Gladiator of Fate

Chapter 1

Anya

The world is heat, sand, and the roar of a thousand throats. A shadow falls over me, and I roll. The brute’s war hammer crushes the spot where my head was a second ago, sending a shockwave through the packed dirt. He smells of stale beer and unearned confidence. He’s an Alpha from the Granite Tusk pack, built like a battering ram, twice my size and three times as stupid.

“Stand and fight, you little rat,” he bellows, his voice a gravelly echo in the Obsidian Arena. The crowd roars its agreement.

They hate how I fight. They paid to see a spectacle of strength, a clash of Alphas tearing each other apart with honor and fury. They get me instead. A ghost. A flicker. An Omega who refuses to die the way she is supposed to.

I rise to my feet, my twin blades held low. My breath is steady, a calm rhythm in the chaos. I let his insult wash over me. Words are just air. It is action that kills.

He charges, a mountain of muscle and rage. It’s the same move every Alpha tries. They think their size is a weapon. They are wrong. It is a target.

I do not run. I wait. The ground trembles with his approach. At the last possible second, I drop, sliding between his thick legs. The coarse sand, stained dark from a hundred prior battles, scrapes my back raw through my light leather armor. I come up behind him, a coiled spring of motion. My left blade sinks deep into the unprotected flesh behind his knee.

He howls, a sharp, surprised sound that cuts through the crowd’s cheer. He stumbles, his charge broken. He turns, his massive hammer swinging wildly in a clumsy arc meant to pulp my skull. I am already gone. My second blade finds the artery in his neck. The cut is clean, precise.

It is not glorious. It is efficient.

Blood sprays, a hot mist against my cheek. He drops his hammer with a heavy thud, his hands flying to his throat. A gurgling sound escapes him. His eyes, wide with disbelief, find mine for a single, final moment. He sees nothing there. No rage. No triumph. Just the cold, empty calm of a job finished. He collapses onto the sand, and the dust rises to meet him.

The arena falls silent. The silence is a familiar judgment. It lasts for three heartbeats. Then, a smattering of applause, which grows into a roar of approval. They do not like my methods, but they cannot deny the result. Another giant has fallen. The Omega Scrapper lives to fight another day.

I retrieve my blades, wiping them clean on the dead man’s tunic before sheathing them. I do not look at the crowd. I do not look at the enforcers dragging the body away. I turn and walk towards the fighter’s tunnel, the shouts and jeers already fading behind me. Each step is a victory. Each victory is a link in a chain I have been forging for five years.

The tunnel offers a cool reprieve from the relentless sun. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear. My lungs burn, not from exertion, but from the dust. Or maybe from the memory of smoke.

“That was a pathetic display, Scrapper.”

The voice is slick with contempt. I do not need to look to know who it is. Valerius. Alpha of the Iron Fang pack, second only to the champion in the rankings, and the most arrogant creature I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.

He leans against the damp stone wall, arms crossed over a chest plate so polished I can see my own tired reflection in it. He did not even break a sweat in his match today. His opponent was a terrified boy from the territories who barely knew how to hold a sword.

“No honor,” Valerius continues, his lip curling. “Just scurrying. Like the rat you are.”

I keep walking, my focus on the water barrel at the end of the hall. “I won, Valerius.”

“You survived,” he corrects, pushing off the wall to block my path. He stands a full head taller than me, his shadow swallowing me whole. “There is a difference. An Omega should know its place. On its knees, not in the champion’s circle.”

My hand rests on the hilt of my blade. It’s an unconscious habit. A promise. “My place is wherever I choose to stand.”

He laughs, a short, ugly sound. “You have no pack. You have no Alpha. You have nothing. You are a stray, a piece of scrap metal that the King was generous enough to let fight for our amusement. Do not forget that.”

His words are meant to sting, to remind me that I am alone. He does not know that my solitude is my armor. My past is my fire. He sees an Omega. He does not see the sole survivor of Silent Creek.

