Inside the carriage, the heavy velvet curtains are pulled tight as a seal. Cain rides at the head on his tall warhorse. The harsh morning light pares his lean silhouette down to a blade fresh from the forge. The arena squats in a valley beyond the city walls. Twenty minutes later, the roar of the crowd threatens to blow the roof off the carriage. A circular coliseum of black basalt. Pine torches lash and spit in the high wind. The air is a rancid cocktail of cheap perfume, cured leather, and the bitter musk of un-channeled male hormones. A sticky, suffocating arena stink. A guard yanks back the chain to the VIP tier. My seat is the most exposed in the house. Left of the dais. Three empty chairs to my right. Then Selena
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