From the shadowed underbelly of the coliseum, behind thick iron bars, six pairs of eyes tracked the impending clash.
Valkira stood tall, arms folded, the flicker of a smirk playing at her lips. Beside her, Lysara leaned forward, knuckles white on the bars, sharp-eyed and expectant. Aelric said nothing, his face unreadable, though his gaze remained fixed on the two figures in the ring. Even Brusk and his gang had gathered—leaning, jeering, watching—with wolfish grins and mocking laughter bubbling in their throats.
In the arena's center, Caelvir stood barefoot, his ribs protruding sharply against pale, malnourished skin. His right hand clutched a dagger—more ceremonial than lethal—and his stance was loose, uncertain, more survival than skill. He looked like a man forced onto a stage not meant for him.
Facing him was Seren.
Her body was lean but coiled with power, muscle taut beneath sun-bronzed skin. Her sword, held in her right hand, angled slightly forward—a natural extension of her. Her stance was low, poised, silent. She radiated confidence, her breathing even, her eyes locked on her prey.
A heavy silence pressed on the crowd.
Then—BWAAAAAAM.
The arena horn thundered.
Seren didn't hesitate. Her legs moved instantly—smooth and explosive. She surged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, each footstep devouring the distance between them. Sand scattered beneath her boots. The crowd barely had time to react.
Caelvir flinched.
His body turned, stumbling backward, trying to create space. He circled left, his eyes wide, dagger held low, more like a child clutching a stick than a warrior bracing for battle.
Seren advanced, eyes hard. No wasted movement. Her approach was surgical. Precise. Calculated. She moved like someone who'd killed before and would kill again.
Caelvir stumbled, trying to keep distance—ten feet, eight, six...
Four feet.
Seren jumped.
Her sword cut through the air with a terrifying hiss, a downward arc slicing for Caelvir's shoulder.
Caelvir twisted.
It wasn't skill. It was instinct, panic, and raw luck. He dropped to the ground and rolled—an awkward, almost clumsy somersault that barely got him out of the way. The blade missed by a hair's breadth, the wind of it raking his cheek as he came up just beside her.
Sand caked his elbows. He was scrambling, not standing.
Seren didn't stop. Her momentum pivoted beautifully, a dancer's grace turned brutal. She spun with the precision of a professional killer, her blade flashing again before he could fully rise.
Caelvir kicked backward, sliding in the sand. Her sword plunged into the spot where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier.
She came again. Strike. Strike. Another.
Caelvir writhed on the ground, twisting, rolling, desperately shifting left, then right—any direction that might prolong his life by another second. Her blade slashed through air, missing by inches. One slice clipped his calf. Another nicked his hip. He was a rabbit in a snare, dodging death by sheer frantic movement.
Finally—miraculously—he found his feet.
But only to turn and run.
He limped forward, broken and wild. His strides were weak, uneven, his body betraying him with every step. The days without food showed—each joint brittle, each breath labored. His back was a canvas of scars, his legs sticks beneath a swaying torso.
Seren followed.
Her pace was calm, controlled. Her sword was steady at her side. She wasn't even out of breath. Her muscles worked like a well-oiled machine—each step full of purpose. Even in her slender frame, there was deadly strength. Her body may have looked delicate, but next to Caelvir's, she was a force of nature.
The crowd began to jeer.
"Fight like a man!"
"Stop playing hide and seek!"
"Run, little rabbit, RUN!"
Brusk roared with laughter. "You're running from a woman, Caelvir? What next, you'll piss yourself too?"
Valkira's voice was calm and satisfied. "He knows he's already lost."
Lysara smiled coldly. "Smart prey runs. Until it runs out of space."
That moment came quickly.
Caelvir reached the edge of the arena. Beyond him was a wide moat that surrounded the fighting pit, its black water sloshing gently against the stone. There was nowhere left to flee.
He turned.
His back was to the moat. Sand clung to his sweaty skin. His dagger trembled in his grip.
Seren slowed.
Her steps became cautious, sword raised, feet shifting in anticipation of a trap—even though none would come. Her eyes narrowed, watching him carefully. She could smell the fear now. She could feel the end.
"It's over," she said.
She lunged.
Steel flashed. Caelvir dodged—but too late.
The blade bit into his left side. A scream ripped from his throat, high and sharp. Blood sprayed the sand, blooming red in the golden dust. He staggered, trying to pivot away—but his dagger slipped from his weakening grip and spun once before splashing into the moat.
Unarmed.
Wounded.
He stumbled and dropped to a knee. Seren didn't wait.
She slammed her boot into his ribs, forcing him down flat on his back. He groaned, his arms flailing weakly at her leg—but she was far too strong. His body was too thin, too hollow, like flesh stretched over broken scaffolding.
