Sword and Fury

The stone beneath his feet felt cool, but Arven barely noticed it.

Each step down the long corridor toward the viewing platform sent small pulses of pain through his ribs. The bandages pulled slightly with every breath, each movement a careful negotiation between endurance and caution. His left arm remained stiff beneath its wrappings, only faintly responsive.

Yet he walked.

The past two days blurred together in a haze of recovery, pain, and strange, flickering memories. He still woke with the phantom taste of blood on his tongue. The weight of what he had done in the Arena clung to his thoughts like a shroud.

I killed him.

The words refused to fade. They echoed behind his eyes, relentless.

As he reached the wide arched entry to the fighters' viewing platform, the sounds of the crowd washed over him. The familiar rising hum of voices, the sharp calls of vendors, the occasional crack of distant steel on steel. The day's matches were already underway.

He stepped through the threshold.

A few fighters stood clustered near the railings, others lounged on benches or leaned against the stone pillars. Conversations halted briefly as he entered.

Heads turned.

Some eyes widened. Others narrowed. A few glanced away quickly, as if afraid to meet his gaze.

He caught fragments of murmured words.

"That's him…"

"The damn Ghoul."

"Bit the guy's face off…"

He ignored them, though the heat of their stares pressed against his skin. His body moved on instinct now, guided more by habit than intent. He needed to see the fights. He needed to learn their pattern.

Veyra's voice reached him before he saw her.

"Red. You made it."

She leaned lazily against the rail, one foot propped on the stone ledge, red hair gleaming in the sun. Her grin was sharp, eyes bright with mischief and something more dangerous beneath.

Arven gave a faint nod, moving stiffly toward an empty seat nearby. He settled in carefully, ribs protesting the motion.

Veyra's gaze lingered on him. "Looking good, Ghoul. Real crowd pleaser, you are."

He said nothing, though his lip twitched faintly. The name grated, but he knew better than to argue with what the Arena had already claimed.

Across the platform, a noble dressed in deep green and gold leaned forward, eyes fixed on him with open curiosity. Arven held the gaze briefly before looking away.

He did not care for attention. Not yet.

The announcer's voice thundered through the Arena.

"Today's first match: Veyra versus Evelyne!"

A roar surged from the stands.

Arven's gaze sharpened. He had heard whispers about this one. A fight between two of the most anticipated warriors in the bracket.

Veyra stretched languidly, then straightened.

"Time to play," she said, flashing him a grin.

He watched as she turned and strode from the platform with a predatory sway in her step.

Moments later, the Arena gates opened.

Veyra entered first, barefoot as always, her lean, muscular frame loose with barely contained energy. Her red hair spilled down her back, wild and untamed.

The crowd greeted her with cheers and shouts.

Then Evelyne appeared.

The contrast was stark.

Where Veyra was wild, Evelyne was composed. Her blond hair was tied in a high braid that swayed with each precise step. Her dueling armor gleamed in the sunlight, every strap perfectly adjusted, every line immaculate.

Her eyes were ice blue, cold and unwavering.

She did not acknowledge the crowd. Her focus was entirely forward.

Arven watched closely, a faint pulse of curiosity stirring through the fog of his mind.

Let's see what this is.

The two women faced each other across the sand.

The announcer's voice rang out.

"Fighters, prepare!"

Neither moved.

Tension coiled thick in the air. The crowd leaned forward as one, breaths held.

The gong sounded.

Veyra moved first.

A blur across the sand, low, fast, and deadly. Her boots skidded with barely a sound, momentum coiling into a sweeping kick aimed clean at Evelyne's legs.

But Evelyne was already shifting.

Her blade caught the strike with the flat, deflecting it in a smooth, practiced motion. No wasted effort. No stumble. She pivoted on her heel, cloak flaring as she drove a sharp thrust toward Veyra's open side.

Veyra twisted mid-air, spine arching as the blade hissed past. She landed low, one knee bent, her fingers clawing the ground to steady herself.

A grin spread across her face. "Now we're talking."

