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“Casseth Fedele.”

Detraeus frowned, his attention locking and narrowing on the man across from him. Igvad was not a tall man, nor was he much of anything in excess. Slim. Angular. Plain. A dovaa, though without color distinction Detraeus had yet to guess which clan he identified with. From behind the large wooden desk that currently separated the two of them, he reminded Detraeus of an oversized rodent assuming the position of reigning monarch of the underground burrow that was Veinrith Stadium.

Aloud, Detraeus said only: “Casseth is my friend.”

“He is also…” Igvad stood with a scraping creak of his chair against the panelled flooring and tapped the base of a stack of heavily lettered papers to his desk as he did, “…your next opponent. And a hybrid. I trust that will not be an issue?”

Given the stadium’s unspoken of policy, Detraeus knew all too well how to read into the question its intended meaning, and he snorted, only just curbing the urge to spit. “Handicap him, and I’ll throw the match.”

Igvad’s eyes darted up, shifting from dull and distracted to sharp and piercing as fast as a blink. “This establishment does not respond favorably to threats—”

“And I gave it none.” Detraeus shifted his weight, turning and moving towards the door. “Only information, to do with what you will.”

“I am surprised you still consider him a ‘friend’.”

The words gave Detraeus pause, one hand on latch.

“That is, considering your attitude towards the fairest of Magesc’s races…”

Shoving down the sickening hop-lurch of his gut at the words, Detraeus sneered and opened the door.

“Or hasn’t he told you…?”

The crack of the door being snapped too roughly shut cut out whatever words might have followed. Detraeus didn’t know what Igvad could possibly think he was talking about — as far as he knew, Casseth had had no dealings with birds at all — but whatever the man had planned on saying, he could guess well enough by now that it would likely be all or part of an elaborate fallacy designed to needle its way under his skin and get him to react in a more favorable manner. Detraeus didn’t need lies to help him fight Cas, and he certainly wanted nothing to do with stories spun to damage his relationship with his friend.

He could defeat Casseth without handicaps, and that was how he preferred it.

“Off.”

Two pairs of eyes and one set of empty sockets focussed on Detraeus at the word, and before so much as a word was spoken between them, he had to curb the itch to reach for his bow.

Shoot him.

Shoot the feathered thing.

COWARD.

Kill the bird.

The orderite narrowed his eyes a fraction, stretching his wings — shoot, shoot it now, KILL IT — and then tilted his head as he backed off, the edges of his lips curling up like burning paper with his smile. “Well, well, well…if it isn’t the ‘bird killer’ himself…a little shorter up close than I expected, but…” He shrugged. “Life’s full of disappointments, I guess. And maybe it’s convenient for you, right? Are you in on your hybrid cocksucker’s little—”

Detraeus initiated.

Despite starting, unfortunately, he wound up taking a fist to the gut before landing any punches, but followed up shortly thereafter with the burying of his tail’s teeth into something that caused the orderite to snarl. The proceedings after were messy, painful, but quickly interrupted. With a sharp crack, a pulse of magic from one of the mediating guards sent the opposing ‘teams’ of men stumbling backwards towards opposite walls.

“Enough. Save your energy for the arena unless you all want suspension. You,” the guard pointed to Detraeus, “and you…” an indication towards Casseth, “…your fight is in fifteen. Find your way to the elevators.”

Detraeus grimaced, wiping blood from his lip as he glanced to Cas and frowned. Blood. Small, but visible. The orderite had successfully nicked him in the stomach somewhere along the line. Fortunately, it looked minimal at best. He opened his mouth, considered, and then shut it again, notching his head towards the door.

“We’ll pray with your water b***h, hybrid. Would be a pity if he had to watch you gutted by your other other boyfriend.”

Detraeus stilled in his tracks, only managing to force himself out at the guiding push of Casseth’s hand and a murmur of what sounded like, “Not worth it. C’mon.”

Detraeus sneered all the same, his mind turning over the events as they progressed down the hallway. “Stupid. Desperate. I don’t understand…if they cared what you put your d**k in, they would know you take only women…”

Detraeus froze. His gut knotted, giving a tight, sickening lurch. Casseth was not saying what he thought he was. It was a misunderstanding. Surely. Casseth couldn’t possibly want—

He bit his tongue, resisting the urge to bunch his fists and forcibly shoving down the dread — the images — barely managing not to spit. “Explain.”

‘He tricked you.’

Detraeus’ first thought was that somehow, some way, the dovaa must have manipulated Casseth. Detraeus had known there was something wrong with him all along. His doting ‘friendship’ bordered on obsession, and he should have known—

But Casseth had seemed normal. Seemed normal currently. Acted like this was…somehow…

Detraeus felt his gut lurch again, his pulse stuttering up into his throat. He grit his teeth, scratching at his skin and shoving down the wave of dizzying nausea. Fine. He was fine. He—

Couldn’t look at Cas.

Couldn’t think about this right now. After bunching his fists, breathing, and releasing, he turned, and left, heading at a clipped pace towards his loading elevator, wings flitting restlessly and tail lashing back and forth, like an aggravated feline. Later. He would think about this later. He couldn’t afford to now.

Casseth simply had to be lying.

It was a joke.

A terrible, disgusting lie.

They could talk about it later.

After slamming the bars of his elevator shut behind him, Detraeus had to forcibly curb the desire to crouch in place as the platform began to move. Curl up. Shut his eyes. Wretch. Wash. Claw at his skin until anything and everything was scraped away. Instead, he folded his arms, nails digging into his forearms until the skin broke and bled.