“Your pack valued strength, didn’t they, Valerius?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Big, strong Alphas to protect everyone.”

He puffs out his chest. “Of course. It is the natural order.”

“My pack valued intelligence,” I say, meeting his gaze. “We knew that the strongest walls can be brought down from the inside. We knew that the biggest beast has the softest throat.”

His smug expression flickers. He is not used to being challenged, especially not by me. “Your pack is dead. Mine stands. I think that proves which philosophy is superior.”

My knuckles are white where I grip my blade. The rage is a living thing inside me, a caged wolf that claws at my ribs. I force it down. Not here. Not with him. He is a stepping stone, an annoyance. He is not the goal.

“Move, Valerius. I’m thirsty.”

“Or what? You’ll bite my ankles?” he taunts, stepping closer. “You think that little knife trick of yours will work on a real warrior? I am not some lumbering fool from the outer rings. I would snap your spine before you even got close.”

“Then we will have to find out when the roster puts us together, won’t we?” I look past him, my expression bored. It infuriates him more than any threat could. “I’m sure it will be a very honorable fight.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for a crack in my composure. He finds none. With a final sneer, he steps aside. “Enjoy your water, Scrapper. It is all the reward a cur like you deserves.”

I walk past him without another word, my back straight, my steps even. I do not let him see how my heart hammers against my ribs. I do not let him see the tremor in my hands. I reach the water barrel and ladle a drink, the cool liquid a balm on my raw throat.

Let him think what he wants. Let them all call me Scrapper. Let them whisper that I have no honor, no pack pride. They do not understand. They see an Omega fighting for scraps, for survival. They are wrong.

I am not fighting for my life. I am fighting for his death.

Every victory, every jeer I endure, buys me another day, another fight. It pushes me one step higher up the roster. One step closer to the Grand Championship. One step closer to the royal box where the King sits on his gilded throne, watching us kill each other for his entertainment.

One step closer to King Theron.

I can still see the smoke rising from my village, a black scar against a blue sky. I can still hear the screams as the King’s legion descended. They wore the sigil of the Royal House, their armor gleaming in the sun. Theron called it a ‘pacification’ campaign. A necessary measure to bring a rogue pack to heel. I call it an extermination. They burned our homes. They slaughtered my family. My father, my mother, my brothers. Everyone.

I survived only because I was small enough to hide in the old well, listening to the world end above me.

They left me with nothing but a name to hate. King Theron. The architect of my despair.

So I fight. I bleed. I kill. I climb. All for a single moment. A chance to stand in the same room as that man, to look him in the eye as I pay him back for everything he took from me. My vengeance is a cold, hard stone in my gut. It is all I have left.

Suddenly, a blast of horns silences the entire arena complex. The sound is sharp, regal, and demanding. It is a sound reserved for only one person.

The Herald’s voice, magically amplified, booms from some unseen source, seeming to come from the very stones around me. “All hail the undefeated champion of the Obsidian Arena! The King’s Blade! The Alpha of Alphas! All hail the commander of the Crimson Legion, Prince Nolan!”

The name hits me like a physical blow. No. My blood runs cold. It cannot be.

The Crimson Legion.

The main gates to the arena floor, the ones reserved for champions and royalty, grind open at the far end of the grand plaza. A figure walks into the harsh afternoon light, clad in armor the color of midnight and dried blood. The crowd, which had been jeering and cat-calling moments before, erupts into a unified, thunderous chant of his name. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan.

He walks with an easy, predatory grace, his power a palpable aura that quiets the very air around him. He removes his helmet, tucking it under his arm. Even from this distance, I can see the sun glinting off his dark hair.

I remain in the shadows of the tunnel, my body frozen, the water ladle slipping from my numb fingers to clatter on the stone floor. The world narrows to that single, impossible figure. My memory, sharp and cruel, overlays the present with the past.

