Aira was yet to recover as she stood there, her feet rooted to the stone floor, even as the women in the arena—dressed in fitted pants and tightly bound corset tops—slowly divided themselves into pairs. The scent of iron and sweat thickened in the air, and the hush that hung before the storm was laced with unspoken dread.
The fear in some of their faces was palpable enough to taste—sharp and metallic, like blood on the tongue. It was clear that some were being thrown into the tournament unwilling, perhaps for the first time realizing the weight of the spectacle they were made to serve.
It only became clear when swords were brought out, laid bare like offerings, and each woman was made to choose one.
Some gripped the blades with startling ease, fingers curling around the hilt with practiced familiarity, the gleam in their eyes enough to make others flinch. But others—others trembled. Their hands fumbled, shoulders rigid, barely able to lift the weapons that suddenly seemed far heavier than forged steel.
The fear that assailed Aira only deepened, coiling tight in her chest, as she heard Zyren’s voice rise beside her—silken and cruel, steeped in derision.
"Some of them were most likely sent because of their faces rather than skill," he said with a faint, mocking smile, his red eyes sweeping over the arena like a blade. The casual disdain in his voice made her skin crawl.
"They probably think I might take a liking to them and stop them from being killed."
His words dripped with something darker than amusement. Aira didn’t need him to say it plainly—Zyren would rather watch their blood soak the sand than endure the sight of a pretty face that offered him no thrill.
The first group was ushered to the center while the rest were pushed aside like cattle awaiting slaughter. What made it worse—what made Aira’s breath catch—was the trembling unease in both girls’ faces. Their inexperience was obvious, etched into the tension of their limbs, the way they held the blades like foreign objects.
Worse still was the fear in their eyes. Raw. Human. The kind of fear only those who had never killed knew—hesitant and paralyzing.
Their hands shook as they tried to steady their weapons, and it only worsened when the officiator raised his hand—then brought it down.
The crowd erupted. Cheers thundered from the stands—but the two girls didn’t move. Not even a twitch. The swords in their hands looked lighter than the ones that had been given to the men, but it made no difference.
Neither of them looked capable of using them.
This is not good, Aira thought, dread slithering down her spine. She knew Zyren. Mercy would not come from him. Their hesitation—this pathetic display—would only anger him. And anger in him meant pain. Suffering.
The women circled each other in slow, desperate loops. Cheers faded. The audience grew restless. Jeers replaced applause, and the sky filled with objects hurled from impatient hands—fruit, goblets, even stones.
Aira could no longer stay silent. Her lips parted to speak—but Zyren’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, booming past the pavilion and echoing across the blood-stained arena.
"If you can’t fight, then leave." words that sounded more like a threat.
He did not shout, but the calm thunder of his voice rippled like a command from the heavens. His eyes, twin pools of red flame, narrowed with a fury that made Aira shudder. She felt it ripple through her skin.
And then—one of the women cracked.
She dropped her blade with a clatter, trembling as she turned toward Zyren and fell to her knees. Her voice shook as she cried out.
"My lord! Spare me! I swear to serve you!"
Her corset strained at the seams, chest heaving so hard her breasts threatened to spill out, desperation pouring from every movement. A calculated display or pure fear—it didn’t matter.
Aira’s stomach twisted. Her breath hitched. Her nails dug so hard into her palms she felt skin break.
The sound was low, dark—dangerous.
Then he raised his hand.
And brought it down with a lazy slice through the air.
The sound that followed was soft. A mere crack. Like something delicate snapping.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The woman’s head lolled, her neck bent at an unnatural angle. Blood gushed from her nose, her mouth, thick and fast. Her eyes bulged with horror as she choked on her own blood, one hand clawing weakly at her throat before collapsing to the side, twitching in a grotesque dance of death.
The crowd watched in stunned silence. Her partner dropped to her knees, body quaking, arms wrapped tight around herself as if to hold her soul in place.
"If you can no longer fight, you can leave," Zyren repeated, voice like steel across a battlefield.
The woman still alive scrambled to her feet with a speed born of terror, head shaking so violently her teeth chattered.
"N-no, my King!" she gasped, gripping her sword with white-knuckled hands. She raised it, her entire frame tense, on the verge of breaking—but refusing to snap. She didn’t lower her arms even when Zyren gave her a slight nod to continue.
For Aira, it was the way he had killed her.
So utterly without care.
She had stood beside him—beside
She had always known. But now—now—the truth was a jagged blade in her gut. She had slept beside him. Let him touch her. Kiss her.
The revulsion bloomed in her stomach, acidic and hot, as though it might purge itself through her throat. Her palms bled where her nails had driven into skin.
She regretted not bringing the bag of rotten food she had once hidden, the one she had planned to use. But Zyren would have sensed it before she took a step near him. She knew that now.
Aira’s eyes snapped back to the arena.
The trembling girl—still human, still alive—was handed a new opponent. This one held her sword with confidence. Hunger. Her eyes flashed as she raised her blade, and yet... it was the first girl that surprised Aira most.
She had stopped shaking.
There was something in the way she stood now—legs braced, blade gripped tight—that told Aira this girl would fight. She would fight. With everything in her. To survive.
Aira couldn’t look away.
And then she wondered, not for the first time—
To kill or be killed. She turned the question over and over, and every path led to the same answer the woman had chosen. The only one there was.
Aira watched, heart thundering, as the match began again.
The girl screamed—a raw, furious cry—and charged forward, sword raised. Her voice pierced the arena.
She would not go down without a fight.