Ashes and Blood

The pen's shadows wrapped around Evan as he sat against the bars, Lysa's head resting on his shoulder, her breath soft and steady from their last quiet moment after Veyra's praise. Her warmth seeped through his tunic, cutting through the iron's chill, and he didn't move, just let his head stay on hers, their hair tangled together. The torchlight flickered low, painting the stone floor in shaky lines, and the arena's hum had died down, the crowd gone for now. His sword lay across his lap, blood and sand crusted on the blade from their last fight, but he didn't care—not with her this close, not with the way she made the cage feel less like a trap.

She stirred, her voice breaking the quiet, low and rough. "You still up, Kael?"

"Yeah," he said, shifting to look at her. Her green eyes caught the dim light, tired but bright, and her lips curved into a small smile.

"Veyra's happy—means we're doing something right."

"Means we're winning," he said, his hand resting on the sword's hilt. The kills weighed on him—the spear woman's gasp, the axe man's groan—but they'd done it clean, fast, and the crowd loved it. "We're on a roll, Lysa. Unstoppable."

"Getting there," she said, her smile growing a bit. "Crowd's starting to cheer louder. Heard 'em yelling something last time—think they're betting on us now."

"Good," he said, grinning back, the ache in his arms forgotten. "Let 'em bet. We'll keep cashing in."

She laughed, a small sound that hit him deep, warming him more than it should've. "Cashing in's the plan. You and me, Kael—we're making it out of here someday."

"Damn right," he said, and it felt real, like a promise they could touch. Every fight, every kill tied them closer, and he couldn't picture it any other way. He nudged her, his shoulder bumping hers. "Couldn't do it without you."

"Same," she said, her voice dropping, soft and honest. She tilted her head, her hair brushing his cheek, and that faint herb smell cut through the grit—hers, alive, pulling him in. His chest tightened, a feeling he didn't fight anymore, and he nudged her back, letting it settle.

The gate clanked, cutting through the moment, and the one-eared guard limped in, his club tapping the bars. "Get up," he grunted. "Fight's now. Lady's got a big one—don't screw it."

Evan straightened, Lysa pulling away but staying close, her hand brushing his as they grabbed their swords. She squeezed his fingers, quick and firm, and flashed him a grin—tired but sure. "Let's go," she said, and he nodded, falling in beside her as they followed the guard out.

The tunnel stretched ahead, damp and tight, the air warming as they moved. The crowd's roar hit them hard as they stepped onto the sand, a wall of sound that shook the ground under their boots.

The arena blazed under a heavy dusk, the stands packed tight with shouting faces—merchants waving purses, soldiers pounding fists, drunks howling over spilled ale. Torches flared, casting long shadows across the sand, and the air stank of blood and heat. Evan's boots sank into the grit, Lysa beside him, her sword steady in her grip. Across the pit, two figures stood: a man, tall and broad, his chainmail glinting, a longsword in his hands, his stance calm and sure; and a woman, lean and scarred, wielding dual axes, her grin wide and cruel. These weren't like the others—tougher, sharper, their eyes cold with experience.

"Dead meat walking!" the woman yelled, spinning an axe, and the crowd laughed, a mean, eager sound that set Evan's teeth on edge. He glanced at Lysa, her nod quick, and they moved together, steps in sync.

The man struck first, his longsword slashing fast, a blur Evan barely parried, the jolt knocking him back. Lysa darted in, her blade aiming for his side, but the woman intercepted, an axe swinging at her head. Lysa ducked, sand flying, but the second axe caught her arm—a shallow cut, blood welling red. She hissed, rolling away, and Evan swung at the man, their blades clashing hard, steel screaming.

"Too slow, dog!" the man taunted, shoving Evan back, his sword arcing down. Evan dodged, the blade slicing his tunic, and Lysa lunged, her strike hitting the man's chainmail—sparks flew, but no blood. The woman laughed, her axes spinning, and she slashed at Lysa, forcing her to block, the impact jarring her arms.

