By the time Leonotis and Low made it back to the arena the last fight was already over and they were getting ready to call the next fighters.
"Next, Lia of the Greenwater!"
The Jabara's cry carried through the coliseum. Thousands of spectators leaned forward, their cheers cresting in a tidal wave of anticipation.
Low smirked slightly. "That's you Lia. I'll cheer for you in the stands," Low said leaving Leonotis.
Leonotis—"Lia"—stepped into the blinding sunlight. The arena sand shimmered like molten glass beneath his boots. Every breath scraped against the band around his ribs, tight from the bindings Jacqueline had forced him to wear. His wood sword, wrapped in rough cloth, swung lightly at his side, more prayer than weapon.
He had never felt smaller.
And across from him, waiting in the shadow of the opposite gate, stood a man. Leonotis recognized him instantly.
Gregor.
The bounty hunter's armor was a patchwork of scars and iron. His axe gleamed with use—battered, but never dulled. The man's face was an unmoving mask, his eyes glinting.
Leonotis's heart thudded painfully.
He remembered those eyes.
Gregor had hunted him weeks ago. And now, that man who had been after his life stood in front of him. And he couldn't use his plant magic.
Jabara's hand lifted.
"Begin!"
The sound cracked the air.
Gregor moved first. His body was all lethal economy—no wasted steps, no flourish. The axe descended in a brutal arc that split the air with a shriek. Leonotis rolled aside, sand spraying his face, his heart hammering. The blow carved a trench where he had stood.
He came up on one knee, sword half-drawn, breath burning.
Gregor turned, slow and deliberate, like a wolf savoring the chase.
"You fight well, girl," he rasped, circling. "Too well."
Leonotis said nothing. The bindings around his chest constricted his breath, but the real suffocation came from fear.
Gregor's grin widened, revealing a broken tooth. "Those eyes, those cheekbones… I've seen them before. A bounty I was after. Little green rat that slipped from my snare."
Leonotis froze.
Gregor's voice hardened, becoming a knife. "I knew it when I saw you in the Mboko grounds. You're no Lia. You're him."
The words tore the illusion apart like paper. For a moment, Leonotis forgot how to breathe.
Then Gregor's axe swung again.
Leonotis barely blocked, the wrapped sword clanging against steel. The shock of impact jolted through his bones, numbing his arm. Gregor pressed forward, relentless. Each blow heavier than the last, driving him back, step by step, toward the arena's wall.
The crowd cheered the onslaught, mistaking desperation for spectacle.
Leonotis ducked another swing, feeling the gust of the axe graze his hair. He kicked off the wall, twisting midair, blade flashing—but Gregor met it with the haft of his axe, sparks bursting.
"You can't hide from what you are," Gregor growled.
Leonotis gritted his teeth. "You talk too much."
He moved then—fluid, desperate, instinctive. Months of training under Gethii poured into him like lightning through a rod. His body remembered even when his mind faltered.
He lunged, striking low. Gregor twisted, catching the blade with his gauntlet, but Leonotis flowed with the motion, letting it guide him. He pivoted, turning the block into an opening, his knee slamming into Gregor's side.
A grunt. A stumble.
Leonotis followed through—strike, spin, parry, feint—each motion feeding the next in a rhythm that felt almost sacred.
But Gregor was a veteran predator. He didn't fall for rhythm. He broke it.
His axe reversed mid-swing, striking the flat of Leonotis's blade, wrenching it wide. Then he kicked, hard. The blow crashed into Leonotis's chest, sending him sprawling across the sand.
Pain flared white.
Leonotis rolled, gasping, barely dodging the next strike. The axe bit into the earth inches from his skull, spraying grit across his face.
"You can't win hiding your power," Gregor sneered, pulling his weapon free. "Go ahead use your little vines."
The words echoed in Leonotis's chest, too close to truth. His vines, his green power thrummed beneath his skin, begging to rise. But he couldn't. Not here. The King would see. He'd be hunted before the dust settled.
He forced himself to his feet, sword trembling. He let his ase pour into his wooden sword.
Gregor lunged. Leonotis sidestepped, barely evading the blade. He slashed, grazing Gregor's shoulder. Blood spattered the sand.
The crowd roared, feeding on violence like vultures on carrion.
Gregor laughed. "There you are."
His next blow was monstrous—an overhead swing that came down like judgment. Leonotis blocked, steel on linen-wrapped wood, the impact driving him to his knees. His arms shook, tendons screaming.
"Run again!" Gregor snarled. "Let's see how far you make it this time."
Rage flared, hot and sharp.