That.

He could focus on that. Pain and blood were simple enough. As the gate to his elevator opened onto the stadium, he unholstered his bow and stepped into the arena.

The crowd boomed. White noise, to the backdrop of Detraeus’ pulse, and he fingered an arrow, feeling the vibrations of Avarice’s magic within the bell of the bow, rippling in anticipation. Proud. Eager.

He breathed in the scent of the stadium, and sent up a prayer to his goddess. ‘Mother, grant me strength, patience, and precision, that I may focus on the task at hand and bring honor to your name. Let not the vices and licentious depravities of those who would share my company detract from my function as the blade that fights in your name and the arrow in the heart of your enemies. Never may I falter, ‘til my body draws its final breath.’

By the time he finished, he stood before Casseth, separated by the measured distance of their starting lines. Under other circumstances, he likely would have noticed something off then and there. In retrospect, he would remember the odd nature of his gait — weighted, and off-balance somehow — the way way he blinked more than normal and looked as though he was expending extra effort to keep himself stable. In that moment, though, Detraeus saw only the face of a man he no longer knew how precisely to catagorize.

One of those men.

But he couldn’t be.

He was Casseth.

The conflict made Detraeus’ mind turn circles and gut tie knots that he didn’t have time to unravel. For now, all he had to do was fight. The instant the starting signal sounded, Detraeus beat his wings, sweeping sidelong and putting fifty paces between them. Mid-motion, he fired.

Detraeus stared. Weak. Even without magic of his own, after sparring and training with Casseth for as long as he had, he knew the spell was weak. It barely took the arrow and crumpled moments after. If that hadn’t been enough, though, his second arrow almost hit Cas, the hybrid not even bothering to throw up a shield. Gritting his teeth, Detraeus beat his wings again, this time launching himself up as he drew.

He fired at Casseth’s feet, no longer aiming to hit, but instead simply instigating him to at least move. Was it that he was upset? Hurt by Detraeus’ own upset? Distracted? Detraeus grimaced, drew, and fired again, watching Casseth stumble and stagger back. Halfway into drawing another arrow, though, some of the anger in Detraeus petered out — forcibly replaced by something more rational as the facts clicked together into a recognizable whole: concern.

Casseth wasn’t toying with him. He wasn’t merely being lazy or distracted. He was barely keeping himself upright.

Swearing profusely, Detraeus moved, and dropped, throwing his bow at Casseth’s feet as soon as he landed and reaching immediately out to grip Casseth’s shoulder. “Who poisoned you?” he demanded, half shaking Cas as he did. “What did they do to you? I told them not to touch you or I would throw this match — if you let them—”

Detraeus’ world narrowed, the edges blurring out as his focus honed in with the eerie, dazed mental distance of a dreamstate. He saw Casseth, temporarily, as though watching the scene from a third party perspective, entirely separated from the present moment and simply spectating.

Wings.

One oblivionite wing, and one mottled, feathered thing that caught the air, holding Casseth upright like a safety net.

Detraeus felt his gut drop and his pulse jolt simultaneously. He felt his breath become coarse and tight in his throat, and his limbs shake as he took a step back, head shifting side to side in hollow, empty disbelief — denial — as though that might change something. Liar. Liar…

Liar.

His fingers found the hilt of one of the swords at his hip, and he lifted his gaze to Casseth’s face. “You lied to me…”

“Detraeus—”

“You. Lied. To me…”

“You don’t under—”

“Do you know what I did to the last bird I fought here?” Detraeus drew his blades, and Casseth took an unstable step back. “Do you know what I have done to every piece of filth and cowardice that Seren has ever dared let stand before me here?”

“Det—”

“Run,” Detraeus said. “Or fight, or I swear to my mother goddess, I will slaughter you where you stand.” He waited, watching Casseth sway, and his limbs shook, fury, desperation, grief. “RUN!”

He swung, slicing into Casseth’s side, and around them, the crowds began to pick up in noise, a familiar chant rising above the rest: “Kill him!” — “Kill him!” — “Kill him!” Detraeus swung again, driving Casseth back, and back, and back, desperately trying to induce him into fighting. But the poison was taking greater effect with every step. He shoved, snarled, and screamed until Casseth’s legs gave, toppling out from beneath him and bringing him to his knees, swaying, bleeding, and coated in the tarnished grime and sand of the stadium floor.

Detraeus felt sick as he loomed over him, grip shaking on his blades and throat burning. “I kill them. I kill every one of them. I butcher their heads from heads from their necks and leave their corpses to soak in their blood—everyone born with a drop of Seren’s acid heritage deserves to drown in their own blood, but you —you…how could you…? You were my friend…my only friend—I TRUSTED you!”

When he shoved, Casseth toppled, his breathing labored, wings twitching, and Detraeus was forgetting how to breath as well as his limbs quivered.

“I trusted you…and you betrayed me. I would have died for you…” Detraeus raised his blade, touching the tip to Casseth’s throat. “And I should kill you…” Casseth’s feathers quivered, and stilled, and in the moment that Detraeus’ gut chilled with raw fear that the poison had already taken too much effect for Casseth’s life to be spared, he swore, lifted, and swung the blade hard, burying it deep in the sand. He yanked the black dagger at his hip — Casseth’s gift dagger — free from its belt, and tossed it beside Cas. “Never come near me again,” he said, spitting at the earth, and then pivoting back towards his bow.

After retrieving it, he left the stadium without a glance backwards.