The strong jawline. The cold, gray eyes that held no pity. The face of the man who stood on the hill overlooking my burning home.

It is him.

The commander. The man who gave the orders. The butcher of Silent Creek.

The King’s son.

And I, the Omega Scrapper, just took one more step closer to him.

Chapter 2

Anya

My body is a statue carved from ice. The ladle is a distant metallic clang on the stone floor. The world is nothing but the figure in the distance, armored in blood and shadow. Nolan. Commander of the Crimson Legion. The King’s son.

He moves with the liquid grace of a predator, accepting the adulation of the crowd as if it is his birthright. Which, I suppose, it is. The man who orchestrated the end of my world is their hero.

The rage that lives in my bones, the cold stone of my vengeance, melts into something hot and liquid. It burns through my veins, a poison promising a slow death. My hand finds the hilt of my blade. It is a useless gesture. He is a hundred yards away, surrounded by guards, adoring masses, and his own lethal reputation.

My feet remain planted in the shadows of the tunnel. I am a ghost here, unseen. It is my greatest strength. I watch him, memorizing the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride. I add these details to the image already seared into my memory. The face of the monster on the hill.

“You. Scrapper.”

The voice is flat, devoid of emotion. I turn. A Royal Guard stands behind me, his armor immaculate, the King’s crest polished on his breastplate. He is everything I am not. Clean. Orderly. A cog in the machine I plan to destroy.

He jerks his head towards the plaza. “Prince Nolan summons the day’s victors to the Hall of Champions. You will present yourself.”

It is not a request. My blood runs cold again, the earlier fire extinguished by a wave of pure dread. A summons. Now. So soon. My plans, my careful, patient climb, feel like a child’s game about to be swept aside by an adult’s whim.

“Why?” The word is a croak.

The guard’s expression does not change. He looks at me like I am a piece of filth on the floor. “You do not ask the Prince why. You obey.”

He turns and walks, expecting me to follow. For a moment, I consider running. Fading back into the warren of tunnels and barracks. Disappearing. But that is the coward’s way out. That is not the path to vengeance.

My feet move, following the guard. Each step is heavy, a drumbeat marking a path to a fate I cannot predict. We leave the grime of the tunnels and enter a polished corridor. The stone under my worn boots is smooth marble. Torches in ornate sconces cast a warm, flickering light, chasing away the shadows. It smells of beeswax and power.

We arrive at two massive, carved wooden doors. The guard pushes them open without ceremony and steps aside, his posture a clear dismissal. I am on my own.

I step through. The Hall of Champions. I have only heard whispers of it. It is a grand chamber, the ceiling high and vaulted. Banners of the great packs hang from the walls, their colors vibrant. A long table laden with food and wine stands to one side, but no one is eating. A handful of other fighters, the day’s victors, are clustered together. I see the Granite Tusk Alpha I beat being helped by a healer in a corner, his face pale with blood loss and humiliation. I see Valerius, standing apart, his chest puffed out, a goblet of wine in his hand.

And I see him.

Prince Nolan stands near a large, roaring fireplace, his helmet on the mantelpiece. He has removed his gauntlets. He talks quietly with the Arena Warden, a fat, balding man whose smile is too wide. The Prince’s presence fills the room, a low thrum of authority that makes everyone else seem like a shadow.

My heart is a frantic bird beating against my ribs. I force my breathing to even out. I am the Omega Scrapper. I am a ghost. I am calm. I am death waiting for its moment.

Valerius spots me. His lip curls into its familiar sneer. “Look what the cats dragged in. I suppose even vermin must be acknowledged when they get lucky.”

I ignore him, my eyes fixed on the Prince. This is a test. All of it. I must not fail.

Nolan’s conversation with the Warden ends. The Warden bows low, scraping and backing away. The Prince turns, and his gaze sweeps the room. It passes over the other fighters, a cursory inspection. It passes over Valerius, lingering for a fraction of a second with something that looks like distaste. Then his eyes find me.

