Seren's blade hovered, catching sunlight like a shard of the gods' judgment, its tip poised over Caelvir's heart. Her knees dug into his starved torso, pinning his bony hips to the scorching sand. With her left hand, she had both his thin wrists locked together, pressing them into the grit just above his shoulder. His limbs were gaunt—too weak to break free, too light to matter. It looked over.
Above, Seren's right arm pulled back, sword aimed for the kill. Her gaze burned with resolve. It wasn't anger. It wasn't cruelty. It was duty—clean, focused, and final.
Then—
Caelvir moved.
Suddenly, violently, he twisted his wrists inward, dragging them toward his chest, pulling against the weak point in her grip—her thumb. Her hold slipped.
At that same instant, Caelvir arched his hips upward with a buck, grinding his spine against the sand, twisting to his right. Seren's balance, forward-leaning and centered over him, tipped.
Her left hand snapped back instinctively, trying to regain her grip, but it was too late—Caelvir had freed his right hand.
And with it, he struck.
Not a punch. Not a grab.
A jab to her throat. Desperate, direct. His bony knuckles slammed into the hollow of her neck.
Seren coughed, choking for half a breath, her blade dipping.
Caelvir seized the moment—his fingers clawing at her sword arm, pulling it sideways. Her blade angled away from his heart just as she tried to thrust. It cut instead into the sand beside his ribs with a dry thunk, missing flesh by inches.
The crowd gasped, their roar dying into stunned murmurs.
Caelvir rolled, not cleanly—his body was too damaged, his ribs screaming with each breath—but enough to spill her off him, enough to get air between them.
Seren scrambled to her knees, blinking, still coughing, hair falling across her face. Her eyes burned from the earlier sand. Her sword was still in hand, but her vision blurred. She blinked hard, trying to locate him.
But Caelvir didn't retreat this time.
He lunged—not with precision, but with pure animal desperation.
He tackled her—shoulder to ribs—toppling her sideways. They crashed into the dirt again, rolling in the arena's heat. She slashed wildly, cutting a gash along his forearm, but he didn't stop. He was too far gone to stop.
Seren ended up on her back now, her sword-hand pinned under his weight. He wasn't stronger—he was lighter, weaker—but the angle was wrong, and the shock had broken her rhythm.
The crowd roared again. Confused. Electric.
"Get up, Seren!""Finish him!""Come on, don't let him reverse this!""Cheater!"
In the cells, Valkira's smirk faded. Lysara's fingers gripped the bars tighter.Brusk leaned forward.
"Well, that's... unexpected."
Seren snarled, eyes narrowed through the blur. She still had one free leg. She snapped her knee up, catching Caelvir in the ribs. He gasped—a sharp wheeze of pain—and she shoved against his throat with her forearm, sending him sprawling back into the dirt.
They both lay there for a second. Bruised. Breathing hard.
Caelvir's skin was slick with sweat, streaked with blood and dust. The sun bore down like a silent overseer. Seren blinked rapidly, finally wiping the grit from her eyes with her shoulder. She rose first—slow, angry, focused. She could now partially see where Caelvir is, a blurry vision at best.
He didn't run.
He didn't crawl.
He simply rolled onto his side, dragging himself upright—ready to fight again.
The crowd stood now. Not cheering. Watching.
Seren, bloodied but upright, held her sword in her right hand, its edge trembling only slightly. Her chest heaved with controlled breath, but her vision was still hazed—the sand still burned in her eyes, reducing her depth perception, forcing her to rely on motion and outline instead of detail.
Caelvir, in contrast, looked like a ghost—gaunt, bleeding, ribs badly bruised, staggering as he shifted his footing. He had no weapon, only trembling hands and Aelric's words ringing in his mind:
"Survival in here doesn't come with brute force. It comes from choosing the right moment to strike and having the will to do it."
Around them, the crowd roared and jeered. But their voices had faded into a wall of meaningless sound. Only her breathing. His heartbeat. The space between them.
Seren didn't want to draw this out. Her vision wasn't reliable enough for precision dueling. She needed a finishing blow—clean, direct, final.
She stepped forward—two strides. The distance between them narrowed to four feet.
