Joran’s hand twitched again as he reached for his magic, trying to summon even the smallest flicker of arcane energy. But the moment he called on it, a violent jolt of electricity surged through his veins—sharp, white-hot pain that made his muscles lock and his teeth grind together. He gasped, his legs buckling for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright again.
Another attempt—another shock.
His body seized, every nerve screaming in protest. His vision blurred, and he tasted blood where he bit his cheek, but he didn’t cry out. He just staggered back, breath shallow, sweat beading on his brow as he clenched his fists in silent frustration.
It was no use.
The inhibitor bracelet had been reactivated. He hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t tried to tamper with it. Yet it pulsed with power like a brand on his skin, suppressing everything he was. Someone had sabotaged him.
And now… the Ironhowl was almost upon him.
The ground trembled as the towering mech took its final step forward. Ten feet of enchanted steel loomed over him, steam hissing from its shoulders as its arm raised high. Kinetic runes blazed to life along the length of its fist—glowing symbols that shimmered with built-up momentum. The whine of charged magic filled the air.
Joran’s instincts screamed.
He dove to the side just as the massive fist came crashing down. It struck the arena floor with thunderous force, sending up a shockwave that rippled through the sand. A geyser of dust exploded skyward, and a crater bloomed where he had stood—jagged stone cracked and crumbling under the sheer weight of the blow.
He rolled once, twice, then came up in a crouch, panting.
“Come on, Joran!” Thraza’s voice boomed from inside the Ironhowl, cheerful and disappointed all at once. “Show me what you’ve got! You didn’t hold anything back against Takeda, so why not me?”
The mech pivoted, the glowing eyes in its wolf-shaped helm narrowing with simulated expression.
“Is it because I’m a girl?” she teased. “Or because I’m a dwarf?”
Joran pushed himself up and ran toward his sword, which lay half-buried in the dust where it had fallen before the match. He snatched it up in one hand, turned on his heel, and faced her squarely—feet braced, shoulders tense, blade raised in a tight defensive stance.
“I’m currently experiencing technical difficulties,” he called out dryly, voice strained from pain. “So you’ll just have to make do for the time being.”
The Ironhowl tilted its head slightly, as if considering his words. Then it stepped forward again—slow, deliberate, almost gleeful.
“Alright then,” Thraza said, and he could hear the grin in her voice even through the mech’s magical speaker system. “Let’s show off my first trick.”
The Ironhowl’s left forearm hissed open, its thick metal fingers folding back and retracting into the arm housing with a series of clicking sounds and rotating gears. A new device slid forward from within—circular, rune-etched, and already humming with arcane energy.
Joran’s eyes widened as the weapon locked into place.
With a sharp mechanical hiss, the arcane sawblade spun to life. A high-pitched whine filled the arena as the glowing blade began to rotate with blinding speed, sparks dancing across its surface. The runes lining the edge flared, and heat shimmered in the air around it.
“Arcane Sawblade,” Thraza announced proudly. “Perfect for cutting through magical armor, enchanted constructs… and maybe even dragonborn bones! Let’s find out!”
She charged.
Joran barely had time to raise his blade before the Ironhowl was on him—moving far faster than something that large had any right to. Its weight thundered across the ground, but its stride was fluid, agile. She had engineered it not just to hit hard, but to hunt.
The saw came down with a screech.
Joran caught the strike with the flat of his sword, metal grinding against metal in an explosion of sparks. The sawblade bit into the edge of his weapon, trying to chew through it. The vibrations sent shocks through his arms as he gritted his teeth, muscles straining with effort. The force was monstrous—like trying to stop a runaway wagon with his bare hands.
He couldn’t hold the line.
With a grunt, he ducked low and let the force carry the saw over his head. He dropped to one knee, slid forward under the Ironhowl’s legs, and lashed out with a low, sweeping slash aimed at its jointed ankles.
His blade struck true—but barely made a scratch.
The outer plating was reinforced. He could feel the shock in his hands as the sword bounced off, leaving only a shallow scar in the paintwork.
He came up on the other side, panting, turning to face the mech again as it pivoted with surprising agility. The sawblade spun back into place, retracting into the arm as the Ironhowl readied its next move.
“Shit,” Joran muttered under his breath.
His heart pounded. His body was slick with sweat. And the familiar hum of magic in his veins… was still gone.
He looked down at the inhibitor bracelet. It was cold and dull—no glow, no signs of activation. But he felt it. Felt the suppression like a weight on his chest, like chains dragging behind him.
