Vanished Sisters The Lycan King's Slave Island novel Chapter 66

Chapter 66

Natasha’s POV

“Kill each other!”

“Entertain us!”

༢ (72

The Herald stepped forward again. “THE RULES ARE SIMPLE! FIGHT UNTIL ONLY ONE REMAINS! THE SURVIVOR WILL BE REWARDED

WITH FOOD, REST, AND FREEDOM FROM THE MINES FOR ONE MONTH!”

None of the men moved.

“BEGIN!” the Herald shouted.

Nothing happened. The gladiators just stood there, looking at each other. Looking at the weapons. Looking anywhere but at each other.

The young man with the sword dropped it. “I can’t,” he sobbed. “I can’t do this.”

The Herald’s expression darkened. “FIGHT OR DIE!”

Still, no one moved.

Lord Gregor stood up. He gestured to one of the Lycan guards standing near the arena floor entrance.

“Encourage them,” Gregor said coldly.

The guard nodded. He descended to the arena floor and walked toward the crying man who’d dropped his sword.

The man looked up at the guard, hope flickering in his eyes. “Please. Please, I don’t want to-”

The guard grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with one hand. The man’s legs kicked uselessly.

Then the guard drew a long knife from his belt and, in one smooth motion, drove it up under the man’s ribs.

The man screamed-a high, terrible sound that cut through the roar of the crowd.

The guard twisted the knife. Blood poured from the wound, cascading down the man’s body, soaking into the arena floor.

Then the guard dropped him. The man fell to the ground, clutching his stomach, blood pumping between his fingers.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please-

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Chapter 66

The guard raised his boot and brought it down on the man’s head. Hard. The skull crunched. Blood and brain matter exploded outward.

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The man stopped moving.

Several of the female slaves around me screamed. One girl next to me vomited onto the stone floor.

I just stood there, frozen, staring at the corpse below.

He killed him. Just killed him. Like it was nothing.

The guard looked at the remaining five gladiators. His mouth was covered in blood from where he’d bitten into the man’s throat after

crushing his skull.

“FIGHT,” he snarled. “OR JOIN HIM.”

The gladiators scattered. They ran to the weapons, grabbing whatever they could find.

The young man with the sword picked it up again, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold it.

The older man with the spear backed away from the others, his weapon held defensively in front of him.

Two more men-both in their thirties, both looking terrified-circled each other warily.

And the last man-thin and scarred, with dead eyes-picked up an axe and charged at the nearest target.

The games had begun.

The fighting was brutal and clumsy. These weren’t trained warriors. They were starving slaves who’d been forced into combat.

The man with the axe swung wildly at one of the circling fighters. The blow missed, and the axe buried itself in the ground. Before he could pull it free, the other fighter-the one with a club-brought his weapon down on the axe-man’s shoulder.

The crack of bone was audible even over the crowd’s roar.

The axe-man screamed and fell to his knees. The club-wielder hesitated, looking down at the injured man.

“Kill him!” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Finish it!”

The club-wielder raised his weapon again. The axe-man looked up at him, tears streaming down his face.

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“Please, he begged. “Please don’t-

The club came down on his head. Once. Twice. Three times.

:

The skull caved in. Blood and gore splattered across the arena floor.

The club-wielder stumbled back, staring at what he’d done, his face pale with horror.

The crowd loved it. They cheered and howled and stamped their feet.

*

I wanted to look away. Wanted to close my eyes. But I couldn’t. I was frozen, transfixed by the horror below.

The young man with the sword was fighting the older man with the spear. They circled each other cautiously, neither wanting to make the

‘first move.

Then the spear-man lunged. The young man tried to dodge but wasn’t fast enough. The spear caught him in the side, sliding between his

ribs.

The young man gasped and dropped his sword. He grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, trying to pull it out.

The older man pushed harder, driving the spear deeper. The young man’s eyes went wide. Blood frothed at his lips.

“I’m sorry,” the older man whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He twisted the spear. The young man convulsed, then went still.

The older man pulled the spear free. The body fell to the ground.

Now there were three left. The older man with the spear. The club-wielder who’d just killed the axe-man. And one more-a thin man with

a short sword who’d been hanging back, avoiding the fighting.

They looked at each other across the blood-soaked arena floor.

The crowd was going insane. Cheering. Howling. Some of the Lycans in the lower seats were openly transforming now, their bodies shifting into hybrid forms-fur sprouting, claws extending, faces elongating into snouts.

They’re losing control. The bloodlust is spreading.

On the platform behind me, I heard Lord Sebastian laugh.

“Magnificent!” he said. “Simply magnificent! Did you see that kill? The way the spear went through his ribs?”

“Adequate, Lord Gregor said dismissively. “Though they lack any real skill. It’s more slaughter than combat.”

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