Aiden Knight's POV
The arena fell into a silence so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. Or rather, what should have been my heartbeat. The rhythm felt wrong, too slow and too powerful, like the pulse of something far older than my twenty-three years.
Vincent Finch's remains were scattered across the platform like broken pottery. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, but somehow none of it had touched me. I stood in the center of the carnage as clean as if I'd just stepped from a bath.
Twenty thousand spectators stared in stunned horror. Many had their hands pressed over their mouths. Others looked ready to vomit. A few had already fled toward the exits, pushing through the crowds in blind panic.
But I wasn't looking at them. My attention was fixed on the man at the edge of the platform.