Leonotis's foot lashed out, kicking sand into Gregor's eyes. The bounty hunter cursed, stumbling back. Leonotis surged forward, slashing once, twice. His third strike caught Gregor's forearm, slicing deep.
Blood poured.
Gregor bared his teeth, grin widening even through pain. "Good. Fight me, green aseborn. Show them what you are."
Green aseborn.
The words cracked something open inside him.
Leonotis's breath hitched—then roared out, animal and raw. He charged, fury burning through the fear. His blade blurred, a storm of silver arcs. Gregor met each with desperate parries, his strength faltering under the barrage.
One strike caught his chestplate. Another shattered his gauntlet.
And then—
Leonotis feinted high and pivoted low, slamming the flat of his sword into Gregor's knee. Bone cracked. The bounty hunter howled, dropping to one leg. Leonotis didn't stop.
His world had narrowed to movement and breath, to heartbeat and blade.
He struck again—once, twice, thrice—each blow hammering home with unstoppable rhythm. Gregor's axe met his final strike—and shattered.
The sound was deafening.
Gregor stumbled, eyes wide, disbelief breaking through rage. How had a wooden sword shattered a metal axe? "Impossible…"
Leonotis's sword came down again hitting his face with a deafening crack.
The bounty hunter froze, trembling, blood bubbling at his broken jaw. Gregor wheezed, before the light dimmed from his eyes.
The world went still.
For a long moment, Leonotis just stood there—chest heaving, sand drifting down like snow. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. His sword dripped with blood that wasn't his.
Then the crowd erupted.
"Lia! Lia! Lia!"
The chant thundered across the coliseum, shaking the walls.
Leonotis looked up, dazed. Thousands of faces screamed his borrowed name. They saw victory, spectacle, savagery. They didn't see the trembling in his hands. They didn't see the boy beneath the disguise.
He stepped back, eyes falling to Gregor's body. The man's chest rose shallowly—alive, but barely.
The healers rushed in, their chants low and hurried. "Coma, maybe," one muttered. "He may never wake again."
Leonotis dropped his sword. It hit the sand with a dull thud.
He had won. And it felt like a curse.
From the royal dais, King Rega leaned forward. His eyes sharp and curious. "Impressive," he murmured.
Zuri, his guard, frowned beside him. "You think she was hiding her skills?"
"I think she's interesting." Rega smiled thinly. "And I like interesting things."
Below, Leonotis turned away from the cheers. His chest tightened. Beneath his skin he felt the vines coiling restlessly, whispering through blood and bone.
His voice echoed in his mind: You had to. You had no choice.
But having no choice didn't make it cleaner.
He had killed monsters before—creatures of rot and spirit—but never a man with a face and history. Never someone who could bleed guilt into him like ink into water.
He looked up once more, to the endless tiers of faces, to the banners fluttering like tongues of fire, and felt only dread.
The crowd called Lia's name. The King studied his movements. The air itself felt heavier, charged with suspicion.
Leonotis picked up his sword and bowed mechanically. His body moved, but his soul lagged behind, drowning in what he'd done.
The drums resumed—slow, rhythmic, ritualistic. They announced victory, but to him, they sounded like a funeral march.
As he left the arena, the sand beneath his steps felt colder than before.
He didn't look back.
He didn't dare.
The healer's tents were a blur of incense, blood, and quiet prayers. Leonotis sat outside them, half-shadowed by the stone archways of the coliseum's inner corridor. The crowd's roar still echoed faintly from the arena, muffled by distance and by guilt.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He stared down at them—at the dried blood crusted along his knuckles, at the small tremor that refused to leave his fingers. His sword lay beside him, still wrapped, still humming faintly with the echo of violence. He wanted to wash it. He wanted to wash himself.
Footsteps approached. Heavy, deliberate.
Low.
She emerged from the crowd of competitors, her stone axe slung across her back. For some reason now seeing her fake beard on her face was annoying. She still looked exhausted from the poison, though her eyes were sharp as ever.
She stopped a few paces away and crossed her arms. "Was that all necessary?"
Her tone wasn't cruel. It was steady—too steady. The kind that carried both concern and accusation.
Leonotis swallowed hard. "He knew."
Low's brows furrowed. "Knew what?"
"Who I was." Leonotis's voice cracked, rough as gravel. "He recognized me under the disguise. He called me green aseborn before the end." He looked up, eyes hollow. "If I'd left him conscious, he would've told the King."
Low shifted her weight, watching him.
"I didn't mean to…" His words faltered. "I don't even know if he's going to live through the night."