Evelyne didn't answer. Her expression remained cold, unreadable, only the slight tightening at the corner of her eyes hinted at focus.

They moved again, faster this time.

Veyra darted in, feinting left. A sharp shift, too quick for most eyes to follow, and she spun, launching a backfist toward Evelyne's head.

The swordswoman ducked fluidly, her blade already in motion. A short, precise slash curved up through the air.

Steel sang. Blood followed.

A thin red line appeared across Veyra's ribs.

She laughed. Not in pain, but with delight.

"Nice."

Still, Evelyne said nothing.

Their bodies fell into a rhythm. Step. Strike. React. Adjust.

Arven watched from the stands, breath shallow, eyes locked on the dance below. This wasn't a brawl. It was a duel in the truest sense, finesse and fury colliding, both women testing the very edge of what their bodies could do.

Veyra attacked with controlled chaos. Every blow seemed wild, every movement exaggerated, but none of it was wasted. She struck from impossible angles, bending and twisting like she had no spine, every strike loaded with force and unpredictability.

Evelyne responded with precision. Her sword was never far from her center, her movements compact and calculated. Where Veyra roared, Evelyne whispered. Where Veyra flared, Evelyne cut.

They left marks on each other.

A shallow cut along Veyra's thigh, slick with blood.

A dark bruise spreading beneath Evelyne's pauldron, where Veyra's knee had landed flush.

But neither backed down.

The crowd roared with every clash, stomping and shouting, drunk on spectacle. Blood on the sand was good. A close fight? Better.

Time blurred.

Sweat mixed with blood. Sand stuck to bare skin. Breath came harder, but neither fighter slowed. They circled one another, steps measured, eyes sharp. Each waiting. Each hunting for the slightest mistake.

Veyra moved first again, shoulders rolling, grin bloodied but wild. She feinted low, then sprang up, fists flying in a whirlwind of hooks and hammer strikes. Evelyne weaved through the chaos, her sword flashing in short, brutal arcs that clipped Veyra's arm, nicked her collarbone, kept her back just far enough.

But the rhythm was starting to fray. Precision gave way to instinct. Technique started bleeding into raw survival.

They struck.

Again. And again.

Every exchange left something behind, bruises, cuts, exhaustion.

Veyra was bleeding from her ribs, her thigh, the edge of her jaw. Evelyne's shoulder was swelling, her leg trembling slightly from a blocked kick that had landed too solid.

And still they fought.

The crowd fed on it. Cried for more. Sand was slick now. Stained dark in places.

Veyra spat blood, licked her lips, and charged again.

Evelyne met her halfway, blade rising, breath sharp.

The final exchange came not with warning, but instinct.

Veyra spun, her leg whipping up into a high, arcing kick, fast, brutal, aimed straight at Evelyne's head.

At the same instant, Evelyne lunged forward, sword leading with perfect form, aimed dead-center at Veyra's chest.

Neither pulled back.

The impact was violent.

Veyra's heel slammed into Evelyne's skull. Evelyne's sword drove into Veyra's side, slicing through armor and into flesh.

They collapsed together.

No time limit. No bell. Just bodies hitting the sand.

One heartbeat passed.

Then another.

And the Arena exploded.

The crowd screamed. Stomped. Shouted.

"Double knockout!" the announcer cried, barely audible over the frenzy. "Both fighters eliminated from this round!"

But already, the murmurs had begun. Nobles leaned in close. Fighters whispered to one another. No one really believed this was the end.

Not for Veyra.

Not for Evelyne.

They had both earned more than that.

Arven exhaled slowly. The tension in his shoulders finally released.

Veyra was carried off first, limp and bloodied, but smiling even in unconsciousness. Evelyne followed moments later, her grip still firm on her sword, eyes fluttering closed as the stretcher rocked beneath her.

He watched them both, something stirring deep beneath the weariness in his chest.

This Arena didn't care who you were. Didn't care how strong you'd been yesterday.

It took everything.

And it wasn't done yet.