Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Seren tightened the straps of her worn leather armor, her fingers trembling slightly and betraying the calm facade she tried so hard to maintain. Today marked her seventh fight in the arena, each previous battle having brought her a step closer to the freedom she so desperately sought, yet the weight of this particular match pressed heavily on her shoulders.

Valkira approached, her presence as commanding as always. "You've trained hard, Seren," she said, placing a firm hand on Seren's shoulder. "Trust in your skills."

Lysara nodded in agreement, her expression stoic as she added, "Remember your footwork. Stay light, stay alert."

Seren managed a weak smile, drawing strength from their support. She recalled the countless hours spent under Valkira's tutelage, the bruises, the sweat, and the tears, all of it leading to this moment.

The clanging of iron gates interrupted her thoughts as guards marched down the corridor, their footsteps echoing ominously. They stopped before a cell and unlocked it with a resounding click.

From the shadows emerged a gaunt figure, his eyes devoid of emotion.

His steps made no sound on the stone, as if the dungeon floor itself had learned to fall silent for him.

"Caelvir," Aelric murmured, his gaze fixed on the boy.

Valkira's eyes narrowed. "I don't care what his name is," she spat. "He's a beast, nothing more."

Seren's heart pounded in her chest. She had heard the tales, the ones about the boy who had devoured his opponent in his first fight. But as she looked at him now, he seemed fragile, almost skeletal, and still, a chill ran down her spine.

"You'll be fine," Valkira reassured her. "He's inexperienced, untrained. You've got this."

Seren nodded, steeling herself. She couldn't afford to falter, not now.

The arena roared with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed across the stands. "Ladies and gentlemen, today we have a special match! Seren the Star, beloved by all, faces off against the infamous cannibal beast!"

Cheers erupted, mixed with jeers and crude remarks. Seren felt their eyes on her, not as a warrior worthy of respect, but as an object of desire. She gritted her teeth and focused on the task at hand.

As she stepped onto the sandy floor, memories flooded her mind. She had faced worse monsters.

She remembered her homeland, the snow-covered plains of the Elarian tribe, known for their ethereal beauty and fair skin. She remembered the day the bandits raided her village, the screams, the blood, and the fire. Her capture, the chains, the leering eyes of slavers. The day she killed her master and tasted freedom for a fleeting moment before being thrown into the colosseum.

Brusk's gang had taken her first, their assault leaving scars deeper than any blade ever could. She had become a shell, empty and broken, until Valkira extended a hand and pulled her from the abyss. Since then, Seren had fought not only for survival, but for redemption, for a future alongside the woman who had saved her.

The fights were getting harder. At first, she had faced brutish amateurs, panicked and clumsy boys thrown into the sand like animals. But lately, the opponents moved differently. Their eyes were not wild but patient, and their strikes carried a weight that tested her endurance. Each victory left her breathless for longer, each wound took more time to heal. But she kept standing, and she owed that to Valkira and to Lysara's brutal, exacting drills. Together, they had carved steel into her spine.

Still, Seren lived with a gnawing fear, a quiet one lodged behind her ribs. She often wondered what she would do if, one day, the name called from the gate belonged to Valkira or Lysara. Only one could be left standing when the horn sounded at the end, and that thought felt like a blade in her throat. She swallowed it every morning.

She could not imagine freedom if they were not by her side.

That dream of freedom remained a blurry thing, more of a feeling than a clear image. But sometimes, when the air was still, she let herself imagine it anyway, a hill somewhere, green and soft, a quiet house without sand or steel. Valkira laughing, maybe. Or just silence, the good kind. A life without Brusk's snarling mob, without announcers barking her name, without blood soaking her thighs. She had never spoken this dream aloud.

But none of that mattered now.

Across the sand stood her enemy.

A ghost in skin. The cannibal. The boy. The beast.

Seren narrowed her eyes at him, searching for something human. But he only stood there, gaunt and slow-breathing, his arms hanging loose as though he wasn't even sure where he was. His ribs poked through his skin, and his eyes were dark hollows, expressionless.

He looked weak and malnourished, like a boy who could blow away in the wind. But she didn't trust that appearance. Monsters didn't always bare their teeth. The child he had eaten had looked like this too, right before he tore her apart.

Still, his posture was loose in the way amateurs stand when they have never truly fought someone who means to kill them. His grip on the dagger was wrong. Valkira had taught her better. She could see it in every angle, every inch of an opening. She would kill him, swift and clean.

Her hand gripped the sword tightly, the one she had taken from a snarling thug in her first match, a lackey of Brusk's. He had jeered at her, called her soft, and told her he would strip her bare in the dirt. She slit his throat in the third minute. That was when the cheering had started.

They cheered her every time now.

But it was never for her skill.

It was always, "Show us your chest, pretty thing!" or "Spin for us, snowflake!" or worse. Even when she bled, they called it beautiful. A girl from the north, white-haired and pale, tossed into the pit; she was a fantasy to them, a plaything. No matter how many bodies she stacked beneath her name, they still watched her like animals from behind the bars.

She hated them, every single one of them.

But she bowed, she smiled, and she survived. That was how it worked. Until she could crawl out of this hell beside Valkira.

And now?

Now she had to kill this monster.

The horn sounded, signaling the start of the match. Seren took a deep breath and stepped forward, determination burning in her chest. She would win. She had to.

And then she would win thirty more. And then sixty. And then one hundred. And then a thousand.

Until the door opened.

And she could leave.