Kosandion stood up. Resven carefully, almost reverently, removed the robe from the Sovereign’s shoulders. He wore a black suit underneath. It wasn’t armor, it wasn’t combat grade, it was just clothes, a form fitting garment that clung to him offering no protection at all.

Kosandion held out his hand. “Knife.”

Miralitt stepped forward, produced a knife, and put it into his hand. It was a black fixed blade with an upswept profile, about seven inches long, with a simple handle.

“I need a path, innkeeper,” Kosandion said.

I did not want to make him a path. I wanted him to sit his ass down right back on that throne.

“Dina,” Kosandion said.

Argh. Fine. I let Gertrude Hunt sprout a narrow ramp curving from our section to the stage below. Kosandion nodded and started down, unhurried and calm.

There was no way around it. Nothing we could do.

He reached the stage. I left the ramp in place. Just in case.

The two men squared off. They were the same height, but the otrokar was at least fifty pounds heavier. His shoulders were broader, his legs were like tree trunks, and when he flicked the short sword, muscles bulged across his huge back.

This would end badly.

Surkar charged, swinging his blade in a simple overhead stroke. It was basic but fueled by his superior strength and guided by years of experience. He was an unstoppable force, sinking his mass and momentum into that swing.

Kosandion caught his wrist, pulled him forward, moving with the strike, and hammered a kick to the side of Surkar’s right knee. Cartilage crunched, the sound amplified by the dozen screens zooming in. Surkar’s leg folded, and the power he’d put into his strike drove him to his knees. Kosandion twisted Surkar’s arm and dislocated the shoulder with a brutal snap.

Oh.

Surkar’s mouth gaped in shock. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, and his mind was still catching up to reality.

Kosandion drew a thin line across Surkar’s neck with his knife, barely nicking the skin, plucked the sword from the otrokar’s weakened fingers, and examined it.

“Thank you for this gift, son of Grast and Ulde. I shall keep it as a memento of this meeting.”

The Sovereign turned and started toward the ramp.

In the observers’ section, Caldenia beamed, her face ferocious and filled with pride.

The arena erupted, electrified. Kosandion ascended the ramp back to his seat, his back to the spectators, and his face was grim and cold.

Surkar finally realized that he had been beaten. He looked about, glassy-eyed. I could see it in his face—it really happened, and everyone saw it. It didn’t just shake him. It shattered his world. Everything he held true about himself and his place in this life was proven false in a space of a second.

“Sean?” I whispered.

“I got him.”