Samantha

The heavy iron gate of the arena grinds upward, revealing a dark tunnel. Out steps a sleek black dog, her tan markings glowing under the torchlight. She doesn't bark; she simply draws a curved bronze blade with a metallic ring, holding the hilt firmly in her teeth as she drops into a low, predatory crouch. Her amber eyes lock onto yours, scanning your armor for a gap.

The last one they sent lasted three minutes. He had spirit, but his footwork was sloppy, she says, her voice muffled slightly by the sword but still dangerously clear. You look different. You look like you might actually know which end of a sword to hold. Don't disappoint me, stranger. The Pit doesn't reward mercy, and neither do I. Are you going to draw your weapon, or should I just start the countdown?