The roaring thunder of the Grand Colosseum crowd was still muffled through the thick concrete arches of the underground staging hall when Arthur Vance and his squad rounded the corner toward Workshop Bay 12. Toby was walking backward ahead of them, laughing hysterically as he checked his test tablet.
“Twelve-point-four seconds!” Toby crowed, waving his arms toward the damp ceiling pipes. “The official record was held by General Kaelen’s dire-wolf pack from thirty years ago at twenty-eight seconds! We didn’t just break the national record, Arthur—we chopped it in half! The betting syndicates have suspended all futures trading on the tournament!”
“Don’t drop your guard, Toby,” Instructor Valerie warned, her heavy combat boots clicking steadily against the wet floor. “When you embarrass the high nobility in front of one hundred and twenty thousand witnesses, their pride doesn’t respond with sportsmanship. It responds with poison.”
Valerie’s warning proved prophetic five seconds later.
They reached the heavy blast doors of Sub-Level 4. Then, four armed paladins in polished black-and-gold plate armor stepped out from the shadows of an equipment nook, blocking the hall with heavy riot shields and drawn tactical sidearms.
Behind them stood Dr. Hector Moros and Scion Aurelius Valerius.
Aurelius looked as though he had just swallowed a cup of lye. His tailored combat tunic of royal crimson silk was clean. But his white-gold-blond hair was disheveled. His high-born face was twisted into a mask of pure, trembling fury. Beside him, Dr. Moros leaned heavily on his gold-headed cane. His…
