the Villainess they took for granted

Chapter 255: v3 Chapter 16: the first duel I

The doors opened.

The roar of the crowd rolled through the passage.

The six men stepped forward.

Cassian followed.

He had entered the Arena twice before.

The first time, he had been thrown into it without warning.

The second time, he had entered knowing that twenty men were about to be tested against a course designed to kill them.

This time was different.

He knew exactly why he was here.

He had spent three months preparing for this moment.

The Arena had prepared them as well.

The day before, the six newcomers had been given time to wash properly and were offered grooming before their first appearance.

The others had accepted.

Their hair had been washed and arranged.

Their faces had been shaved.

Their clothes had been cleaned and fitted properly.

The Arena wanted its newest fighters to look presentable.

They wanted the crowd to remember them.

Perhaps, eventually, patrons would take an interest.

Cassian had refused.

He had allowed no one to touch his face.

He hadn’t allowed them to shave his beard or trim his hair.

When they had offered to arrange it, he had simply declined.

The staff had looked at him for a moment.

Then, apparently deciding that one unkempt fighter was not worth arguing over, they had left him alone.

Cassian had washed himself.

He had run his fingers through his hair afterward, pushing it back just enough to keep it from falling into his eyes.

That was all.

His hair remained uneven and somewhat tangled.

His beard still covered his jaw.

It was exactly how he wanted it.

No one here knew Cassian Ashford.

There was no reason to give them a better look at his face.

Now, as they stepped onto the sand, he noticed the difference.

The other five looked considerably more polished than they had in the training yard.

And the crowd noticed.

The cheers grew louder whenever one of them was called forward.

Cassian understood why.

The Arena was presenting them.

These were the newest fighters.

The survivors.

The men the Arena had chosen to invest in.

They were meant to be seen.

Cassian had no interest in being seen.

He kept his head slightly lowered and his expression unreadable.

Beside him, Robert looked almost transformed.

His hair had been neatly cut.

His face was completely clean-shaven.

His clothes were clean.

He stood straighter now.

There was an ease in him that Cassian had not seen three months ago.

He had learned how to carry himself as a fighter.

He had learned how to hold a weapon.

How to move.

How to fight.

The uncertain man Cassian had first met after the wolves was no longer there.

Robert caught him looking.

”What?”

Cassian said nothing.

Robert glanced at Cassian’s beard.

Then at his unkempt hair.

”Why didn’t you clean up?”

Cassian looked at him.

”I didn’t want to.”

Robert stared at him for a moment.

Then shrugged.

”Suit yourself.”

Cassian looked away.

--

The announcer stepped onto the raised platform as a horn sounded above the Arena. Gradually, the crowd quieted.

The six men stood in a line on the sand while Cassian kept his gaze forward. He could feel the attention of thousands settling over them, examining them before they had even been given weapons.

The announcer raised one hand and began.

Cassian understood more than he would have months ago.

Numbers.

Fighter.

Survivor.

But he still couldn’t follow everything.

The first number was called.

”Three hundred and nineteen.”

Cassian stepped forward.

The response was immediate but modest: a scattering of cheers and a few shouts from the lower stands. Nothing overwhelming.

He returned to the line and noticed several spectators studying him curiously. Perhaps his beard had something to do with it. Or perhaps they simply found him less interesting than the men who followed.

The announcer called the next number.

”Three hundred and twenty.”

The second newcomer stepped forward. He had been groomed properly, with arranged hair and a clean-shaven face. He looked considerably more presentable than Cassian.

The crowd reacted more strongly.

Cassian watched without expression.

So that was how it worked. The better they looked, the more attention they received.

Another number was called.

”Three hundred and twenty-one.”

The third man stepped forward. More cheers followed. He looked younger than the previous two and carried himself with visible confidence.

The crowd seemed to like him.

Cassian turned his attention back to the announcer.

”Three hundred and twenty-three.”

Another newcomer stepped forward, and the response grew louder again.

Then—

”Three hundred and twenty-five.”

The fifth man stepped forward.

He was perhaps the most striking of the six: tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, and carefully groomed. He looked exactly like the sort of fighter the Arena wanted its audience to remember.

The crowd cheered loudly.

Cassian glanced toward Robert.

Robert was still waiting.

Then the announcer called his number.

”Three hundred and twenty-seven.”

Robert stepped forward.

The reaction was immediate—and much louder than it had been for the others.

Cassian looked toward the stands. People were leaning forward, shouting. A few women near the front were calling something he couldn’t understand.

Robert was twenty-two, the youngest of the six. With his freshly cut hair, clean-shaven face, and easy confidence, he looked less like a hardened captive and more like someone the crowd could imagine becoming a favorite.

He stood beneath their attention without shrinking from it. If anything, he seemed almost amused.

Cassian watched him for a moment. Three months ago, Robert had been little more than another prisoner trying to survive. Now thousands of people were cheering for him before he had even fought.

The announcer repeated his number.

”Three hundred and twenty-seven.”

The crowd answered again.

Robert finally stepped back into line, and the six men stood together once more. The announcer lowered his hand.

For a moment, the Arena fell quiet.

Then the opposite gates began to open.

The crowd changed immediately. The cheers grew louder, sharper, and more excited. Beneath them ran something hungrier.

Cassian turned his head.

Six men were being led into the Arena.

The condemned.

Unlike the newcomers, they had not been brought there to be admired. They had been brought there because they had already been sentenced to death.

The guards led them onto the sand.

The first man was enormous. His head was shaved, and a thick scar ran from his temple down across his cheek. Old restraint scars marked his wrists.

He smiled at the crowd.

Not nervously.

Hungrily.

The second man wore an iron patch over one eye. Old scars covered the exposed side of his face, and he rolled his shoulders as he walked. His gaze moved slowly across the six newcomers.

The third was lean, almost thin, but his movements were loose and unnervingly relaxed. His eyes never stopped moving.

The fourth was heavily muscled, with tattoos covering both arms and a scar across his throat. He grinned as the crowd shouted.

The fifth looked younger. Dried blood stained one sleeve, but his expression remained empty.

The sixth was different.

Average height.

Average build.

Dark hair.

Only a small scar beneath his chin.

He looked almost ordinary.

But his eyes were completely still.

He didn’t look at the crowd. He looked at the six newcomers, measuring them.

Cassian’s gaze lingered on him.

The man looked back.

For a brief moment, neither moved.

Then the man looked away.

The announcer’s voice rose above the crowd as the six condemned men stopped opposite the newcomers.

The Arena had presented both sides: the newest fighters and the men who had nothing left to lose.

Cassian stood silently.

The next part would decide who stood across from whom.

–

Tbc