They are gray. As gray as the ash that settled over my village. As cold as the water in the well where I hid.

The world stops.

It is not a thought. It is a physical impact, like a hammer striking a tuning fork in the center of my being. A jolt of lightning shoots up my spine, white hot and shocking. The air is suddenly thick, charged with an energy I have never felt before. The smells of beeswax and wine vanish, replaced by the impossible scent of pine needles after a winter storm and the clean smell of cold stone.

For a dizzying, terrifying second, the rage in my heart is silenced by a wave of something else. Something ancient and primal. A feeling of recognition. A sense of a fractured piece of my own soul clicking into place. It is a feeling of coming home.

And it is the most horrific sensation of my life.

I see it in him, too. A flicker. His gray eyes widen almost imperceptibly. The hand resting on the hilt of his sword clenches, his knuckles turning white. A muscle in his jaw tightens. It is there and gone in a single heartbeat, his mask of command slamming back into place. But I saw it. He felt it.

This cannot be. The Fates are crueler than I ever imagined.

A fated mate bond. Here. Now. With him.

With the man I have sworn to kill.

He takes a step towards me. The pull is a physical thing, a thick cord tightening between us, begging me to close the distance. My every instinct screams to obey. My rage, my grief, my vengeance, all scream louder to tear him apart. The war inside me is so violent it makes me feel sick.

He stops a few feet away. Close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes. Close enough that the impossible scent of pine and winter is overwhelming. It should smell like smoke and death.

“You are the Omega Scrapper,” he says. His voice is a low baritone, calm and controlled. It carries no trace of the shock I saw in his eyes.

I force my own voice to be steady. A shard of ice. “I am.”

“Your victory today was… efficient,” he states. He is watching me, his gaze intense, analytical. He is looking for a crack, the same way I look for weakness in my opponents.

“Efficiency keeps me alive, Your Highness.” The title tastes like poison on my tongue.

Valerius chooses that moment to swagger forward, eager to be noticed. “She has no honor, my Prince. She fights like a cornered animal, not a warrior.”

Nolan’s eyes do not leave mine. “And yet, she stands here a victor, and her opponent does not. There is a lesson in that, Valerius. Perhaps you should consider it.”

The dismissal is sharp and cold. Valerius flushes, taking a step back as if struck. He opens his mouth, then closes it, retreating into the shadows with the other fighters.

The Prince’s attention is solely on me again. The bond hums between us, a terrible, silent song only we can hear. It is a catastrophic liability. A chain I never asked for, shackling me to my greatest enemy. This is not a gift from the Fates. It is a curse. The ultimate betrayal.

For him, I cannot guess. I see the conflict in the tight line of his mouth. Does he feel the same horror? This complication, this omega tribute fighter who is somehow his other half. It must be a stain on his perfect, royal existence.

“They tell me you have no pack,” he continues, his voice quieter now, for me alone.

“My pack is gone.” The words are flat. Dead.

“And your name?”

Why does he want my name? Is it not enough to be the Omega Scrapper? A nameless piece of chattel for the arena. “My name is Anya.”

He says my name, a soft whisper of sound that should not be audible over the crackling fire, but I hear it perfectly. “Anya.”

The bond flares at the sound of my name on his lips. A warmth spreads through my chest, a treacherous heat that I immediately try to smother. I clench my fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. The small pain is an anchor in a sea of madness.

“You fight with skill,” he says, his gaze dropping to my twin blades. “But you are alone. That is a dangerous way to live in this place.”

Is it a threat? A warning? An observation? I cannot read him. “I have survived this long.”

“Survival is not the same as victory.” He says it quietly, the words echoing Valerius’s earlier sentiment but holding an entirely different weight. He takes another half step closer. The pull is agonizing. My body wants to yield, to lean into his orbit. My soul wants to gut him and watch the life fade from his cold, gray eyes.