She raised her sword.
Both hands gripped the hilt.
Her blade angled down, aimed at his chest, ready to drive straight into his heart.
And the crowd erupted.
"Kill him! Kill him! KILL HIM!"
"Finish it!"
Valkira smiled, her eyes glittering. "That's my girl."
Lysara's voice was almost affectionate. "Such beautiful efficiency."
Brusk scoffed. "Beaten by a woman. Pathetic. I guess his only real skill is beating kids."
Only Aelric spoke with any compassion.
"Inexperience is a cruel teacher," he muttered. "No matter how fierce the will."
Back in the arena, Seren stood above her broken opponent.
Caelvir lay beneath her, ribs rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His wrists moved weakly, the rest of his body pinned by her presence alone. Her sword hovered above his chest, the sunlight glinting off its razor edge.
There was no escape.
Only judgment.
Only silence before the storm.
Just as Seren's blade dipped toward his chest, Caelvir's hand shot down into the sand. In a single desperate motion, he clenched a fistful of the burning grit and flung it upward.
Seren cried out, reeling back instinctively as the coarse grains struck her eyes. Pain lanced through her face like needles. She staggered, blinking furiously, vision clouded by the stinging sand.
That was all the opening Caelvir needed.
With a guttural growl, he twisted beneath her, ribs screaming in protest, and rolled hard to the side. Seren's boot slammed into the ground with a dull thud, missing his chest by inches. The blow would've crushed his sternum.
But he was free.
She turned blindly, swiping her sword in a wide arc, but he was already crawling, dragging his broken body through the sand like a wounded animal. His breath came in gasps. Each motion sent fresh waves of pain searing through his side. Blood oozed from the wound in his ribs, trickling down his pale torso.
Still, he forced himself upright. Muscles spasmed beneath skin stretched tight over bone. He had no strength left. Only fury. Only instinct.
He lunged.
Seren turned just a fraction too late. Her eyes were still squinted shut, her lashes clumped with grit. She raised her sword, but Caelvir collided with her full-force, their bodies slamming together. They crashed to the ground in a tangled heap.
The crowd erupted into a roar of confusion and outrage.
"Cheap trick!"
"Coward!"
"He threw sand! He threw sand! Are you joking?!"
Even beneath the arena, Valkira's voice rang sharp with disgust. "Filthy tactics."
Lysara scowled, arms crossed. "Pathetic. He's already lost."
On the sand, Seren thrashed, twisting under Caelvir's weight. But his weight was barely enough to pin her. His legs trembled as he straddled her midsection, clutching at her sword arm with one hand while the other clawed for the weapon.
She blinked, gritting her teeth against the burning in her eyes.
Caelvir was too slow.
With a grunt, she bucked her hips, driving her knee up into his ribs. He let out a strangled cry and faltered. That was all she needed.
Her hands shot forward, seizing both of his wrists in one powerful grip. His arms were wiry, bones more prominent than muscle, and she locked them together with ease—his thin wrists vanishing in her fist. He might as well have been a child.
She rolled, a sharp twist of her torso flipping their positions with brutal efficiency.
Now she was on top.
Her thighs pinned his hips, her knees digging into the sand on either side of his waist. The sword clattered just beyond her reach, but she didn't need it—not yet. Not when he was so weak.
Caelvir writhed beneath her, trying to buck her off, but it was like trying to dislodge a boulder. She held his wrists fast in her left hand, forcing them down onto his chest, the tendons in his forearms twitching uselessly.
His breath came in shallow bursts. Blood ran freely from his side, pooling in the sand. The effort of the last move had drained him dry.
Seren didn't need her eyes anymore. She could feel every inch of his body beneath her—tense, fragile, failing.
The crowd sensed the shift in power instantly.
"Kill him!""End it!""Break him!"
"Finish it!" Valkira shouted again, voice sharp with pride.
Brusk's cackle echoed like a crack of thunder. "Look at him now! Pinned by a little girl!"
Even Aelric's voice was grim. "There's only so much one arm can do," he seemed disappointed.
Caelvir's chest heaved, and for a heartbeat, his eyes met hers again—fear and defiance flickering in the hollows of his gaze.
But her grip was iron. His wrists were locked, his legs trapped beneath her. He had no leverage, no strength left to push her off. Her silhouette above him was backlit by the sun, a faceless executioner poised for the final stroke.
And the crowd chanted louder.
"Kill him! Kill him! KILL HIM!"
Seren's breathing steadied. Her free hand inched toward the sword, her body unmoving, her weight crushing down into his hips like a closing vice.
There was no escape. Not anymore.