Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Chapter 10: One Moment Longer (I)



It was a week after Seren's death, and the sands were already calling for more blood.

Valkira's sword met Lysara's in a sharp, upward sweep, parried, twisted, countered. They moved like dancers forced to wear armor, grace coiled with violence, step and strike folded into one.

A practice match on grounds not welcoming toward most warriors of the Dust.

Valkira didn't speak. She pivoted her weight, deflected Lysara's slash, and returned a backhand sweep that nearly bit into her friend's collarbone. Lysara blocked in time, but only barely.

Each strike was practiced and familiar, yet Valkira's mind wasn't wholly in it.

Seren.

The girl's name whispered itself behind every breath, behind the sheen of sweat, behind the rhythm of sword and step. The training grounds moved around Valkira like fog, unfocused. Seren was not supposed to die. Not that quickly. Not in that way.

Lysara lunged, feinting high before angling low. Valkira sidestepped with a half-turn and struck, her blade whistling through the space Lysara had just vacated.

She remembered the day Seren arrived, about a month ago.

The white blonde hair had made her unmistakable, its snow-pure shade stark even under the grime of travel and fear. Her skin, like cream, had been untouched by sun or sword. Her eyes were wide and bewildered, still trying to understand what this place was. An Elarian through and through. Enchanting to look at, delicate, soft-spoken, even amid the screams of other newcomers.

Elarian women did not last long here.

They were hunted, on the surface for coin, and down here for pleasure. In Velrane markets, Elarian girls fetched high prices and were traded like jewelry. And when they were brought to the colosseum instead, there was no mercy involved. It was all spectacle.

Each month, new prisoners were herded into the cells, dumped like refuse, stripped of names, and clothed in numbers. They were thrown dull blades and nicked axes with no training, no introduction, only old weapons and new nightmares.

Seren had barely caught the blade tossed to her that first day. Valkira remembered watching from her corner of the cell block, seeing Seren's fingers fumble the hilt, nearly dropping it. Brusk and his pack had already seen her. The way they laughed and licked their lips. Men like him did not need reasons.

That was the moment Valkira stepped in, as always.

She had made it her habit to guard the new ones, especially the women. Too many never made it through the first dusk, their food stolen, their bodies violated, and their spirits broken before the first blood match. Valkira had built something different, a fragile tribe within the shadows, a community of those who still believed in survival as something shared. Her sword served not just for battle, but for boundary and safety.

That was when she met Lysara. Quiet. Observant. Dangerous.

The kind of girl who never needed saving and never offered words either. They became unspoken allies, Valkira the voice, Lysara the shadow. Seren, on the other hand...

Lysara spun low, swiping at Valkira's knee. Valkira blocked it with a clang and drove forward, forcing Lysara into retreat. The clang of metal rang again.

Seren had never been built for this. Her strikes hesitated at the final moment, her eyes flinched whenever someone bled, and she moved like someone born to be admired rather than to fight. Yet Valkira saw more. She saw someone worth saving, someone worth shaping. Training, after all, could compensate for what nature denied.

She herself had no towering strength, no god-given speed, only years of method, muscle memory, and the understanding of when to break a rhythm and when to create one. She could drop a brute twice her size because she studied what they did not. She survived because she trained.

So why hadn't Seren?

Why was she dead, and that boy still breathing?

Caelvir. A starving runt with no strength, no skill, and no form. She had seen him before, just another skeleton with scars and empty eyes. Seren could have killed him three times in that match. The gap between them had been massive. She had the advantage, the speed, the weapon, and the clarity. He had nothing.

Except he had moved like someone with nothing to lose.

Like an animal, like a beast.

Valkira growled under her breath and pressed forward. Lysara matched her step for step until Valkira twisted, flipped the angle of her blade, and caught Lysara's sword with a sharp uppercut.

The weapon flew from Lysara's grip and clattered across the floor.

Lysara fell back onto one knee, breathing hard and staring up at her friend.

Valkira lowered her sword, not with smugness or satisfaction, but simply lost in thought.

Maybe it had been luck. Caelvir should not have won by any known metric. But still...

He had used every ounce of awareness, every twitch of motion, and every inch of the sand to his advantage. He had clung to life like it was the last ember of warmth in a frozen world. He turned his weakness into traps, his limp into misdirection, and his desperation into a weapon.

Was that the answer?

Was willpower the ultimate edge?

And then there was magic. She tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword as the thought drifted in.

She, of course, possessed it. Wind ran through her blood like a silent partner, honed through years of battle, meditation, and discipline.

Had Caelvir used some form of it against Seren? The question burned at the edge of her thoughts.

No, she decided. That could not be. Magic demanded a tuned body, years of training, and a will refined through fire and failure.

That boy had barely the muscle to lift a sword, let alone the strength to wield the currents of the arcane.

Still, something had turned the tide that day.

Seren had the body and the technique. But perhaps she lacked the will, the refusal to die, the absolute, teeth-gritting need to survive. What decided a battle in the end? Was it strength, speed, cunning, or experience?

Or was it something else?

Lysara stood slowly, brushing dust from her arm. She did not speak, but her gaze lingered, studying Valkira, questioning without asking. Valkira did not meet her eyes.

Valkira had never asked herself why she fought or why she swung her blade. The answer had always been too obvious.

She fought to win. She swung to kill. Each death added to the count, bringing her one step closer to one thousand victories.

That was the rule. That was the path.

She would leave this cursed stone womb behind. She would get outside again. She would—

"She'd want us to keep going, you know," Lysara said softly, breaking the silence.

Valkira blinked, her thoughts dissipating.

Lysara stepped beside her, her voice quiet and barely audible over the distant clash of steel still echoing through the grounds. "Seren might not have been ready for this place, but she tried. And she followed you because she believed in something. If we keep fighting, if we carry her will with us, then she's not really gone."

For the first time since the match, Valkira's expression softened.

A quiet smile, brittle and fleeting, touched her lips. She turned to Lysara and, with a rare gentleness, extended her hand.

Lysara took it without hesitation, letting Valkira pull her to her feet. For a moment, they simply stood there, the roar of the colosseum hushed beneath the weight of what had been lost and what had to be done next.

Tomorrow would be Valkira's sixtieth fight.

She looked up toward the tiny square of sky far above the stone walls. The clouds drifted slowly, free.


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