Unless he found a weak point… unless someone helped disable whatever was keeping the bracelet active…
He wouldn’t survive.
____________________________________________________________________________
Takeda returned to the viewing stands with Daurial just moments after the announcer’s booming introduction had ended. The crowd thundered with excitement, their cheers rising in waves as the gates sealed behind Joran. Daurial had Joran’s cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, nearly swallowed by it, and clutched his belongings close—his everforge belt, the magic pouch, and the sleek voidglass eye. She held them with quiet purpose, her expression focused despite the din of the coliseum.
Sarrak spotted them first, grinning as Takeda dropped into the seat between him and Daurial. “Well look at that—Ronin went and fetched himself a proper date. I didn’t know you were into the cloaked and cautious type.” He winked at Daurial, adding, “You know, if you ever get tired of the stoic samurai act, I’m always available—”
A thwack cut him off as Takeda smacked him upside the head without looking.
Sarrak winced and rubbed the back of his skull. “Ow! Damn it, fine. No flirting. Sheesh.”
Daurial glanced at Takeda, blinking. “Was that… normal?”
“More than I’d like,” he said evenly.
All three turned their attention back to the arena floor—just in time to see Joran reach for his magic and seize violently as a sharp shock jolted through his body.
Daurial gasped softly, her tail curling tight behind her. “That looked like—”
Sarrak leaned forward, frowning. “The prince doesn’t truly expect to win without magic, right? I don’t recognize the material that sword’s made of, but I doubt it can cut through Thraza’s baby without a miracle.”
Takeda stroked his chin in silence as Joran stumbled, panting, then dashed for his blade. “He’s struggling,” Takeda murmured. “More than he should be.”
Daurial bit her lip, her eyes wide as she watched the sawblade shriek toward Joran again. “He—he has magic, though… he’s always had it. Why isn’t he using it?”
Takeda’s hand paused. “That’s the question,” he said quietly. “He should’ve overwhelmed her with magic by now—or at least used some reinforcement spells. But he hasn’t cast anything.”
Daurial looked down at her lap, fingers tightening around Joran’s belongings. “I… I think I might know why.” She hesitated, then spoke more firmly. “That bracelet. The one on his wrist. I noticed it this morning when he was getting dressed. I’ve seen something like it before.”
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Takeda looked at her sharply. “What is it?”
“A magic inhibitor,” she said. “I’m sure of it. It doesn’t always glow or give off a signal, but I’ve seen slavers use them on casters who fought back. Sometimes they stay dormant until triggered remotely.”
Sarrak’s brow lifted. “Someone turned it back on…”
Takeda’s eyes narrowed. “And they did it during the fight.”
“That’s why he’s holding back,” Daurial whispered. “He can’t access his spells. He’s fighting blind.”
Takeda stood immediately, adjusting the sword at his hip. “Then we’re finding whatever’s keeping it active.”
Before they could move, a low hum began to rise from within Daurial’s cloak. She glanced down and saw the voidglass eye vibrating softly against her palm, faint blue light pulsing in slow rhythm.
Takeda noticed. “What’s it doing?”
Daurial blinked, then raised it toward her face and pressed it carefully to her left eye.
The world shifted.
Her breath caught.
“There’s a thread,” she said, voice breathless with awe. “A magical trail—it’s leading away from the arena floor… down into the corridors beneath the stands. I think it’s coming from the bracelet.”
Takeda’s face hardened. “Can you follow it?”
“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet.
“Then we move.” He stepped into the aisle, already scanning the shadows for access tunnels.
Sarrak groaned as he got up behind them. “Don’t leave me out of this. I haven’t punched anyone today.”
They moved quickly, slipping into the coliseum’s lower levels—following the ethereal trail glowing only through Daurial’s borrowed eye, toward whatever sabotage had been set in motion… and whoever dared cripple Joran in the middle of his most dangerous match yet.
____________________________________________________________________________
Joran ducked beneath another wild sweep of the Ironhowl’s sawblade, the bladed weapon screaming through the air inches above his head. Sparks flew as it carved through the sand and clipped the stone beneath, sending molten shards scattering. Each strike shook the ground and rattled through his bones, the sheer force of every blow forcing him to keep moving or risk being crushed. His arms ached from deflecting what he could, and his breath came sharp and uneven as sweat streamed down his brow.
He dove to the side again, rolling in the dust and coming to his feet in a crouch just as Thraza’s voice rang out gleefully over the arena's roar.
