The devil's dance

Alayah strolled through the club hall with her usual swagger, making no effort to lower her profile—why bother, when eyes turned anyway?

The fencing crowd had that distinct blend of athletes and intellectuals, bodies taut with discipline and faces eager for drama.

She saw Lyra at the center, helmet tucked under one arm, silver hair tangled and cheeks still flushed from her victory over Claire.

The room buzzed with excitement, and a current of competitive heat lingered in the air, almost visible, like the shimmer above a flame.

She caught Lyra's eye and grinned, that wolfish smile meant to provoke and amuse. The Celestian didn't look away. That was promising.

"Hey, champion," Alayah called. "Let's see what you've really got."

Claire handed her a jacket and foil with a "good luck" that might have been a warning, but Alayah just winked.

Instead of heading to the changing room, she stripped down right there by the rack, unconcerned about the people clustered around.

Off came her shirt—bare skin revealed, marked by coiling black tattoos that stretched over her shoulders and arms, each line accentuating the ridges of muscle she'd earned, not inherited.

Her body was hard, lean, and strong; the work of years, not weeks, and she liked the way it caught the light.

She could feel eyes tracing her back, some hungry, some jealous, and a few Lyra's in particular lingering a second longer than necessary.

Alayah felt the chill of scrutiny on her skin, but Lyra's gaze was different. It wasn't desire.

It was a silent, razor-edged analysis, as if Lyra was memorizing each detail for a battle to come. No crystals, no magic, just cool calculation. Good, Alayah thought, makes it more interesting.

She dressed slow, just to savor the effect: jacket, glove, mask slung on her hip. She flexed, rolling her shoulders so the tattoos danced.

Rings came off, each one clinking against the bench. She caught Lyra's gaze again, holding it a little longer. No blushing, no flustered glance away. Celestian pride in the flesh.

As she buckled on her chest guard, Zoe sidled up to Lyra, whispering just loud enough for Alayah to hear, "Damn how is she built like that? Because I suddenly feel like joining the club myself."

Alayah smirked. She lived for this—attention, tension, the slow build before the clash.

At the rack, she selected a foil, tested its balance with a few lazy flourishes. It was a decent blade, lighter than what she was used to.

The rules, Claire reminded her, were simple: first to five, no electronics, call your own touches. The audience, now twice as large, buzzed with anticipation.

Alayah sauntered to the strip, twirling her mask in one hand. She saluted Lyra with a casual flick, stepping into position as if she had all the time in the world. Lyra mirrored her, formal as a duelist, stance crisp and full of contained energy.

Alayah could feel the hush fall, every breath held. The official called, "En garde… prêt… allez!"

She let the first points go, deliberately slow. Lyra came in quick, as graceful and precise as a poem—lunge, touch, retreat, point.

The crowd cheered, and Alayah let herself drift backward, parrying with lazy efficiency. She feigned sloppiness, letting Lyra's confidence grow, each strike a little sharper, a little bolder.

Three times Lyra touched home: three points, quick and clean, as if she'd found a chink in Alayah's armor.

3–0, the room whispered, awed.

Claire, arms folded, shot Alayah a look that said, Don't you dare make this a joke.

Lyra's breathing quickened. There was something almost regal in the way she attacked—measured, composed, but under it, the beginnings of true aggression.

Alayah grinned behind her mask. Time to raise the stakes.

The fourth point began, and Alayah's entire body changed. No more lazy feints, no more half-hearted parries.

Her feet moved with predatory speed, closing the distance before Lyra had a chance to reset. Her blade snapped through the air a flick, a disengage, a sharp riposte to the shoulder. Point.

Lyra blinked, startled by the change. The crowd murmured, sensing the shift. Alayah didn't give her time to recover.

The next point, she circled, pressed the attack—wrist loose, footwork silent, every move a challenge. Lyra parried, but Alayah disengaged, twisted, and struck. Point.

3–2.

Lyra's jaw tightened, her stance hardening. She came in too fast. Alayah sidestepped, let the foil glance off her guard, and with a tight, beautiful flick, caught Lyra in the ribs. Point.

3–3.

The crowd was breathless, the tension thick. Lyra tried to control the pace, to reclaim her earlier rhythm, but Alayah was everywhere parrying, feinting, counterattacking with speed that bordered on inhuman.

She read Lyra's intentions, saw the attacks coming a beat before they landed, and punished every hesitation.

Another point. 3–4.

The next was a blur—Lyra lunged, but Alayah deflected, spun out of range, then lunged herself, blade striking home before Lyra could retreat. 3–5.

Silence. Then a burst of applause, some gasps, a few whistles. Alayah ripped off her mask, grinning, sweat slicking her brow and tattoos gleaming.

Lyra, face hidden, stood frozen, foil lowered. She hadn't expected to lose—not so quickly, not so completely.

Alayah could taste the frustration rolling off her. Not the sharp snap of anger, but something deeper—a hot, stubborn refusal to accept defeat.

Alayah moved closer, slow and deliberate. She stopped at Lyra's side, leaned in until her lips nearly brushed Lyra's ear, and whispered so only she could hear:

"Don't take it personally, princess. I just like to play with my food before I eat it."

Lyra bristled but didn't flinch. For a split second, their eyes met—Lyra's purple's, burning, and Alayah's grey's, glinting with victory.

Claire stepped forward, breaking the spell. "That was… impressive." She looked from Alayah to Lyra, then to the crowd. "Do we have our first fencing rivalry of the year?"

Laughter broke out. Some students started to disperse, others still watching Alayah like she might tear up the strip and start a brawl.

Zoe was already at Lyra's side, babbling encouragement, but Alayah caught the way Lyra wouldn't meet her eyes—not in defeat, not yet.

One of the club officers approached, clipboard in hand. "That was incredible, Alayah. We'd love to have you on the team. Are you interested in joining?"

Alayah smirked, rolling her shoulders as she handed the foil back. "Tempting. But no. Fencing's a bit too gentle for my tastes. I prefer sports with higher stakes—and fewer rules."

A ripple of surprised laughter. Claire cocked her head, clearly trying to size her up. "Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find us. We could use a little chaos."

Alayah pulled her shirt back on, slow and shameless, letting her tattoos stand stark against pale skin before she covered them. She glanced back at Lyra, voice teasing. "Next time, I'll give you a head start."

She winked, then strode out, grabbing her rings and slipping them onto her fingers with practiced ease.

As she left, she could feel the room's collective energy admiration, envy, frustration, even a trace of desire swirling behind her, a harvest of minor crystals that danced at the edge of her senses.

But for Lyra, there was only fire: pure, frustrated, undiluted. And that, Alayah thought, was better than any trophy.