Lessons in Blood

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Evan Kael's ears as he and Lysa were shoved back into the holding pen, the iron gate clanging shut behind them. His chest heaved, sweat stinging the cuts on his hands, the sand from their first arena fight clinging to his skin like a gritty second hide. The adrenaline hadn't faded yet—his pulse thrummed with the memory of steel clashing, the wiry man's howl as his blade bit flesh, Lysa's quick strike sealing their victory. They'd won, survived, and the crowd had loved it, their cheers a hungry roar that shook the stands. But victory didn't mean rest—not here.

Lysa slumped against the bars beside him, her breath ragged, her tunic streaked with sweat and a smear of someone else's blood. She wiped her brow with her sleeve, leaving a fresh streak of dirt across her forehead, and shot him a tired grin. "Still in one piece, Kael?"

"Barely," he said, returning the grin despite the ache in his shoulder where the woman's shield had grazed him. He flexed his hand around the short sword they'd let him keep—for now—its iron warm from his grip. "You?"

"Good enough," she replied, rolling her neck with a faint wince. Her hair, tangled and wild, caught the torchlight filtering through the pen, a flicker of fire against the gloom. "Crowd liked us. That's something."

"Liked us enough to keep us alive," he said, leaning against the bars next to her. The metal was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from his skin, and he let it ground him. "Guess we're not total failures."

She snorted, a quick, dry laugh that eased the tension knotting his gut. "Not yet. Give it time."

Before he could reply, the gate rattled, and a guard—the one with the limp and missing ear—stepped in, his club tapping against his thigh. "Lady Veyra wants you," he growled, jerking his head toward the tunnel. "Move it."

Evan exchanged a look with Lysa, her green eyes narrowing but her stance steadying. They'd barely caught their breath, but arguing wasn't an option. He pushed off the bars, falling in step beside her as the guard led them out of the pen and into the underbelly of the arena. The tunnel was narrow, its stone walls damp and streaked with grime, the air thick with the tang of blood and oil. Their boots scuffed the floor, a quiet rhythm against the distant hum of the crowd still lingering above.

The guard brought them to a chamber off the main passage, smaller than the pen but heavier with purpose. Racks of weapons lined the walls—swords, axes, spears, all worn but sharper than the rusted junk from the slave pit. Lady Veyra stood in the center, her crimson cloak a stark slash against the gray stone, her staff tapping rhythmically on the floor. The crystal at its tip pulsed faintly, casting shifting shadows across her angular face, and her gray eyes locked onto them as they entered, cold and piercing.

"You two," she said, her voice smooth but edged, like a blade dipped in honey. "Not bad out there. The crowd ate it up—two against two, scrappy and raw. It's a good hook."

Evan kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened under her gaze. That shiver crawled up his spine again, the same one from the pit—like she was peeling back his skin, weighing what lay beneath. "Glad we could put on a show," he said, keeping his tone dry but careful. "What's next?"

Veyra's lips curled—not quite a smile, but a hint of one. "More fights. You're mine now, and I don't waste coin on failures. But next time, you kill." She stepped closer, her staff's crystal flaring briefly, and Evan's skin prickled as if brushed by ice. "The crowd wants blood, not mercy. You let those two crawl off—pathetic, limping like whipped curs. It's weak. Finish them, or you're no use to me."

Lysa's shoulders stiffened beside him, her fingers twitching at her sides. "We won," she said, her voice steady but carrying a bite. "Doesn't that count?"

"Not enough," Veyra shot back, her gaze snapping to Lysa. "Victory's cheap without death. The pits run on it—coin flows with blood, cheers rise with corpses. Spare them again, and you'll be the ones bleeding out." She turned to Evan, her eyes narrowing. "You've got grit, both of you. Use it, or lose it."

Evan's throat tightened, her words sinking like stones. Killing wasn't foreign—he'd seen it, felt the guard's pulse falter under his hands in the pit—but choosing it, driving a blade home for a crowd's amusement, twisted something raw in him. He glanced at Lysa, catching the flicker of unease in her eyes, the way her jaw clenched. She met his look, a silent question passing between them, and he gave a slight nod. They'd do it—had to, to survive. Together.

"Understood," he said, meeting Veyra's stare. "We'll play by your rules."

"Good," she said, stepping back with a faint nod. "You'll train now. I won't have sloppy fighters dragging my name through the sand." She gestured to a figure lurking in the chamber's shadows—a man, broad and weathered, his face a patchwork of scars, one eye milky white under a heavy brow. "Dren'll shape you up. Don't waste his time—or mine."

The guard unbound their wrists, the rope falling away with a soft thud, and Veyra swept out, her cloak trailing like a river of blood on the stone. The scarred man—Dren—stepped forward, his good eye glinting as he sized them up, his cane tapping the floor like a metronome. "Names," he rasped, voice rough as broken glass.

"Evan Kael," Evan said, flexing his freed wrists, the skin red and raw beneath.

"Lysa," she added, her stance shifting—alert, ready, like she'd been born to face whatever came.

