Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The colosseum air was heavy with the scent of dust, sweat, and blood. Above, the stands brimmed with murmurs, hushed and almost reverent, as the crowd understood what kind of fight was about to unfold.

Valkira stepped onto the bloodstained sand with a practiced grace, her silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the morning light. She was tall for a woman, her frame lean yet sculpted by countless battles, each muscle and step speaking of discipline. Her body bore the elegance of training coupled with the weight of survival.

She wore lightweight brown leather armor, worn yet meticulously maintained, hugging her form while still allowing movement. A short robe, skewed to the right, fell over her shoulder and fluttered slightly in the breeze like a half-forgotten standard. Leather bracers covered her elbows and knees, scratched from a countless number of combats, while her boots rose just past the ankle, dusty, scarred, and silent as she walked.

However, it was her sword that drew every eye.

Slender and deadly, it shimmered faintly in the sunlight, with teal-blue engravings curling like veins along its blade. The handle bore intricate symbols, depictions of birds in flight and butterflies mid-dance. It resembled a relic from a noble house, a weapon never meant for such a filthy arena.

Yet here, it sang.

The air around the blade bent subtly, distorting like heat haze, while a faint howl followed each movement, as if the wind itself whispered warnings of its edge.

Across the arena stood her opponent.

A boy, barely older than twenty, trembled in the half-shade. He wore little more than a tangle of cords around his waist, nothing beyond rags. His chest rose and fell erratically, his skin slick with sweat and ribs protruding. In his hands, he held a rusty blade that seemed likely to snap before piercing anything.

He belonged to Valkira's group, and though she knew his name, she chose not to speak it aloud.

This was meant to be his fifth fight.

But today, luck had abandoned him.

His eyes flitted across the crowd, searching desperately for mercy that did not exist here. When he looked back at Valkira, his gaze was wide with understanding. He knew exactly who she was, what she had done, and what she could do.

Still, Valkira's expression remained unchanged.

Two enter, one leaves.

That was the rule.

Yet something felt strange. Valkira noticed it, and so did many others. Why this match? Why such an extreme gap between battle rankings—sixtieth against fifth? It reeked of manipulation, of an arrangement made in shadowed corners, perhaps a lesson or a warning.

The horn sounded.

A thunderous note split the air.

Valkira began walking forward with measured, calculated steps. Her opponent staggered back, his feet dragging shallow trenches in the sand as he circled, trying to remain out of reach. Each time he moved, she matched him. She was like the tide, unrelenting and creeping closer.

At five feet away, she stopped.

Then struck.

Steel hissed through the air. His blade rose in reflex and collided mid-air with hers, creating a screech of friction. He grunted, his legs buckling slightly from the force.

"Fight me," Valkira said, her voice like iron wrapped in silk. "As you've trained. Fight like your life depends on it, because it does."

Their swords clashed again. He responded, awkward and frantic, but not without traces of skill. There were glimpses of form, remnants of drills he had endured. Desperation made him unpredictable.

He swung wide. She ducked. He lunged forward, and she twisted aside, allowing his blade to pass her shoulder before snapping her own across his ribs.

He panted and staggered, but he didn't give up. He came at her again, teeth clenched, swinging one, two, three more times. His strikes were wild and reckless.

And predictable.

With one clean parry, Valkira spun and sent his sword flying across the sand, where it landed far behind him with a dull clang.

He collapsed to his knees.

Chest heaving, face pale.

Valkira stood before him, sword pointed downward as she looked at him.

"So that is the extent of your will to live?"

He looked up with eyes wide in horror. "Please… boss, don't—"

But he wasn't finished.

With a sudden jerk, he clawed at the ground and scooped up a fistful of sand. With a cry, more a sob than a war cry, he flung it toward her face.

Yet Valkira had already moved.

Her sword rose at just the right angle. The sand struck the flat of the blade with a soft hiss, harmless.

She stepped in, swift like a striking hawk.

Then came the first blow.

Her boot drove into his ribs. He gasped, spittle flying.

Again.

He curled.

Again.

He groaned, barely conscious.

She raised her sword.

There was no hesitation.

Just a whisper in her mind—Seren.

"This is how you should have done it," Valkira thought. Never get close without thinking. Never assume the fight is won. Never give your enemy the chance to make it messy.

