Dust clung to Caelvir's lips as he dragged himself across the sand.
The pain in his right arm surged with every inch.
His sword, Seren's Sword, lay yards behind him, somewhere swallowed by the earth and blood and noise.
With only his shield, slung limp over his back, and breath slipping into gasps, he crawled.
All around, the arena roared like a storm. But beneath the thunder of thousands, he caught the sharp whistles, the individual shouts.
His name. Directions. Lies.
"HE'S TO YOUR RIGHT!" someone bellowed from the eastern balconies.
"No, BEHIND YOU!" came another voice, closer to the nobles' seats.
A second wave of panic surged through the blind formation.
The warriors—trained to trust sound over sight—turned to strike.
Steel hissed.
Then it screamed.
One of the warriors, a reserve who had joined the wedge minutes ago, turned violently at the call. His blade lashed wide, catching the exposed neck of the man beside him. A spray of arterial red exploded across the air like paint flung on canvas.
"Wha..." gasped the dying soldier, clutching his throat.
Too late. He dropped.
Another warrior, disoriented by the false cues, pivoted just a second too slow. His comrade mistook him for Caelvir and lunged. A shield slammed into his chest. Then a short blade rammed between his ribs, and he crumpled, hands shaking like leaves.
The third and fourth death came with eerie silence—two warriors, responding to opposing cries, turned and thrust simultaneously. Their blades crossed midair, missed Caelvir entirely, and found each other's flesh. One screamed. The other collapsed without a sound.
Across the arena, the commander's voice cut through the frenzied air like a blade.
"IGNORE THE CROWD!" he bellowed. "STAY TO YOUR SIGNALS—EARS TO THE CHAIN, NOT TO THEM!"
But even his voice trembled with strain.
His words struck the sand, unheard by most, distorted by the roar of thousands. Warriors spun blindly, panting, gripping shields tight, unsure if the footfalls behind them belonged to friend or foe.
"LEFT WING, PULL BACK! RIGHT WING, HOLD FORM!" he cried again.
There was no left wing. Or rather, what remained of it was tangled in confusion. The tactile chain that once connected warrior to warrior—grip to shield, elbow to arm—had been broken. Fear had cut through it like a knife.
A reserve soldier turned to where his wingmate should have been and swung his blade at a voice. The blade met flesh. A grunt. Then a crash. The reserve staggered, frozen.
Another pair bumped shields, reacting too late to each other's presence. One jerked back, believing it an enemy—his foot caught another's leg, and both fell in a tangled heap, flailing. One of them never rose.
At the center, the commander clenched his teeth, hearing only pieces of the collapse. The sound of boots scraping the sand, of armor clattering, of a scream too close to be Caelvir's.
He pressed both hands to his sword hilt and shouted once more, voice raw:
"YOU FOOLS! HE'S ONE MAN!"
But one man was enough. One man who wasn't blind.
Caelvir, now standing among the dead, heard the commander's cries. He watched as the last semblance of discipline eroded. The blind wedge was blind in more ways than one now—cut from each other, their trust ruptured by fear. They had been trained to listen, to act as one.
Now, every word they heard was suspect. Every movement they sensed might be a trick.
The commander's next shout cracked like a whip:
"DO NOT MOVE WITHOUT PHYSICAL CONFIRMATION! BACK TO BACK! TOUCH TO TOUCH!"
But the soldiers no longer knew where to go, who to reach. They turned in circles, some shielding their sides, some backing away from their own kin. One shouted, "Where's Ardan?! Where's—?!" before an axe blade—mistaken, unmeant—split his chest open from behind.
A single voice shouted: "THEY'RE STRIKING THEIR OWN!"
And the crowd roared with it—part in horror, part in exhilaration.
From above, the nobles had fallen silent for a long moment. Even Masquien's usual smirk had faded.
General Talen finally muttered, "He's not just killing them with a blade… He's dismantling them. Layer by layer."
Venara added, "He didn't do it alone. It's the crowd. The false signals. He's turned the audience into his weapon."
"They cannot recover," said the old, quiet noble. "Disorder among the blind is like fog on the mountain. They cannot see each other… and now, they do not trust what they hear either."
"Too late," said Faron grimly. "The commander can scream until his throat bleeds. They're deaf to each other now. He's lost them."
A group of blind men, trained to kill in formation, were now dancing on puppet strings.
And the puppeteers were faceless voices in the crowd.
Caelvir used it.
He pushed off his elbows, teeth clenched hard enough to crack.
The world tilted.
His vision blurred.
But he stood—not tall, not proud, but upright.
And that was enough.
He staggered toward the carnage, where three corpses lay in a tangle of limbs.
Blood pooled beneath them like dark wine. His right arm dangled like wet cloth at his side, the wound pulsing a dull, spreading warmth into his tunic.
He kneeled at the first body, yanked a sash from the man's waist with his left hand, and wrapped it tightly around his arm. The cloth soaked red instantly, but it slowed the flow.
Still crouched among the fallen, Caelvir's chest heaved in jagged bursts.
Every breath tore through his lungs like a blade, loud and uneven—a dangerous beacon to the blind ears around him.
He knew he couldn't keep hiding with breath like this. Quickly, he reached for one of the corpses nearby, ripping a strip of cloth from the inside of the warrior's tunic.
With shaking fingers, he wrapped it around his face—over the nose and mouth—tightening it at the back of his head.
The fabric pressed against his lips, muffling the rasping sound of his exhale, dulling the harsh rhythm of his fatigue.
A crude muzzle, soaked in the sweat and blood of others, but it would do.
For now, his breath belonged to no one but him.
A shout—too close.
Caelvir turned just in time to see a figure charging, blade raised.
He dropped flat, rolled, and as the attacker passed, Caelvir kicked the warrior's shin, toppling him.
In one fluid motion, he grasped the fallen man's dagger from his belt and buried it under the ribs—low, angled, through the side.
The blade sunk deep. The blind warrior's body seized.
Caelvir yanked the dagger free and stumbled toward the second corpse.
The crowd's cries now surged in rhythm—some giving commands, others laughing, others pleading for blood.
Madness and chaos reigned supreme.
Another warrior approached, swinging blind and wide. Caelvir ducked the blade by a hair's width and struck forward—not high, not straight, but underhanded, sliding the dagger beneath the blind man's shield and into his thigh.
The warrior howled, dropped to one knee.
Caelvir struck again, this time to the throat.
He moved. Always moved.
The chaos was spreading like infection. The once-dignified wedge was nothing but two clusters of half-panicked men trying to make sense of lies dressed as truth.
The next kill came unexpectedly. A soldier had turned his back, advancing toward a sound the crowd had misdirected him to.
Caelvir didn't hesitate.
He dashed the last few feet, leapt, and tackled the man from behind.
His dagger pierced the side of the neck—then again, and again.
The man collapsed with a wet gasp, choking on blood.
Breathing hard, Caelvir looked down at his arm. His forearm was slick and dark. The pain had dulled, replaced now by cold. The bleeding hadn't stopped.
He tore the lower garment from one of the corpses—filthy, bloodied, but usable. Then another. He wrapped layer after layer over his wound.
Underwear cords, waistband sashes, even scraps of tunic.
Tied tight, knotted messily, until his entire bicep was a ball of bundled cloth and drying blood.
He squeezed it hard with his left hand. Grit his teeth against the pain. But the blood slowed. Not stopped—but it slowed.
He stood again, this time more upright. Still shaky, but firmer.
Across the arena, the surviving blind warriors were turning on each other—some defending, some shouting commands, some frozen in confusion.
The commander shouted orders to reform, but his voice was lost in the whirlwind of panic and deception.
Six men remained.