Evan charged the man, swinging high, but the longsword met him, and a fist slammed into his jaw—pain exploded, stars bursting in his eyes. He stumbled, the crowd cheering, and the woman's voice cut through: "Look at 'em squirm—pathetic!" Laughter rolled down, cruel and loud, as Evan scrambled up, blood dripping from his lip.

Lysa fought hard, her blade clashing with the axes, but the woman was faster, relentless. An axe hooked Lysa's sword, yanking it free—it hit the sand—and the second axe swung, biting deep into her side. Blood sprayed, a hot arc, and Lysa gasped, dropping to her knees, clutching the wound.

"Lysa!" Evan roared, lunging at the woman, but the man intercepted, his sword slashing Evan's leg. Pain flared, hot and sharp, and he fell, sand choking his throat. The crowd howled, loving it, and the woman strutted, raising her axes. "Finish the bitch!" someone yelled, and she swung again, the axe sinking into Lysa's chest.

"No!" Evan crawled, dragging himself through the sand, blood soaking his leg. Lysa slumped, her eyes wide, red bubbling at her lips, and he reached her, pulling her into his arms. "Lysa—stay with me, please—"

Her hand grabbed his, weak but there, and she looked at him, green eyes fading. "Evan…" she choked, blood staining her teeth. He leaned down, tears burning his eyes, and kissed her—hard, desperate, tasting salt and iron. Her lips moved against his, faint, then stilled, her last breath slipping away.

The crowd cheered, a sick roar, but Evan didn't hear it. Pain ripped through him, grief and rage boiling over, and a cold voice cut into his skull:

[System Activation Initiated. Emotional Threshold Met. Class Selection Available.]

[Options: Warrior, Mage, Rogue, Necromancer…]

[User Input Detected: "Stay with me." Necromancer Class Selected.]

[Necromancer System Online. Welcome, Evan Kael.]

His vision blurred, numbers flashing—stats, levels, nonsense—but a dark pulse surged in his hands, cold and alive. The enemy team laughed, the woman raising her axe over him, but he didn't care. "Lysa," he whispered, tears falling, and her body twitched, her eyes snapping open—red now, bright and fierce. Her hair darkened, black as night, her skin paling to a ghostly white, but she was still her—same face, same shape, just stronger, harder.

She rose, blood dripping from her wounds, her body steady despite the gashes, and grabbed her fallen sword with a grip that bent the hilt. The woman swung her axe, but Lysa moved fast—too fast—her sword slashing up, cutting through the woman's arm. Blood sprayed, the axe falling, and the woman screamed, clutching the stump. Lysa didn't stop—she drove her blade into the woman's chest, piercing leather and bone, and yanked it free, the body dropping limp.

The man roared, his longsword slashing at Lysa, but she took the hit—steel bit her shoulder, blood oozed, but she didn't flinch. Her body held, tougher now, and she grabbed his wrist with her free hand, twisting hard. Bone snapped, the sword fell, and she smashed her fist into his throat, crushing it. He choked, collapsing, red pooling under him.

The crowd went quiet, then screamed—not cheers, but fear—as Evan staggered up, his leg bleeding but holding. Guards rushed the pit, clubs swinging, but Lysa turned, a force of death, her red eyes blazing. She swung her sword, cutting one guard's chest open, blood gushing, and grabbed another by the neck, snapping it with a twist of her hand. Her strength was brutal, unstoppable, her pale skin streaked with red.

Evan grabbed a fallen sword, limping after her, and slashed a guard blocking the gate, steel sinking into flesh. Blood sprayed, the man falling, and they burst through, the tunnel dark and narrow, alarms blaring behind them. Lysa kept pace, her dark hair swinging, her red eyes fixed ahead, and Evan ran, grief and power burning in his chest. The system hummed in his head: [Quest: Escape the Pit. Initiated.], but he barely cared, his mind on her—dead, alive, his.

The tunnel spat them into the night, the compound's walls towering, and he didn't stop, Lysa beside him, a shadow of who she'd been but stronger, tougher. They'd escaped, but the cost cut deep, raw and bleeding, and he'd kill anything to keep her with him—whatever she was now.