Caelvir stumbled. Drooped his left shoulder. Swayed his stance like he was about to collapse.
It was bait.
Seren took it.
With a snarl, she lunged, her sword driving toward his midsection—a deep thrust meant to end it.
But Caelvir had already begun moving. As her blade shot forward, he dropped low—one knee to the sand—and twisted his torso, letting the blade slice past the side of his head, so close it parted strands of his hair.
At the same instant, he shot both arms upward, one hand grabbing her sword wrist, the other locking around her forearm.
Seren let out a hiss and yanked back, but she was overcommitted—too close.
Caelvir rose, fast, his shoulder smashing into her chest, throwing her off balance. The sword, still in her grip, was now tangled between them.
They crashed to the sand again—Caelvir on top, knees straddling her hips.
Seren still had the sword, but her arm was pinned against her side. Her eyes widened. She snarled and tried to shove him off.
But Caelvir didn't let go.
He grabbed her hand, still clutching the weapon, and forced it inward, the blade turning slowly, almost painfully, toward her chest.
Her strength surged—but his leverage was better. He used her own wrist, her own locked elbow, to drive her sword against her body.
Her eyes snapped wide as the tip of the blade touched her collarbone, slipping just under it.
"Don't," she growled. "Please. I still—"
And with a final, brutal push, he drove the blade into her heart.
Her body arched beneath him. The sound she made was not a scream—but a wet gasp, half-breath, half-death.
The crowd went silent. For the first time that day, truly silent.
Seren's eyes fluttered, then stilled.
Caelvir held the hilt for a long moment, his fingers white around her own. Then he let go, slowly, and leaned back, the blood soaking through his thighs, his chest, the blade standing like a flag between them.
Valkira's face hardened.
Lysara turned her head, eyes narrowing.
Brusk stepped back from the bars, jaw tense. "No way…"
The crowd erupted. Some cheered, wild and frenzied. Others booed. Others just stared—shocked, silent.
Caelvir stood over her. His knees shook. His skin was pale.
Seren's body lay still in the sand, her beauty untouched by the brutality that had claimed her. The sword—her own sword—still protruded from her chest, gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
Blood pooled around her, staining the sand beneath her, yet there was something almost surreal about her stillness. Even in death, her features remained perfect, the gentle curve of her lips untouched by the agony she must have felt.
She had been admired, almost worshipped, for her grace and poise, not for the strength in her strikes or the fierceness of her will. To the audience, Seren had always been something to behold—an image of delicate perfection, as much a symbol of the arena as the bloodshed it hosted.
And now, in her final moments, that same beauty lingered. Her skin, though pale, was unmarked by the brutal realities of the fight. Her hair, though tangled by the dust of the arena floor, framed her face with an almost ethereal softness.
Even in death, she looked like a statue, a beautiful tragedy carved by the hands of gods who had decided beauty was her greatest weapon.
There was no hideous contortion of the body, no final struggle that left her twisted and torn. She lay like a flawless piece of art, her chest rising and falling with the faintest breath, the faintest elegance to the way she had died.
Caelvir, weak and bloodied, felt the heavy weight of his victory—but also the strange emptiness it brought. He didn't move, couldn't move, as he stared down at the girl who had once looked so untouchable.
His stomach growled. The hunger still gnawed at him, vicious and constant. He wanted to devour her—his instincts screamed at him to consume her, to rid himself of the empty ache in his gut. But there was something in the way her beauty lay, untouched by the horror of the fight, that stopped him. Something that made him hesitate.
For once, Caelvir chose restraint. A half-loaf of stale bread, just enough to hold off the madness. Just enough to anchor him to the idea that he could still be something more than what they expected.
And with that, he turned away from Seren, leaving her body undisturbed, her beauty still a silent, haunting presence in the sand.
The crowd, still uneasy, began to murmur.
"Seems like the cannibal beast won't desecrate this one…"
In the shadows behind the bars, Aelric exhaled, a faint nod dipping his chin.
"There's only so much one arm can do," he murmured. "But it was enough."
And finally, Seren's image lingered in the air, as delicate and haunting as a memory of a dream.