She only took one more breath before she was cut down.
It was inevitable. She was too slow... too inexperienced... far beneath the woman she faced.
A flicker of horror passed over her face—then her body hit the dirt with a dull, sickening thud. The sword slipped from her grasp, clattering beside her as she clutched the gaping wound at her throat, blood pouring in warm, rhythmic surges between her fingers. Her mouth opened soundlessly, her eyes wild with disbelief, as though sheer will alone might stitch her skin back together—might hold her soul inside a moment longer.
The cheers returned. Louder. Wilder. As if her death had roused something primal in the crowd. The men dying had long grown dull to their senses. But this—this was new. The way her soft body fell, the crimson spill across her corset—this thrilled them.
Aira stood on the pavilion, her posture composed, but every muscle beneath her skin trembled. She was frozen from within, trembling like a blade held too long in snow. Still, she kept her spine straight, her face unreadable, even as the lifeless woman was dragged off like nothing more than a broken doll.
The victor raised her arms triumphantly, her mouth stretched in a blood-slick grin as she bowed low toward Zyren. She had the audacity to shoot Aira a bold, challenging look—one Aira did not return. Her eyes remained fixed on the corpse, on the empty stare of the woman whose life had just ended in the dirt.
"Are you sad?" Zyren’s voice cut through the air like velvet laced in razors—so low, so smooth, it barely reached her ears.
Aira nearly missed it. But she turned her head slightly, and matched his quiet tone with her own.
"Why should I? I don’t know her," she said, her voice sharp, brittle.
She tried to shift her attention, tried to glance toward the rows where she’d seen her mother. The woman who had looked too carefree. Too untouched by grief to be the woman who birthed her. She needed to look again. To confirm what her heart refused to believe.
But before she could search for the face, Zyren spoke again. This time, his words demanded her full attention.
"So what’s your plan? How do you plan to survive?" he asked, turning his head just enough that their eyes met—his red gaze glowing like banked embers under a steel hood of indifference.
Aira’s jaw tightened, fury stirring behind her irises. She stared right back at him, refusing to flinch as his voice coiled around her like smoke.
"You can’t fight clearly. If you do, you’ll die," he added, as if it were a simple truth. As if she were too stupid not to already know.
The applause around them surged again. Two more fighters stepped into the ring. They looked evenly matched, but Aira’s gaze didn’t leave Zyren. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a bird trying to flee a burning cage.
"If I beg, you’ll protect me?" she asked suddenly. The words burned on her tongue—acid she forced herself to swallow.
She could do it. If it meant staying alive long enough to protect her sister. To claw her way toward revenge. She could beg.
Zyren smiled then—slow, amused. A predator’s smile just before the bite.
"Of course I’ll protect you. For a price," he replied, with a softness that felt more cruel than if he’d spat in her face.
Aira turned away instantly. She didn’t ask what the price was. She didn’t need to.
Her body. Her soul. He would take whichever—or both. And neither was a currency she was willing to pay.
He chuckled at her silence, the sound low and pleased, like he was savoring her restraint. The matches continued below, blood soaking deeper into the arena sands, and still Aira’s pulse roared louder than the crowd.
The final match was soon assembled, the inner circle confirmed—only seven fighters remained. Fewer than expected. Still too many.
Aira braced herself. Any moment now, she would be called down—thrown into the blood-soaked dirt like the rest. She felt lightheaded, her vision blurring just enough to make her sway on her feet.
Then Zyren’s voice rang out, rich with amusement.
"An all-out fight! The winner will fight my pet," he announced, his grin widening like a cut.
The crowd erupted. Screams and cheers, bloodlust pounding from every direction. Aira’s breath caught as her head whipped toward him, her eyes wide in disbelief.
She saw it instantly. The plan was as obvious as it was cruel.
A group match—every fighter for themselves—would end in chaos. There would be no honor. The weak would gang up on the strong, desperate to tip the odds. And it happened almost at once—five of the remaining seven exchanged a glance and grouped together. The other two stood their ground, resigned to their fate.
The carnage began with a scream and a splatter.
One fell instantly, gutted before she could turn. Another lasted longer—only to be overwhelmed as blades sliced across her spine and neck, spraying crimson into the dirt.
"You know how this fight is going to end, don’t you?" Zyren asked her.
Aira didn’t answer aloud. But her thoughts screamed.
All four of them will die.
She said nothing, eyes narrowed, locked on the bloodbath below. Her gaze followed the last woman standing against the odds—a lithe, dark-haired figure with sharp brown eyes and ruthless precision. She moved like she’d been born with a sword in her hand.
And Aira knew—this was who she would have to face.
The thought was like ice shoved into her lungs, the harder she thought about it.
’I need to eat whatever Rymora prepared,’ she thought, her fingers clenched tightly at her sides. ’I just need to survive tonight. Stall the match until tomorrow.’
She couldn’t fight like that woman. But she could survive—if she was smart enough.
They And if Zyren didn’t decide to change the game again.