“We will only need three. Please pick among yourselves.”

A brief scuffle ensued while I made the individual bridges from the otrokar section to the platforms. Three otrokars emerged and took their places on the platforms.

“As Lady Bestata makes her way to the other end of this treacherous path, please do your best to knock her off the pillars and down to the floor of the arena using the sandbags available to you.”

“A savok from my stable to the first person to bring her down!” Surkar roared.

There were few things the otrokars prized more than savok mounts.

“Only using the sandbags!” Gaston added. “She must touch the ground for your throw to count. Are you ready, Lady Bestata?”

She tied a length of black cloth over her eyes. “Ready.”

The crowd murmured in appreciation, anticipating a good show. Kosandion leaned forward, his face showing only interest. No traces of outrage remained. It was still there, he was just hiding it.

A bell tolled. Bestata unsheathed two long, slender swords and leaped onto the next pillar, running across them like they were solid ground. The crowd cheered.

She dashed toward the first bend in the pillar path. The otrokar on the platform next to it grabbed the first bag and swung it at Bestata. She shied back, poised on the toes of her left foot, leaning dangerously back on the pillar, her swords held out at her sides for balance. The bag whistled in front of her. She sprinted forward, and the bag swung back like a giant pendulum, hurtling through the spot she just left.

The second bag missed her by half a second. The third went too wide, spinning a full foot away from the vampire knight. Another moment, and Bestata was out of range, running toward the next platform.

The next otrokar, a large red-haired female, bet on strategy rather than speed. She spun the first bag, sending it in a circle toward Bestata, grabbed the second bag, aimed it slightly to her right, and let it go. The first bag curved, slicing through the air. Somehow the vampire knight sensed it coming and leaped to a pillar on the side, right into the path of the second bag.

The crowd froze.

The second bag flew toward her, straight at her chest. Bestata swung her left sword. The black blade whined, priming, and the bag plunged to the bottom of the arena, sliced in half, its sand spilling like victory confetti.

The spectators roared.

Bestata sprinted. The otrokar swung the third bag, but it was too late.

In the observers’ section, Karat leaned forward, laser-focused on Bestata, clearly reevaluating her threat potential. Dagorkun shook his hands and bellowed in his battle voice, “Throw the damn bag! Don’t swing it, idiots, throw it!”