We approach the tournament green. It’s now surrounded by more and larger seating pavilions. A network of wooden walkways keeps everyone from sloshing through the mud. The thrax really went all-out this time.

With all the extra crowds and hassle, Cissy and I are really late. The pavilions are packed; there’s no chance to get a seat. We decide to stand by the tall wooden fence that surrounds the tournament green.

I settle into a spot, set my elbows atop the fence and scan the fighting field. The Earl of Acca stands in the center, his crossbow held high. He’s bashing it into a ghoul. My breath catches.

I tap Cissy’s shoulder. “I know that ghoul. It’s XP-22. I see him at Arena matches.”

Her pretty mouth sags into a frown. “Why’s the Earl fighting a ghoul?”

“I’m forced to fight in the Arena. It’s a job for XP-22. They must have paid him to appear.” I watch the Earl hammer away at XP-22 as he tries to run away. Anger careens up my spine. “This isn’t right. Even you could kick XP-22’s butt. And he clearly isn’t attacking the Earl.”

“Shh, Myla. It’s not our place to judge.”

“Fine.” I grit my teeth and look away. The crowd breaks out into wild applause. “Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“Is the ghoul dead?”

Cissy sucks in a breath. “Oh, yeah.”

The Earl of Acca struts off the field. Some thrax lackeys clear off the body. My eyes flare red with rage and horror. XP-22 didn’t deserve to end his afterlife that way.

Across the tournament green, the wooden fence swings open. A dragon creeps onto the field of battle. Its body is large as a cow, with a tail twice as long. It has stubby wings, red eyes, a long thin snout, and black scales that glitter purple in the light. It’s a shadow dragon, a rare demon that’s incredibly hard to kill.

I let out a low whistle. I feel sorry for whatever sucker goes after that thing.

The sucker in question steps onto the field of battle: Lincoln. He wears black body armor with the Rixa crest, his baculum broadsword gripped in one hand. He marches toward the dragon, tossing his blade from hand to hand, eyeing up his opponent.

The dragon rears up on his haunches, arcs his head toward the sky and spits out a stream of red fire. With deliberate steps, Lincoln closes in on the beast’s mouth. Raising his baculum high above his head, he blocks the dragon’s stream of fire with his sword. A shower of red-hot sparks cloud the air. The dragon gags, shakes its head, and hops backwards. Its neck becomes level with the tournament green.

Lincoln crouches into a body roll and slides under the beast’s belly, reappearing by the beast’s tail.

My eyebrows pop up. That’s a pretty neat move.