A Glint of Power

The common area was strangely quiet when Arven opened his eyes.

Fighters lay scattered around the room, some snoring, others already stirring. The stale scent of sweat and smoke hung in the air, heavy from too many bodies packed in too a small space.

Arven rolled to his side and stretched slowly. His muscles ached faintly, not from injury, but from the lingering tension of the past two days. His body felt... different. Tighter, coiled. As if the strength beneath his skin was no longer dormant.

He exhaled and sat up, gaze sweeping the room.

Three days until the first fights. Two, now.

And already, the Arena had shown its teeth.

His mind drifted to Veyra. The sudden attack yesterday had been more than a test. There had been intent behind it. Hunger, too. The way she had looked at him…

He shook the thought off. No use obsessing over it now.

Rising, he moved toward the crude showers carved into the stone wall at the back of the room. The water was cold, the flow weak, but it cleared the grime from his skin and cleared his head.

After dressing again, Arven made his way out of the common area.

Time to see what this place really held.

The Arena's interior was a labyrinth.

Wide stone corridors wound through the structure, linking training pits, armories, and preparation chambers. The deeper he walked, the more life he found.

Fighters of all shapes and sizes moved through the halls. Some sparred in small sand-filled pits, grunting with exertion. Others rested or cleaned weapons, eyes sharp with silent focus.

Weapon racks lined the walls, swords of every shape, axes, spears, strange hooked blades, and even whips. Some looked ceremonial, others well-used and deadly.

At one pit, a towering beastman sparred with a pair of smaller fighters. His roars shook the air as he swung a massive hammer, forcing them back with each strike.

At another, an elegant woman in dark leathers danced between wooden dummies, her twin daggers flashing in quick, graceful arcs.

Arven took it all in.

Not just the spectacle, but the undercurrents beneath it.

Agents of wealthier patrons watched from the balconies above, eyes cold and calculating. They whispered to each other, taking notes, sometimes gesturing to an assistant.

The Arena wasn't just about blood.

It was about profit.

And in this game, power meant coin.

He moved deeper into the Arena's lower halls.

Here, the stone turned rough and uneven, older than the rest of the building. Torches flickered in wall brackets, casting shadows along the corridor. Fewer voices echoed down here. The occasional grunt or clash of steel, but mostly, it was quiet.

Good. He needed space to think.

So he believed.

A sudden chill slid over his skin, cold and electric. Every instinct in his body flared at once. He turned, but too late.

Something dropped from above.

He dove sideways just in time to avoid the impact. A bare foot slammed into the stone behind him with a thunderous crack. Dust shot up in a cloud as shards skittered across the floor.

Arven hit the ground and rolled back to his feet, heart pounding.

From the settling haze, a figure stepped forward, casual and sure.

Red hair like fire. Wild gold eyes burning with energy.

Veyra.

She stood barefoot in the shallow crater, grinning like a devil who'd found her favorite toy.

"Morning, Red," she called out. Her tone was light, playful, but there was something sharp under it. "You move well for someone so fresh."

Arven didn't answer right away. He steadied his breath, shifting into a loose stance.

"Trying to kill me again?" he asked.

Veyra laughed. The sound bounced off the walls, sharp, delighted, without a hint of restraint.

"Not today," she said. "But there's something weird about you. It makes my skin crawl."

She began to circle him, slow and measured. Her steps made barely a sound, like a dancer on stage.

Arven kept still, eyes locked on her movement. His mind scrambled behind the calm.

Is it because I'm a vampire?

No… Celyne had noticed something, even before the bite.

Then it clicked. One of the System rewards. A minor charm enhancement, he remembered reading it. He'd brushed it off, but Celyne had made a subtle comment.

It was a kind of ambient pull, a quiet tension that clung to him now.

Predators felt that kind of thing. And Veyra? She was nothing if not a predator.

He said nothing, letting his body stay loose, arms relaxed but ready.

Veyra narrowed her eyes, amused. "No answer? Hm. Makes it more fun."

Then she lunged.

Arven caught the motion too late. Her fist drove into his forearm like a battering ram. Pain shot up to his shoulder, and he stumbled a step back, gritting his teeth.

She didn't pause. Another strike came low, aimed for his ribs. He twisted, catching her forearm and deflecting just enough to avoid the worst of it.

She smiled wider.

"You've got reflexes. But let's see your bones."

She launched forward again, faster this time. Arven braced, brought his arm up, caught her wrist in mid-swing. His shoulder buckled from the impact, but he held firm.

She was strong, unnaturally strong. More than him, still. But he wasn't the same man from before.

Something coiled inside him. Power. Not borrowed, not forced. His. The vampire blood had given him speed, yes, but also force. Enough to hold her. Almost.

Veyra shifted again, twisting into a spin. Her knee shot toward his ribs like a piston.

He turned with it, catching most of the blow on his side. Still hurt. Still knocked the air from his lungs.

But he stayed upright.

Veyra stepped back with a satisfied sound in her throat. "Not bad, Red. Not bad at all."

Arven drew in a breath, slow and careful. His arms were sore. His ribs ached with every movement. Each of her hits felt like they came from someone swinging a sledgehammer.

But he hadn't folded.

He straightened up, eyes still locked on hers.

Veyra tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something between hunger and approval.

"I like fighters who don't crumple," she said. "Makes it more fun."

She leaned in a little, just enough to lower her voice.

"And you smell good."

That sent a fresh spike of tension down his back. He didn't know whether to raise his guard or say something clever. But before he could decide, Veyra turned.

"That's enough for now," she said, already walking away. "You'll break if I push harder."

She didn't look back at first. Her stride was loose, hips swinging with easy confidence.

At the far end of the hall, she paused and threw a glance over her shoulder.

"I'll be watching you, Red."

Then she was gone, swallowed by stone and shadow.

Arven let out a breath. His muscles relaxed inch by inch. Pain crawled up from his arms and sides, but under it all, something else pulsed.

Satisfaction.

He hadn't won. Not even close.

But he had stood his ground.