Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

From the shadowed underbelly of the coliseum, behind thick iron bars, six pairs of eyes tracked the impending clash.

Valkira stood tall, arms folded, with the flicker of a smirk playing at her lips. Beside her, Lysara leaned forward, knuckles white on the bars, sharp-eyed and expectant. Aelric said nothing, his face unreadable, though his gaze remained fixed on the two figures in the ring. Even Brusk and his gang had gathered, leaning and jeering while mocking laughter bubbled in their throats, their wolfish grins wide.

In the arena's center, Caelvir stood barefoot, his ribs protruding sharply against pale, malnourished skin. His right hand clutched a dagger, more ceremonial than lethal, and his stance was loose and uncertain, driven more by the need to survive than by any honed skill. He looked like a man thrust onto a stage where he clearly did not belong.

Facing him was Seren.

Her body, lean yet coiled with power, held muscle taut beneath sun-bronzed skin. Her sword rested in her right hand, angled slightly forward like a natural extension of her arm. She stood low and poised in silence, radiating confidence with even breathing and a fixed, predatory gaze.

A heavy silence pressed over the crowd.

Then, the arena horn thundered.

Seren did not hesitate. Her legs moved instantly, smooth and explosive as she surged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, each footstep devouring the distance between them while sand scattered beneath her boots. The crowd barely had time to react.

Caelvir flinched.

His body twisted, stumbling backward in a frantic attempt to create space. He circled to the left, eyes wide, dagger held low in a grip that resembled a frightened child clutching a stick more than a warrior ready for battle.

Seren advanced with hard eyes. There was no wasted movement in her approach, which was surgical, precise, and calculated. She moved like someone who had killed before and would do so again without hesitation.

Caelvir stumbled, still trying to maintain distance—ten feet, then eight, then six.

At four feet, Seren jumped.

Her sword cut through the air with a terrifying hiss, slicing downward in an arc aimed at Caelvir's shoulder.

Caelvir twisted aside.

It was not skill that saved him, but pure instinct, panic, and raw luck. He dropped to the ground and rolled in an awkward, almost clumsy somersault that barely took him out of harm's way. The blade missed by a hair's breadth, the rush of air from it raking his cheek as he came up beside her.

Sand caked his elbows as he scrambled rather than stood.

Seren did not stop. Her momentum pivoted beautifully with a dancer's grace turned brutal, and she spun with the precision of a professional killer, her blade flashing again before he could fully rise.

Caelvir kicked backward, sliding in the sand just as her sword plunged into the space where his chest had been a moment earlier.

She struck again, and again.

Caelvir writhed on the ground, twisting and rolling, shifting desperately left and right in any direction that might prolong his life for another heartbeat. Her blade slashed through empty air, missing by inches. One slice clipped his calf, another nicked his hip. He was like a rabbit caught in a snare, dodging death through sheer frantic motion.

Miraculously, he found his feet.

But only to turn and run.

He limped forward, broken and wild, with strides that were weak and uneven, his body betraying him at every step. The toll of days without food was evident. His back bore a canvas of scars, and his legs were like sticks beneath a swaying torso.

Seren followed.

Her pace remained calm and controlled, her sword steady at her side. She was not even out of breath. Her muscles worked like a well-oiled machine, each step full of purpose. Though her frame was slender, there was deadly strength beneath the surface. Compared to Caelvir, she was a force of nature.

The crowd began to jeer.

"Fight like a man!"

"Stop playing hide and seek!"

"Run, little rabbit, RUN!"

Brusk roared with laughter. "You're running from a woman, boy? What next, you'll piss yourself too?"

Valkira's voice was calm and satisfied. "He knows he's already lost."

Lysara smiled coldly. "Smart prey runs, until it runs out of space."

That moment came quickly.

Caelvir reached the edge of the arena. Beyond him lay a wide moat surrounding the fighting pit, its black water sloshing gently against the stone. There was nowhere left to run.