“What is it you want, Your Highness?” I ask, my voice hard. I need this to end. I need to be away from him before this cursed bond makes me do something insane. Like scream. Or cry. Or lower my guard.

He holds my gaze for a long time. I see a universe of calculations happening behind his eyes. He is a commander on a battlefield, assessing a new and unexpected threat. Or perhaps, an asset. The thought is chilling.

“For now,” he says finally, his voice returning to its formal, commanding tone. “I want to see what you do next. Do not disappoint me.”

He turns his back on me then, a clear dismissal. He moves back towards the fireplace, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the Hall of Champions. The invisible cord between us stretches, taut and painful. The other fighters watch me, their expressions a mixture of confusion, jealousy, and fear.

I do not give them the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. I turn, my back ramrod straight, and walk out of the hall. I do not run. I walk through the clean corridors, back to the grime and shadows of the lower levels. Back to the stench of blood and fear that feels more honest, more like home, than the perfumed air of that gilded cage.

I do not stop until I am in my own small, windowless cell in the barracks. I slide the bolt on the door and lean against the rough wood, finally letting out a breath I did not realize I was holding.

My hands are shaking. Not from fear, but from a rage so profound it threatens to tear me apart from the inside. Fate has not just dealt me a bad hand. It has chained me to the axe-man. It has bound my soul to the monster who haunts my every waking moment.

I look at my reflection in a shard of polished metal I use as a mirror. The same determined face stares back, but something is different. There is a new terror in my eyes. A new complication. My mission has not changed. I will see King Theron dead. I will see his entire bloodline erased.

But now, my vengeance has a new, terrible price. To kill the father, I must first get past the son. My fated mate. The butcher of Silent Creek.

Chapter 3

Nolan

I dismiss the last of the guards from my private chambers. The heavy oak door clicks shut, the sound a final, damning seal on my solitude. I lean my forehead against the cool wood, the silence of the room a roaring in my ears.

Anya.

Her name is a brand on my soul. My mate. The Fates have a truly venomous sense of humor.

I push away from the door and stalk across the opulent rug, the fine silks of my station feeling like a shroud. A decanter of wine sits on a polished table, its ruby contents catching the light from the hearth. I pour a goblet, my hand steady despite the tremor in my spirit. The wine tastes like ash.

Pine needles after a winter storm. Cold stone. That is what she smells like. It is the scent of the mountains near Silent Creek. The home I burned to the ground.

The victory, my father called it. A pacification. I stand in the center of my gilded cage and remember the smoke. I remember the orders I gave, my voice sounding like a stranger’s. I remember the look in my legionaries’ eyes, some eager, some sickened. I remember the silence that came after the screams.

For five years, that silence has been my constant companion. A ghost at my table. A shadow in my bed. I told myself I was doing what was necessary. Playing the long game. Earning my father's trust so that one day I could dismantle his cruel empire from the inside. A necessary evil to achieve a greater good.

Then I looked into her eyes. Eyes the color of a stormy sky. And I felt the bond snap into place, a chain forged in the very fires I had set.

There is a knock at the door. Not the heavy rap of a guard, but a lighter, more precise tap.

“Enter, Marcus,” I say, not turning.

The door opens and my captain of the guard steps inside. He is a decade older than me, his face a roadmap of old battles, his loyalty absolute. He is the only man I trust, and even he does not know the whole truth.

“My Prince,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You wished for the report.”

“I did.” I turn to face him, my expression a mask of command I have worn since I was a boy. “The Omega Scrapper. Tell me everything you have on her.”

Marcus holds my gaze, a flicker of curiosity in his professional calm. “Her given name is Anya. Sole survivor of the Silent Creek pack. She was brought in with the other war orphans five years ago. Sent to the tribute training pits when she came of age.”