She thrust the blade through his throat in a clean, surgical motion. Blood sprayed upward, warm and silent.

His body jerked once, then crumpled.

Valkira looked down, her breath steady.

There is no need to grapple, she thought, speaking to Seren in the quiet of her mind, not when your blade is sharp enough to end it. Mercy does not belong here, for it is merely a blade turned toward your own neck.

And never hesitate.

This place did not reward kindness. It devoured it.

Here, you survived only if your opponent did not.

She turned away from the corpse as cheers erupted, distant and meaningless.

As Valkira wiped her blade clean with the hem of her robe, she began the slow walk toward the arena gate. Her boots left faint imprints in the red-soaked sand, her breath even, her focus returning to silence.

But something was wrong.

The iron-barred gate had not opened.

She came to a stop a few steps away, her brows narrowing. Two guards stood firm on the other side, unmoving, their faces unreadable beneath iron helms.

The match was over. The crowd had cheered. The body lay still behind her. She should have been halfway back to her cell by now, drinking tepid water and wiping blood from her limbs. Her hand twitched slightly near her sword's hilt.

Then came the sound—BOOOOM.

A deeper, darker horn shattered the sky.

The sound did not carry the clean, clipped tone that signaled an official fight. This one was heavier, meant for something else entirely. The arena hushed like a gasp caught in a thousand throats.

High above, the stone balcony jutted from the emperor's viewing platform. Draped in velvet banners and golden trim, a man stepped into the spotlight. His voice, magnified by the enchantments sewn into the arches, rippled across the colosseum.

"Ahhh, Valkira!" the announcer boomed, honeyed and theatrical, his arms spread as if welcoming a lover to a dance. "Sixty victories! From zero to sixty in mere months, what a marvel to witness. The crowd adores you, the noble houses place their bets, and even the city guards whisper your name like a prayer or a threat."

A chuckle rippled through the audience. Valkira didn't move. She stood staring up at the balcony, her eyes cool and expressionless.

"But my dear friends," the announcer continued, pacing along the balcony with theatrical flair, "when one gladiator stands so far above the rest, the balance begins to shift. The scales grow heavy, too heavy. And making things too predictable would be such a shame."

The crowd murmured, curious.

"Now, a hundred against one might be excessive, even for our dear Valkira the Windblade. And we are, of course, reasonable men."

Laughter rose, followed by a few whistles from the crowd.

"So let's be modest. Let's even be generous. What number sings with the heart of drama? Ah yes. Twenty."

A roar of excitement burst from the stands.

Valkira's eyes flicked toward the far side of the colosseum.

The heavy gate there began to groan open.

From its dark mouth emerged a group of twenty fighters, disoriented and blinking in the harsh light. Some stepped forward hesitantly, others were shoved from behind. All of them carried weapons. Military-grade swords meant for guards and elite units. Those with smaller builds held sharp, curved daggers or short knives.

She recognized those faces.

Fresh prisoners. They had arrived recently, hauled in chains.

Most of them had not fought before. A few bore the nervous twitch of men who had survived their first match through accident or luck.

They were not warriors.

Yet here they stood, armed and thrown before her like sheep dressed in wolves' teeth.

"You must be wondering what this is all about," the announcer said with a mischievous grin. "Let me assure you, it's merely to spice things up. We've heard whispers, even complaints, that the new blood hasn't delivered quite the thrill our dear nobles expected."

"Well!" the announcer twirled with a flourish. "We do what we must to entertain. And though the quality of our matches may not reach the grand heights of Solinar's Sapphire Arena, I daresay Draeal's Dust is second to none when it comes to creativity!"

Valkira's jaw clenched slightly. The new fighters had begun to form a loose line. Some still looked unsure whether this was a trick, while others glanced between her and the weapons in their hands.

The announcer's voice soared again.

"Ladies and Lords, gamblers and gods, here it is! One against twenty! Steel against steel! Fresh blood and fine blades versus the Windblade herself! Who will triumph? Who will fall?"

The crowd surged with cheers.

"Make your bets, scream your loyalties, and don't look away. There are no empty seats tonight. Let the battle..."

A dramatic pause followed.

"Begin!"

The arena gates slammed shut.

Valkira stood alone at one end of the sand.

Twenty opponents faced her across the arena.

Her grip tightened around the sword that bent the air with every breath.