The first strike came faster than Aeron could follow.
The man's massive blade howled through the air, and instinct dragged Aeron backward. Steel kissed flesh—a shallow cut across his arm—and the sting of blood pulled a gasp from his throat.
Pain sharpened him.
His body was clumsy, frail, a stranger's shell that shook with each breath. But his mind—his mind still worked. He studied the man's rhythm, the weight behind each swing, the way the armor dragged at his movements.
This body isn't built for combat. If I meet strength with strength, I'm dead.
The man loomed like a butcher savoring his craft. Every step was deliberate, every swing intended not just to kill, but to crush.
Terror clawed through Aeron's chest, urging him to run, to surrender. His heart thundered so loud he thought it might drown out thought entirely. But fear was a distraction, and distraction was death.
The blade came again, cleaving the air with brutal force. Aeron staggered aside. The impact shook the ground, spraying dirt and shards of stone into his face.
Scrambling, Aeron's fingers searched the ground. By chance—or fate—they closed around a jagged shard of rock. Too small for a true weapon, but sharp enough to draw blood.
The man turned, helmet glinting in the crimson arena light. "You think that will save you?" His voice was deep, metallic, mocking.
Aeron didn't waste breath on an answer. He surged forward, mind screaming calculations. The blade arced toward him—he ducked under it, air burning his lungs. In the heartbeat of opening, he rammed the stone into the seam of the man's armor.
The roar that followed was not human.
The giant staggered, clutching at his side as black blood leaked between the plates. His swings grew wilder, less controlled, driven by rage instead of precision.
Aeron danced on the edge of death. Every dodge stretched his body past its limit, every breath burned like fire in his chest. His muscles screamed for surrender, but his mind refused.
Then the man lowered his shoulder and charged.
Aeron was too slow. The collision ripped the air from his lungs, flinging him to the ground. His vision blurred. The blade rose, a guillotine poised to fall.
"Do something."
The voice cut into his skull. Cold. Commanding. Not his own.
His limbs moved before thought. He rolled, dirt scraping his skin, as the blade struck where his skull had been a second earlier. With a desperate cry, Aeron thrust upward, ramming the shard of stone into the gap beneath the man's helmet.
The sound that followed was wet and final.
The man froze, gurgling, blood pouring down his chest. The sword slipped from his grasp as he collapsed, armor clattering against the crimson-stained ground.
Silence.
Aeron crawled backward, chest heaving, his body shaking so violently he thought it might break apart. He didn't feel triumph—only the animal relief of prey that had outlived the predator.
The voice returned, smooth and indifferent.
"You survived. Well done."
The arena shifted, its blood-soaked sand fading into mist. Gates creaked open ahead, light spilling through.
Aeron staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding arm. Every step was agony, but the voice was merciless.
"Leave. Collapse here, and you will not rise again."
He stumbled forward, through the gate, into a world beyond—a sprawl of narrow alleys and distant, haunting cries. The air was damp, heavy, filled with the stench of rust and ash.
His legs buckled, his vision tunneling. Still, he forced one step, then another, dragging himself away from the arena's shadow.
Only when his body finally betrayed him did he collapse onto the cold stone street.
As darkness claimed him, the voice whispered once more.
"You lived today. Do not waste it."
And then, fainter, almost amused:
"The next trial waits."