Iron and Fire

Evan Kael sat against the pen's bars, the iron pressing into his back, a steady ache that grounded him amid the arena's restless hum. His short sword lay across his thighs, its blade catching the torchlight in thin, jagged lines—sharper now, thanks to Lysa's whetstone and their growing knack for keeping it that way. The air in the holding pen was thick, a familiar stew of sweat and rust, but it carried a new edge today—a buzz from the stands above, louder than before, like the crowd sensed something brewing. He flexed his hands, the scabs from past fights cracking faintly, and glanced at Lysa beside him.

She lounged on the crate, one leg dangling, her sword balanced across her knees as she rubbed a cloth along its edge—not sharpening, just cleaning, wiping away the ghosts of their last kill. Her hair was tied back, a loose knot that left strands framing her face, and her green eyes flicked up to meet his, steady and bright. "You're worrying again, Kael," she said, her voice light but carrying that spark he'd come to crave.

"Not brooding," he replied, tilting his head against the bars. "Thinking. Big difference."

"Same face," she said, smirking as she set the cloth aside. "What's on your mind? Another fight's coming, like always. We've got this."

"Yeah," he said, his smirk mirroring hers. "Just feeling it today. Crowd's louder—Veyra's probably got something up her sleeve."

"Or they're just drunker," she shot back, hopping off the crate with a soft thud. She stretched, her tunic pulling tight across her shoulders, and grabbed her sword, twirling it once. "Either way, we're ready"

Her smirk softened, her eyes holding his a beat longer, and the air between them thickened—not with the pen's staleness, but with something unspoken, alive. The gate rattled before he could say more, and the one-eared guard limped in, his club tapping the bars like a metronome. "Up," he grunted. " Lady's got a full house—make it worth it"

Evan nodded at Lysa, her grin sharpening, and they followed the guard out, their steps falling into sync. The tunnel loomed ahead, its walls slick with damp, the air warming as they neared the arena. The crowd's roar hit them like a wall as they stepped onto the sand—a tidal wave of sound that set his blood racing.

The arena glowed under a bruised sky, the stands packed tighter than ever, faces blurring into a sea of shouts and fists. Torches flared along the edges, casting long shadows across the sand, and the air stung with dust and the faint copper of old blood. Evan's boots sank into the grit, the heat radiating up, and he tightened his grip on his sword, feeling Lysa's presence beside him like a second pulse. Across the pit, their opponents waited: two women, lean and hard-eyed, their leather gear scuffed but fitted. One held a longsword, its blade gleaming with fresh polish, her stance low and steady. The other wielded a mace and shield, her grip tight, her lips curled in a sneer. Not green—not like the last batch—but not unbeatable either.

The mace woman shouted, banging her shield, and the crowd jeered, a hungry chorus that fueled the fire in Evan's veins. He glanced at Lysa, her sword raised, her body coiled, and they moved together, a unit carved from sand and steel.

The longsword woman struck first, lunging at Evan with a swing that cut the air. He parried, the clash jarring his arm, and ducked her follow-up, sand spraying under his boots. Lysa darted in, her blade slashing at the woman's flank, but the mace wielder intercepted, her shield slamming Lysa back with a thud that echoed. Evan pivoted, swinging high at the longsword, and she blocked, their blades locking. He pushed, muscles straining, and Lysa recovered, striking low—her sword bit into the woman's thigh, blood welling dark and fast.

The longsword woman grunted, staggering, and Evan seized the gap, driving his blade into her chest. It sank deep, steel grating against bone, and she gasped, a wet, ragged sound, before slumping to the sand, red pooling beneath her. The crowd roared, a deafening surge, but Evan's focus snapped to Lysa—the mace woman charged her, swinging wild, the spiked head whistling past her head.

"Lysa!" he shouted, lunging as she dodged, rolling under the strike. The mace hit the sand, spraying grit, and Evan swung high, forcing the woman's shield up. Lysa struck low, her blade slicing the woman's knee, tendon snapping with a sickening pop. The mace wielder screamed, dropping, and Evan didn't hesitate—his sword arced down, cutting through her neck. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, splattering his arms, and she crumpled, silent, the mace rolling free.

The crowd exploded, a storm of cheers and coins, but Evan's chest heaved, the weight of two more deaths settling like stones. He turned to Lysa, her face streaked with sweat and a splash of blood, her eyes wide but steady. She nodded, a sharp, silent pact, and wiped her blade on her sleeve, the red smearing into the fabric.

"Done," she said, voice low under the noise, rough with the kill.

"Done," he echoed, and they walked back to the gate, the sand sticking to their boots, the crowd's roar fading into a dull pulse. His shoulder brushed hers as they moved, a tether in the chaos, and she leaned into it, just enough to feel real.

Back in the pen, the air cooled, the torchlight dimming as the arena's hum settled into a murmur. The one-eared guard tossed them a waterskin, a chunk of bread, and a strip of salted meat—like always, a grim wage—and limped off. Evan caught the skin, taking a long pull, the water bitter but a relief, and handed it to Lysa. She drank, then sank beside him, tearing the bread in half. Her fingers lingered on his as she passed him his share, a small jolt that lingered, and they ate in silence, the day's blood still vivid in their minds.

"Faster this time," she said after a while, chewing slowly, her voice steady but soft. "We're getting good, Kael."

"Too good, maybe," he said, swallowing a tough bite. "They weren't pushovers—still went down quick."

"Yeah," she said, leaning back against the bars beside him, her shoulder pressing into his. The contact was warm, a lifeline against the pen's chill, and he felt it sink deeper—past the kill, past the sand, into something solid. "High-low's like breathing now. You set 'em up, I knock 'em down."

"Or the other way around," he said, nudging her gently. "You're the fire out there, Lysa—burning bright, keeping us sharp."

"Ember stuff again?" She smirked, but it softened fast, her eyes catching his, green and alive. "You're not so bad yourself, Kael. Kept me breathing today."

"Always will," he said, the words slipping out raw, heavier than he'd meant. Her smirk faded, her gaze holding his, and something shifted—warm, unspoken, teetering on the edge of more. The silence stretched, woven with the day's shared weight, and he didn't break it, just let it sit, heavy and real.

She finished her meat, tossing the rind aside, and leaned her head on his shoulder, the motion easy, natural. He let his rest against hers, her hair brushing his cheek, gritty with sand but alive with that faint herb scent—stubborn, hers. His chest tightened, a slow burn spreading, not quite love but so damn close he could taste it. He didn't push it away, just held it, her warmth cutting through the pen's shadows.

"Another fight soon," she murmured, voice fading into the quiet. "We're unstoppable, you and me."

"Together," he said, low and steady, and it felt like a vow, etched into the blood they'd spilled.

Later, Veyra summoned them to the training chamber, her staff tapping the stone, her gray eyes glinting with a rare spark. "Perfect," she said, her voice smooth and sharp. "Bloody, fast—crowd's eating it up. You're drawing coin now. Keep it up."

Evan nodded, Lysa beside him, her presence a steady hum, and they returned to the pen. She leaned her head on his shoulder again, his resting on hers, their breathing syncing in the dark. The kills weighed on them, but her closeness lightened it—a balance he'd fight to keep, fight after fight.