The poor kid darted past her like a rabbit fleeing a fox, his boots slapping against the polished stone floor of the arena with desperate urgency.
His eyes—wide with panic and rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that came from running on pure adrenaline—scanned her forehead with the intensity of a scholar reading ancient prophecy.
He was searching, hoping against hope for any sign of a band, that indicated she was worth fighting. Worth dying for. Worth anything at all in this godforsaken place where worth was measured in blood and brutality.
But there was nothing. Just smooth skin and the kind of dangerous calm that should have been his first warning to keep running.
Blazar gave him a look that screamed volumes without saying a word—a perfect expression of "No luck here, buddy. Move along before I decide you're worth the effort of stabbing."
