and swell.

The beast throws him onto a debris pile before he can strike again. A wooden spike impales his thigh, drawing a cry of pain even the crowd’s roar can’t drown out.

The baldagaar howls, clawing at its face. Blisters spread like wildfire around its eye, the flesh bubbling and warping. The rozker’s poison will kill it slowly, agonizingly. I almost feel pity—no creature deserves such a death, no matter how monstrous.

Braam shows mercy with the broken spear, driving it deep into the beast’s chest. Its final roar shakes sand from the arena walls before it collapses. The crowd’s cheers reach a fever pitch, coins and trinkets raining down around us. Through the chaos, I spot the Fat Man watching from his elevated position, his expression unreadable behind his multiple chins.

Braam lifts me carefully, his own injuries forgotten as he cradles me like a child. Isaiah limps over, face pale from his wound but wearing a satisfied smile.

“Where’d you find the rozker?” I ask, my voice hoarse from the baldagaar’s grip.

Isaiah grins through his pain. “Growing in the boulder crevices. How do you think I’ve survived so long? Those handlers never clear them out properly.”

“You two may have strength and speed,” he continues, wincing as he tests his leg, “but I have intelligence.”

“Speaking of intelligence,” Braam starts, adjusting his grip on me, “did I ever tell you about the baldagaar I had as a loan shark?”

I’m too exhausted to stop him, my body feeling like one massive bruise.

“I owed him an arm and a leg.”

None of us laugh, but somehow, we’re all smiling as we limp toward the exit. We survived. Together. And tomorrow, we escape. Papa’s face fills my mind again, but this time with hope rather than fear. We’ll get out of here—all of us.

The Fat Man doesn’t know it yet, but he just helped forge something stronger than any baldagaar—a team bound by blood and battle. As we pass through the arena gates, I catch one last glimpse of the fallen beast. Its mechanical arm glints in the sunlight, a reminder that even the strongest can fall under the right circumstances.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. But first, we need to heal. I wonder if Amari will visit us again, her golden eyes and gentle hands bringing relief to our battered bodies. For now, though, survival is enough. We beat the odds today. Tomorrow, we’ll beat them again.