The wild cheering escalated to a thunder that made Robin dizzy. Grimly, she reflected that she'd fully anticipated dying at some point in this deranged venture, but she hadn't expected the exquisite grisliness of being presented with a ticket to the event. ("A souvenir for you!" the vendor had told her, beaming, when he'd dropped it off at her holding cell.)

Six hours and no breakfast later, she was standing on the raked sand of what could have been a sports arena if not for the huge metal gates locking her inescapably into the ring. She squinted into the sun and awkwardly adjusted the borrowed shield hanging on her arm. She was absolutely sure it wouldn't save her. Azarath's goons had helpfully returned her own sword to her for the day, but even its familiar weight couldn't settle her jangled nerves.

Part of the nervousness had to with exactly how familiar the sword was becoming in her hand. Robin was uncomfortably aware that she had what might be called a gift with it. There was a ferocious and deadly elegance in her stroke that no teenager from the modern world should have had. It likely had a lot to do with why she was still alive. All the same, it terrified her. She didn't belong here—every whistle and jeer from the stands above made her surer of that. Sometime in the past weeks, she'd learned how to be dangerous, but underneath she was still just a teenager, still just a scared seventeen-year-old with a piece of sharp metal in her hand.

Her grip on her sword tightened to white-knuckled as Azarath stood and held up his arms. The silence rippled out over the stadium, and the sudden vacuum of five thousand people seemingly holding their breaths made Robin's head ring even more.

For interminably long moments, he said nothing, and what was left of her sanity started to fray. The silence became deafening. When he spoke, finally, his voice felt like sandpaper on her skin. "There are no rules here save one," he said, and somehow the words carried as clearly as if he'd spoken beside her ear. "The victor is the one left alive." She felt a shiver crawl up her spine, even in the glaring heat.

"Whichever combatant wins here shall win his freedom," Azarath finished, and Robin swallowed hard as the echo of his voice rang and died. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to loosen her sword in its scabbard, and the strap of her shield felt sweat-soaked and far too tight. She had a growing suspicion that the shield would be the death of her.

She forced herself to focus, replaying Azarath's words in her mind as she'd heard them. No rules here. The one left alive. Win his freedom. She turned the last word into a prayer, chanting it to herself as she adjusted and readjusted her fingers on her sword hilt. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

Slowly, Robin began to feel ever so slightly more determined. It was insane, this whole thing, but she'd done plenty of insane things since arriving in this bewildering fantasy world. She'd beaten enemies twice her size—beaten them with the very sword currently banging at her hip.

As she told herself that nothing was impossible in this place, the gate facing her seemed less towering, the shadows and the unknown adversary they concealed less terrifying. Yes, she decided, she had a chance here. An absolutely infinitesimal chance, but a chance all the same. And really, what's the worst that could happen? she thought with caustic sarcasm.

Robin stood straighter and willed her hands to unclench. She could feel five thousand pairs of eyes boring into her, Azarath's among them. His black gaze was unnerving even across the distance.

"Robin of Andais," he said, and the formal address sounded like an insult. "Lady Hero." Derisive laughter rumbled from the audience. "Are you prepared to die?"

She didn't answer, more out of a certainty that her voice would crack than any desire to make a last defiant gesture. Instead she lifted her chin and drew her sword.

Azarath laughed then, and it was very nearly the worst thing she had heard all day. The sound made her want to crawl inside her skin. "Very well, Lady Hero," he said. At a gesture from him, the gate opened with a groan of metal to reveal a lone hooded figure. He was tall and slender, and he moved with a predatory ease that made Robin's mind flash to lions and tigers. Dimly, her head began to pound.

Freedom, she thought almost savagely, and when Azarath leaned forward, something warm and sure surged through her limbs. She raised her sword and felt no fear.

"Let it begin," Azarath roared, and the crowd roared with him, and the man reached up to pull his hood away. And then she staggered and nearly fell, because it was Matthew standing there with a sword at his side—Matthew she had to fight—Matthew, her companion, her friend.

Robin wanted to scream, but her voice had died, and it didn't matter, really, because he was stalking towards her with a sword glinting coldly in his hand and she was frozen fast to the sand. The sea-green eyes she knew so well were dark, unfathomable. And then he was before her, his face at once familiar and completely unfamiliar—he smiled, and she recoiled unthinkingly. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong.

"Hello, Robin," he said, and down came the sword.