The clash of steel echoed across the colosseum's underbelly, ringing through the air like a judgment yet passed. Sparks flew with every collision, every parry, every brutal edge of metal grinding against metal. It was a week after Seren's death, and the sands were already calling for more blood.
Valkira's sword met Lysara's in a sharp, upward sweep—parried, twisted, countered. They moved like dancers forced to wear armor—grace coiled with violence, step and strike folded into one.
Around them, other fighters grunted and cursed as weapons met in the circular expanse of the next-tier training grounds—stone pillars, elevated walls for ambush drills, and scattered weapon racks built into the granite perimeter. A reward, like everything else in this pit, earned through spilled blood.
You defeated a hundred opponents in the lower ring, you rose a tier. You rose a tier, you earned more—more gear, more room, more eyes watching you. Gladiators didn't just train here. They evolved, or they died.
Valkira didn't speak. She pivoted her weight, deflected Lysara's slash, and returned a backhand sweep that nearly bit into her friend's collarbone. Lysara blocked in time, but only barely.
Each strike was practiced. Familiar. But Valkira's mind wasn't wholly in it.
Seren.
The girl's name whispered itself behind every breath, behind the sheen of sweat, behind the rhythm of sword and step. The training grounds moved around Valkira like fog, unfocused. It wasn't supposed to be Seren who died. Not that quickly. Not like that.
Lysara lunged, feinting high before angling low. Valkira sidestepped with a half-turn and struck, her blade whistling through the space Lysara had just vacated.
She remembered the day Seren arrived. About a month ago.
The white blonde hair had made her unmistakable—snow-pure even under the grime of travel and fear. Skin like cream, untouched by sun or sword. Eyes wide, bewildered, still trying to understand what this place was. An Elarian, through and through. Enchanting to look at. Delicate, soft-spoken, even among the screams of other newcomers.
Elarian women didn't last long here.
They were hunted—on the surface for coin, down here for pleasure. In Velrane markets, Elarian girls fetched high prices, traded like jewelry. And when they were brought to the colosseum instead, it was never mercy. It was spectacle.
Each month, new prisoners were herded into the cells, dumped like refuse, stripped of names and clothed in numbers. They were thrown dull blades and nicked axes. No training. No introduction. Just old weapons and new nightmares.
Seren had barely caught the blade tossed to her that first day. Valkira remembered watching from her corner of the cell block, seeing Seren's fingers fumble the hilt, almost dropping it. Brusk and his pack had already seen her. The way they laughed. Licked their lips. Men like him didn't need reasons.
That was the moment Valkira stepped in. As always.
She had made it her habit to guard the new ones—especially the women. Too many never made it through the first dusk. Their food stolen, their bodies violated, their spirits broken before the first blood match. Valkira had built something different—a fragile tribe within the shadows. A community of those who still believed in survival as something shared. Her sword was not just for battle. It was for boundary. For safety.
That's when she met Lysara. Quiet. Observant. Dangerous.
The kind of girl who never needed saving but never offered words either. They became unspoken allies. Valkira the voice, Lysara the shadow. Seren, on the other hand…
Lysara spun low, swiping at Valkira's knee. Valkira blocked it with a clang and drove forward, forcing Lysara into retreat. The clang of metal rang again.
Seren was never built for this. Her strikes hesitated at the final moment. Her eyes flinched when someone bled. She moved like someone born to be admired, not to fight. But Valkira saw more. She saw someone worth saving. Worth shaping. Training could compensate for what nature denied.
She herself had no towering strength. No God-given speed. Just years of method, of muscle memory, of learning when to break a rhythm and when to create one. She could drop a brute twice her size because she studied what they didn't. She survived because she trained.
So why hadn't Seren?
Why was she dead, and that boy still breathing?
Caelvir. A starving runt with no strength, no skill, no form. She had seen him before—just another skeleton with scars and empty eyes. Seren could've killed him three times in that match. The gap between them was massive. She had the advantage. The speed. The weapon. The clarity. He had nothing.
Except… he had moved like someone with nothing to lose.
Like an animal, a beast.
Valkira growled under her breath and pressed forward. Lysara matched her step for step—until Valkira twisted, flipped the angle of her blade, and caught Lysara's sword with a sharp uppercut.
The weapon flew from Lysara's grip, clattering across the floor.
Lysara fell back onto one knee, breathing hard, staring up at her friend.
Valkira lowered her sword. Not smug. Not satisfied.
Just lost in thought.
Maybe it had been luck. Caelvir shouldn't have won. Not by any metric. But still…
He had used every ounce of awareness, every twitch of motion, every inch of the sand to his advantage. He'd clung to life like it was the last ember of warmth in a frozen world. He turned his weakness into traps, his limp into misdirection, his desperation into a weapon.
Was that it?
Was willpower the ultimate edge?
And then there was magic. She tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword as the thought drifted in.
She, of course, had it—wind ran through her blood like a silent partner, honed through years of battle, meditation, and discipline.
Had Caelvir used some form of it against Seren? The question burned at the edge of her thoughts.
No... she decided. That couldn't be. Magic demanded a tuned body, months—years—of training, will refined through fire and failure.
That boy had barely the muscle to lift a sword, let alone wield the currents of the arcane.
Still... something had turned the tide that day.
Seren had the body, the technique. But maybe she lacked the will. The refusal to die. The absolute, teeth-gritting need to survive. What decided a battle in the end? Strength? Speed? Cunning? Experience?
Or was it something else?
Lysara stood slowly, brushing dust from her arm. She didn't speak, but her gaze lingered—studying Valkira, questioning without asking. Valkira didn't meet her eyes.
Valkira never used to ask herself why she fought. Why she swung her blade. The answer had always been too obvious.
She fought to win. She swung to kill. Each death added to the count—a step closer to one thousand victories.
That was the rule. That was the path.
She would leave this cursed stone womb behind. Get outside again. She would—
"She'd want us to keep going, you know," Lysara said softly, breaking the silence.
Valkira blinked, her thoughts dissipating.
Lysara stepped beside her, her voice quiet, barely audible over the distant clash of steel still echoing through the grounds. "Seren might not have been ready for this place. But she tried. And she followed you because she believed in something. If we keep fighting—if we carry her will with us—then she's not really gone."
For the first time since the match, Valkira's expression softened.
A quiet smile, brittle and fleeting, touched her lips. She turned to Lysara, and with a rare gentleness, extended her hand.
Lysara took it without hesitation, letting Valkira pull her to her feet. For a moment, they just stood there, the roar of the colosseum hushed beneath the weight of what had been lost—and what had to be done next.
Tomorrow would be Valkira's sixtieth fight.
She looked up, toward the tiny square of sky far above the stone walls. The clouds drifted slowly. Free.
Someday.
But not yet.