“Time for my next trick!”
She said it like a merchant at a fair unveiling her latest invention, not like a warrior locked in a life-or-death battle. The Ironhowl’s sawblade hissed as it powered down, spinning slower and slower until it retracted smoothly into the mech’s forearm. In its place, a squat, rune-inscribed barrel emerged from the housing, clicking into position with mechanical precision.
Joran’s instincts screamed. His stance lowered, and he prepared to dodge any kind of projectile—but nothing could’ve prepared him for the wave of blistering heat that erupted from the weapon.
A gout of flame exploded toward him with a roar.
His eyes widened. “Shit—”
He barely managed to dive out of the way as a cone of searing fire engulfed the space where he’d stood moments before. The wave of heat washed over his back as he hit the ground and rolled, the scorched air burning through the thin fabric of his tunic. The fire kissed his skin with a savage intensity that left the hairs on his arms singed and his throat dry from the sudden rise in temperature.
He staggered to his feet, panting, a flicker of frustration burning in his chest.
“Damn it…” he hissed under his breath. “This is practically impossible without my magic.”
The Ironhowl pivoted, its wolf-like head tracking him with eerie precision. The flamethrower flared again, a fresh torrent of fire sweeping sideways as Thraza guided it across the battlefield like a predator herding its prey. Joran was forced to retreat, sprinting across the sand, dodging wide as trails of flame licked at his heels and carved blackened lines into the arena floor. There was no elegant strategy to countering a flamethrower—only distance and speed.
He risked a glance up toward the stands.
There—just past the veils of smoke and shimmer of heatwaves—he caught sight of familiar faces.
The guards from last night.
They were seated casually, smirking down at him with smug satisfaction, their postures relaxed as if watching a game they’d already rigged. Rage boiled in his chest, thick and bitter.
But then he noticed something else.
Sarrak, Takeda, and Daurial were gone.
His breath hitched with a flicker of hope. “Please be figuring this out,” he muttered to himself. “Please…”
A thought sparked, reckless but sharp.
He couldn’t reach the guards. He couldn’t use magic. But he could fight smart. He looked back at the Ironhowl, still spraying arcs of flame, and made a snap decision.
He sheathed his panic.
Then he acted.
With a sharp breath, Joran threw his sword high into the air. The Vermillion Fang spun end-over-end, catching glints of sunlight on its edge. He bolted forward and leapt, closing the distance between himself and the Ironhowl in three long strides.
Midair, he twisted, bringing his leg around in a powerful arc—and kicked the hilt of the spinning sword.
The blade shot forward like a spear, spinning with deadly precision.
It plunged into the open barrel of the flamethrower, burying itself deep in the mechanism just as the weapon began to ignite another burst.
A violent explosion of flame and steam erupted from the arm.
The Ironhowl staggered back as a cascade of smoke and shards of metal vented from the damaged housing. Sparks shot out in every direction, and the arm trembled before locking with a harsh, metallic screech. Joran landed in a crouch and skidded back through the sand, panting, his eyes never leaving the mech.
His sword, now lodged in the ruined flamethrower, was gone for the moment.
But the damage was done.
The weapon sparked once more—then blew out in a burst of smoke and shrapnel. The mech’s arm swung down limply before retracting the ruined barrel with an angry hiss. A moment later, it flung the sword away, the blade tumbling end over end before embedding itself in the arena wall.
Joran smirked despite his exhaustion. “Looks like that’s one trick out of the picture, huh?”
Inside the Ironhowl, Thraza let out a dramatic gasp, followed by a laugh so genuine it echoed through the mech’s voice amplification rune.
“Very clever, Prince!” she said brightly. “You really aren’t making this easy for me, are you?”
Then her voice darkened slightly—playful, but with an edge. “But I’m afraid damaging my baby is very personal.”
With a low mechanical growl, the Ironhowl’s damaged arm shifted again. The destroyed flamethrower folded away with a hiss of steam—and in its place, a new arm segment locked into position. This one ended in a massive, reinforced gauntlet. Its knuckles were plated, its joints etched with red-hot runes that glowed in time with the machine’s thundering footfalls.
“And now,” Thraza said, voice humming with excitement, “we go back to the classics.”
The Ironhowl’s eyes flared brighter, and it charged.
Joran braced himself—unarmed, sweat-drenched, body aching—but still standing.
“Come on then…” he whispered, eyes narrowing. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.” that was one weapon down and now he just had to get his sword while making sure he didn’t get his skull crushed in the process.