Silence stretched between them, heavy as stone. The air outside the coliseum was cooling now, evening winds carrying the dust and the smell of sweat away. But nothing could lift the weight pressing on Leonotis's chest.
Low finally exhaled through her nose. "You did what you had to."
He looked up at her, startled by the certainty in her voice.
She met his gaze evenly. "I've killed before too."
That made him flinch.
"When I was on Water Mountain," she continued, her voice low, " the two bounty hunters. I wanted to just scare them off when the change took hold but the beast doesn't care about warnings."
Her eyes drifted to the middle distance, unfocused. "I remember flashes—blood, screaming, bones breaking like twigs. They were torn apart."
Leonotis's throat tightened. "Low I didn't realize it bothered you…"
She waved him off, though her hand trembled slightly. "Don't. I've lived with it. It doesn't fade, not really, but you learn to carry it."
He stared at the ground, guilt curling tighter. "Does it ever stop feeling wrong?"
Low thought for a long moment, then shook her head. "No. But it stops feeling paralyzing."
They stood in silence for a while, the wind whistling through the arches above them. From the distant arena came another burst of cheering—another fight beginning, another name shouted by thousands.
Low sat down beside him, her axe scraping softly against the wall as she leaned it aside. "Listen," she said, her tone gentler now. "Gregor wasn't some helpless fool. He was a hunter. He knew what kind of prey you were supposed to be."
Leonotis frowned. "Supposed to be?"
She smirked faintly. "Leonotis, if the bounty said alive or dead, then trust me—he would've made sure it was the second option. The only reason he didn't try to kill you was to make sure the King paid him."
Her voice grew more serious. "Yes, he was a man not a monster. But not all men are human. Some of them are monsters wearing faces."
Leonotis looked away. "I still don't know if that makes it better."
"It's not supposed to."
Her answer came quick, cutting, but not cruel. Just truth. "You did what survival demanded. Doesn't mean you have to like it."
Finally, Low stood, brushing the dust from her trousers. "We can't afford to linger on guilt when we're still being hunted."
Leonotis nodded weakly. "You sound like Gethii."
Low smirked. "That's because Gethii probably has common sense."
That earned her a faint, tired laugh from him. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Low reached down and offered him her hand. "Come on. Next fight's starting. Let's see who's stupid enough to follow that performance of yours."
Leonotis hesitated, glancing back once more toward the healer's tent. He could still see the pale outline of Gregor's form on the cot, surrounded by murmuring priests.
"I don't think I want to watch another fight," he admitted.
Low's voice softened. "You don't have to want to. You just need to remember why we're here."
Her hand stayed outstretched.
After a long pause, he took it.
They walked together toward the stands, the noise of the arena swelling with every step. Leonotis moved through the throng of spectators like a ghost, the chants of "Lia! Lia! Lia!" still echoing faintly behind him, every syllable another reminder of the mask he wore.
As they climbed the steps, Low shot him a sidelong glance. "You're thinking too much."
"I always think too much."
"That's your problem." She elbowed him lightly. "You keep carrying every death like a burden. But you're not the only one bleeding for this."
He looked at her, at the bandages and cuts on her. For the first time since stepping into the arena, he saw how tired she truly was.
Maybe they both were.
When they reached the steps that lead to the viewing balconey, the sun was setting beyond the dunes, painting the horizon in molten red.
Low put one foot on the steps, watching. "See? Life doesn't stop just because we hate what we've done."
Leonotis didn't answer. He just stared at the sand below, where blood turned the sand to a rust color.
For a moment, he thought he saw Gregor's body there again—lying broken, silent. He blinked, and it was gone.
Low's voice broke the spell. "You'll learn to live with it, Leonotis. You'll have to."
He nodded slowly. "I don't know if I want to."
"Want's got nothing to do with it."
"You know, Low," Leonotis said. "That was actually pretty solid advice. I'm impressed you thought of it before I did, considering I've got the seniority here."
Low looked back, one eyebrow cocked high. "Seniority? Please. You aren't older than me."
Leonotis frowned. "Uh, yeah I am? I'm thirteen. You're twelve."
"Wrong," she countered. "You have amnesia. Your brain got reset. So, strictly speaking, the 'current' you has only existed for... what? Eight months?"
Leonotis opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat.
"Honestly, when you think about it, you're basically an infant. It's a miracle you can walk and talk."
She let out a sharp, teasing laugh.
Leonotis stared as he mentally retraced his timeline. She has a point, he realized. I don't have any memories older than a year.
He slumped his shoulders. "I only have a year of experiences," he muttered, sounding defeated. "I guess you're right."
Low patted him patronizingly. "It's okay, you're doing great for a newborn."