The colosseum fell into a heavy hush after Emma's blade finished the five. The scent of burned cloth and blood hung in the air, mixing with the copper tang of adrenaline. Even the ever-watchful Esper Knights seemed to lean forward, though their helmets gave away nothing. The marble beneath torn boots and broken shields glittered with a hundred small, ugly stories.
Mudhand stood at the edge of the colosseum, fists white around the carved stone. His chest heaved with sound, defiance and mortification braided together. Below him, the remaining goblins shuffled, eyes narrowed and lips bared, trying to turn humiliation into menace. They had learned, in three minutes, how quickly life could end here.
Myrith let the silence stretch. Her smile remained, a blade of silver sunlight. She toyed with the haft of her halberd as if it were a trivial curiosity. The very air around her tasted of danger.
Mudhand's voice cracked like a dry twig when he finally spoke. "You have proven your point, human. You have shown the power of your citadel. What exactly do you want? Why do you need information from us? Speak. Make whatever demand you wish and rid us of your ridicule."
Myrith's head tilted, as if considering whether to hum along to a song. The smile widened, but the gleam in her eyes shifted from amusement to an ember that could explode into cold flame.
"I already shown you our strength from the very first time we met but you saw our riches," she said slowly, voice silk and steel. "When you saw our treasures and the very bones of what we have made. When you saw them, your eyes became something else. Greed and hunger came over you like a tide. Suddenly you felt brave enough to spit at us."
Mudhand flinched, as if slapped by memory. He tried to braid scoff with scorn. "We are what we have always been. This world is for those who take it, tongue and tooth. You fly in on your golden rock and expect us to kneel just because you'll look pretty?"
Myrith took a step forward. The floor seemed to resonate with her motion, subtle waves of psychic force tasting at the gulfs between men and monsters. "We want what is simple. Make us a map. Numbers. Names of lords and cities. Routes and strongholds. Who controls what and where the rivers and passes lie. Tell us who stands on each borders. Tell us where your shamans draw their power, where your kings keep their banners, every thing your mouths can offer without lying."
Mudhand spat once, green liquid flicking against black marble. "You think we will hand over our holdings and secrets for a taste? For the pleasure of your curiosity? Who do you think you are to make such requests?"
Myrith laughed, but the sound was not light. It carried flavor, like an old bell that rang wrong. She leaned on the haft of her halberd and the laughing ceased the moment the words left her mouth.
"You see, little warlord, information saves blood. It saves time and resources. I would prefer to learn from your mouths, and not from corpses. Kill them and you give us only scraps. Talk and I can place boundaries, purchase cooperation, or simply mark those who will oppose us later for a pain that does not carry the cost of war. Convenience, Mudhand. That is all."
Mudhand's eyes narrowed. "And if I refuse?"
Myrith spun her halberd the slightest of turns. The weapon sang a note only the air heard. "Then I will kill every last one of you, and I will map the lines by burning the stones of your settlements and reading the ashes. I do not want to wage war if there is a choice of less spilling. But I will not suffer insolence in my sight."
The smallness of that sentence, spoken bluntly, carried a thousand certainties. The goblins felt them all. Men and beasts tuned to the same predator radio. You sensed when someone intended to follow through on a threat; Myrith intended to.
Mudhand swallowed a curse. He shouted back, swagger scrambled into desperation. "Are you going to war with the Gnarlak? Even if you rout a band here, our armies will come. We have millions. This continent was not taken in a day. You will fail, as your kind failed a century ago."
Myrith's smile bled cold. "You are bold for a creature that already saw our blade. You say wars are constant, territories shift and that many continents may remain undiscovered. Tell me, Mudhand, who told you this was bravery and not ego? If you do not know what lies to the east, then your words mean nothing."
He spat again. "At least we know how to survive with teeth. You people rely on laws and floating rocks. We rely on our hands."
Myrith's gaze slid across the crowd, her voice barely louder than a breeze. "I will ask again mudhand. A map. Names. Routes. Months old or day old, it matters not. A list will do. If you will not tell me willingly, then I will ask by other means."
Mudhand barked a rude laugh to hide the tremor in his voice. He gnashed his tusks and searched for something to bargain with. "If you free us, we will tell you. Release our men and we will cooperate."
"You assume too much." Myrith's hand tightened on the haft, dangerously slow and deliberate. "Favorable terms are earned. Trust is not a thing given to an enemy. Why should I free you? Because you ask? Because you will tell tales of our mercy? You would simply flee and breed more mouths to bite us later. Convenience means information, and that is it. Give us what we want and perhaps your blighted throng shall not be burned today."
Mudhand's face contorted. He swallowed, stared down, and then something like logic blinked through the anger. He glanced at the goblins clustered at the arena edge. They were ragged; their bravado thinned like paper in rain. He looked upward to the faces of his own men, their eyes wide with a fear he had not expected. Pride and preservation waged war in his chest.
"Why bother killing us?" he asked, after a long minute. The voice came out small, scratched.
Myrith's laugh was short and bright. "Because you are now our enemy." She tilted her head. "Again mudhand. Tell us. All of it. Now."
Silence replied. The goblins would not answer. Perhaps they had given up speaking for themselves, or perhaps Mudhand still held some thread of pride he could not sever.
Myrith's face did not shift. "Very well." She nodded to one of the nearest knights, a male figure cloaked in simple black and devoid of unnecessary ritual. The knight moved with the hush of a winter wind and descended, landing before the goblin throng with neither flourish nor fanfare.
"Kill them all," Myrith said plainly, voice like a verdict. "All but the leader. Let Mudhand live to speak. He will be left to watch his people rot, and he will consider how long threats appear handsome."
Mudhand's pupils shrunk. He glared at the knight, trying to turn insolence into iron. "You cannot do this," he snarled. "Our king will search for me and avenge me!"
Myrith's reply was a whisper the entire arena felt. "You will not be killed if you accept my terms."
Mudhand's face twisted into something ugly, then he roared an order that was part command and part prayer. "No! We are not rats!"
The knight moved.
He rose above the arena floor as if the ground no longer claimed him, a black star in a sky of stone. He walked down the invisible steps at a speed that made the goblins' breath catch. He wore no nameplates; he was only a function. When he reached the center, he paused, looked at Mudhand for the briefest of seconds, and then tilted his head towards the huddled mass.
All three hundred goblins were shoved, telekinetically, into a tighter pen. They shrieked and bared weapons, a storm of crude iron and bristling bone. The knight's presence was like a knell. Where he walked, the air tightened. The crowd recoiled.
Myrith clapped once and the clapping turned the air into a signal. "Three hundred," she sang, "against one. Let us see how many you value in exchange for just a map."
Mudhand's mouth worked. He could not find words. He looked to his troops for a miracle. None came.
The knight shifted his weight. He moved forward.