Dren grunted, grabbing two wooden swords from the rack and tossing them over. Evan caught his, the grip smooth but firm, and Lysa snagged hers with a quick hand. "You're green," Dren said, circling them like a wolf eyeing prey. "Quick, maybe, but rough. Crowd'll turn on that fast. Let's fix it."

Training hit like a storm—relentless, bruising, and loud with Dren's barked orders. He started them against each other, wooden swords clacking in the chamber's tight space, the air growing warm with their effort. "Feet, Kael!" Dren snapped, his cane cracking against Evan's shin when he pivoted too slow, a sting that jolted him straight. "You're fighting, not prancing!"

Evan cursed, hopping back as Lysa's sword grazed his arm, a sharp bite that snapped him alert. She grinned, quick and fierce, and he matched it, lunging low. Their blades met, wood thudding with a dull echo, and he twisted, hooking her ankle with his foot. She stumbled but rolled with it, springing up to block his next swing, her breath puffing in the close air. "Not bad," she said, her voice tight with exertion.

"Got a good teacher," he shot back, and Dren's cane whacked his shoulder, a bruise blooming under the blow.

"Less chatter, more striking," the trainer growled, but a glint in his good eye hinted at grudging respect.

They drilled hard, sweat beading on their skin, the chamber filling with the rhythm of wood and breath. Dren taught them basics—how to shift weight to dodge faster, how to strike without leaving gaps, how to guard each other's weak spots. He showed them a tandem move: Evan drawing an opponent's guard up while Lysa hit low, a paired strike meant to end fights quick. They practiced it on a straw dummy, wood splintering as they synced—Evan's swing high, Lysa's low, a rhythm that clicked like a lock sliding home.

"Better," Dren said after a stretch, tossing them real swords—short, iron blades, heavier than the wood but balanced, their edges dulled but still lethal. "Now try it live." He stepped back, arms crossed, and nodded to a guard at the chamber's edge—a wiry youth with a dented shield and a blunt sword, his stance cocky but untested.

The guard advanced, shield raised, and Evan felt the shift—practice turning sharp. He glanced at Lysa, her eyes meeting his, a silent signal passing between them, and they moved as one. Evan swung high, the guard's shield lifting to block, and Lysa darted in, her blade slashing at the man's knee. He yelped, staggering, and Evan brought his sword down, stopping an inch from the guard's neck. The youth froze, sweat dripping, and Dren clapped once, a harsh sound.

"Clean," he said. "Next time, don't stop. Take the leg—or the head."

Evan lowered his sword, chest heaving, and Lysa straightened, wiping sweat from her brow with her sleeve. "Got it," she said, her voice firm but her eyes flicking to Evan—a shared weight, a quiet pact. He nodded back, breathing hard. Killing was coming, and they'd face it side by side.

Dren tossed them a waterskin, the leather slapping the stone. "Drink. Rest. You're back in the pit soon—two against three. Don't muck it up."

Evan caught the skin, taking a long pull of lukewarm water, then handed it to Lysa. She drank, her throat bobbing, and sank to the floor beside him, their shoulders brushing as they settled against the wall. "Three now," she said, wiping her mouth. "They're stepping it up."

"Guess we're too good," he said, smirking despite the burn in his arms. "Gotta keep us on our toes."

She laughed, a small, bright sound that cut through the chamber's stale air. "On our toes? We're barely standing, Kael."

"Still standing, though," he said, leaning back. "You're like an ember—burning steady, keeping the dark off. Keeps me going."

"Ember, huh?" She tilted her head, her smile softening, green eyes catching the torchlight. "I'll take it. Beats nothing."

"Beats most," he replied, and the words carried more than he'd meant—truth slipping out raw. She held his gaze, something warm flickering there, and it rooted in his chest, steady and growing.

They returned to the pen as the arena's noise faded, the crowd trickling out, leaving a hush over the stands. The guards tossed them a scrap of bread and a strip of salted meat—meager, but earned—and they sat against the bars, splitting it between them. Evan tore the bread, handing her half, and her fingers brushed his, lingering a beat longer than necessary. They ate in silence, the day's strain sinking deep, but the quiet felt easy, woven with trust.

"Training helped," she said after a while, chewing slowly. "Dren's a bastard, but he's good."

"Yeah," Evan said, swallowing a tough bite. "We're tighter now. Might actually pull off this three-on-two thing."

"Might?" She raised an eyebrow, nudging his arm. "We will. You're stuck with me, Kael."

"Good," he said, nudging her back. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Ember."

She laughed again, softer, and leaned her head on his shoulder. The weight was light, warm, and he paused, then let his own head rest against hers. Her hair grazed his cheek, gritty with sand but carrying that faint herb scent he'd latched onto. His chest tightened—not fear, not exhaustion, but something softer, something he couldn't dodge. He didn't name it, just closed his eyes and held the moment, her warmth a shield against the pen's cold bars.

"Two against three," she murmured, voice fading. "We've got this."

"Yeah," he said, low and rough. "Together."

The night deepened, shadows pooling around them, but with her head on his shoulder, the pit felt less like a cage. He didn't sleep much, just listened to her breathing, steady and alive, and clung to it like a lifeline.