Each word is a hammer blow. Sole survivor. My actions orphaned her, then my father’s system enslaved her. The guilt is a physical weight, pressing down, threatening to crush me.

“She has twenty-seven sanctioned victories,” Marcus continues, oblivious to my internal war. “Her kill count is higher than any other fighter in the lower tiers. She specializes in targeting larger opponents, using speed and anatomical precision. The bookmakers love her. The odds on her are always long, and she always upsets them.”

“The other fighters?”

“They despise her. Valerius in particular. He sees her as an affront to the natural order. An omega who refuses to be subservient. He has tried to have her… disciplined in the barracks. Unsuccessfully.”

A low growl rumbles in my chest. A possessive, protective rage that is entirely new. The bond. It demands her safety. It roars at the thought of Valerius laying a hand on her.

“Unsuccessfully?” I ask, keeping my voice level.

“The three fighters he sent to her cell ended up in the infirmary. One with a broken wrist, another with a shattered kneecap, and the last with a blade through his shoulder. She claimed they tripped.”

A ghost of a smile touches my lips. Of course she did. She is a survivor. A warrior forged in the ashes of the life I took from her.

“She has no allies?” I press.

“None. She trains alone. Eats alone. She speaks to no one unless required. A ghost, the others call her. Until she is in the sand. Then she is a demon.”

My ghost. My demon. My mate.

“Thank you, Marcus. That will be all. Have the Warden send me the upcoming fight rosters for the week. I wish to review them personally.”

“My Prince?” Marcus raises an eyebrow. I never concern myself with the lower-tier rosters. It is beneath the Champion.

“The quality of the fights has been poor,” I lie smoothly. “My father has commented on it. I want to ensure the crowd is getting a proper spectacle.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” He bows and retreats, closing the door behind him.

I walk to the large armored window that overlooks the training grounds. From here, I am invisible, a shadow looking down from the Champion’s tower. The sun is setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and blood. The main grounds are empty, but in one of the smaller, private sandpits, a lone figure moves.

Anya.

She is practicing. Even after a victory, even as night falls. She moves through a sequence of attacks and parries against an invisible foe. Her twin blades are a blur, an extension of her body. She is all grace and lethality, a dancer in a discipline of death. She is beautiful.

She stumbles. Her foot slips in the deep sand during a complex spinning maneuver. She falls to one knee, her chest heaving. She stays there for a moment, her head bowed. Frustration radiates from her, a palpable wave of energy.

I watch her, my hand pressed against the cold, unyielding glass. The protective urge is a fire in my blood. It whispers to me. Go to her. Help her. Claim her. Protect her.

But I cannot. My touch would be a brand, my presence a death sentence. If my father ever discovered the bond between us, he would have her killed without a second thought. Not out of jealousy, but out of cold, political calculation. An Omega from a traitor pack as a mate to the Prince? He would see it as a weakness. A stain to be scoured clean.

She pushes herself back to her feet. She does not look up. She does not rest. She takes a deep breath, resets her stance, and begins the sequence again. Flawlessly this time.

I watch her for a long time, until the last of the light fades and she is just a silhouette against the darkening sand. She is more than a victim of my past. She is more than a complication to my plans. She is a force of nature, a quiet storm of defiance in the heart of my father’s corrupt world.

The bond is not a curse. It is not a chain.

It is a sign.

A sign that my rebellion, my quiet war against my father, is no longer just about rectifying my own sins. It is about building a world where a woman like her does not have to fight for scraps in a bloody arena. A world worthy of her strength. A world where she can be safe.

My resolve hardens into something unbreakable. I am the King’s Blade. I am the commander who butchered her people. I am her fated mate. And I will keep her safe, even if I have to burn this whole kingdom down to do it. Especially if she hates me for it.

My path forward is no longer shrouded in shadow. It is illuminated by the fire in a lone Omega’s soul. And I will not fail her. I cannot. The thought of a world without her in it is an emptiness I refuse to entertain.