He turned.

His back pressed against the moat, sand clinging to his sweaty skin while his dagger trembled in his grip.

Seren slowed.

Her steps became cautious, sword raised and feet shifting in anticipation of a trap, though she knew none would come. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. She could smell his fear and sense the end drawing near.

"It's over," she said.

She lunged.

Steel flashed. Caelvir dodged, but not in time.

The blade bit into his left side, and a scream tore from his throat, high and sharp. Blood sprayed the sand, a bloom of red in the golden dust. He staggered, attempting to pivot away, but his dagger slipped from his weakening grip and spun once before splashing into the moat.

Unarmed and wounded, he dropped to a knee. Seren did not wait.

She slammed her boot into his ribs, forcing him down flat on his back. He groaned, arms flailing weakly at her leg, but she was far too strong. His body was thin and hollow, like flesh stretched over broken scaffolding.

She raised her sword.

Both hands gripped the hilt.

Her blade angled down, aimed at his chest, ready to drive straight into his heart.

And the crowd erupted.

"Kill him! Kill him! KILL HIM!"

"Finish it!"

Valkira smiled, her eyes glittering. "That's my girl."

Lysara's voice was almost affectionate. "Such beautiful efficiency."

Brusk scoffed. "Beaten by a woman. Pathetic. I guess his only real skill is beating kids."

Only Aelric spoke with any compassion.

"Inexperience is a cruel teacher," he muttered, "no matter how fierce the will."

Back in the arena, Seren stood above her broken opponent.

Caelvir lay beneath her, his ribs rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His wrists moved weakly, the rest of his body pinned by her presence alone. Her sword hovered above his chest, the sunlight glinting off its razor edge.

There was no escape.

Only silence before the storm.

Just as Seren's blade dipped toward his chest, Caelvir's hand shot into the sand. In one desperate motion, he clenched a fistful of burning grit and flung it upward.

Seren cried out, reeling back instinctively as the coarse grains struck her eyes. Pain lanced through her face like needles. She staggered, blinking furiously, her vision clouded by the stinging sand.

That was all the opening Caelvir needed.

With a guttural growl, he twisted beneath her, ribs screaming in protest, and rolled hard to the side. Seren's boot slammed into the ground with a dull thud, missing his chest by inches. The blow would have crushed his sternum.

But he was free.

She turned blindly, swiping her sword in a wide arc, but he was already crawling, dragging his broken body through the sand like a wounded animal. His breath came in gasps, each motion sending fresh waves of pain through his side. Blood oozed from the wound in his ribs, trickling down his pale torso.

Still, he forced himself upright. Muscles spasmed beneath skin stretched tight over bone.

He lunged.

Seren turned just a fraction too late. Her eyes were still squinted shut, lashes clumped with grit. She raised her sword, but Caelvir collided with her full-force, their bodies slamming together as they crashed to the ground in a tangled heap.

The crowd erupted in a roar of confusion and outrage.

"Cheap trick!"

"Coward!"

"He threw sand! He threw sand! Are you joking?!"

Even beneath the arena, Valkira's voice rang sharp with disgust. "Filthy tactics."

Lysara scowled, arms crossed. "Pathetic. He's already lost."

On the sand, Seren thrashed, twisting under Caelvir's weight, but he barely had the strength to pin her. His legs trembled as he straddled her midsection, one hand clutching her sword arm while the other reached desperately for the weapon.

She blinked through the pain, teeth gritted against the burning in her eyes.

Caelvir moved too slowly.

With a grunt, she bucked her hips and drove her knee into his ribs. He let out a strangled cry and faltered. That was all she needed.

Her hands shot forward, seizing both of his wrists in a powerful grip. His arms, wiry and more bone than muscle, vanished beneath her grasp. He might as well have been a child.

She rolled, twisting her torso sharply and flipping their positions with brutal efficiency.

Now she was on top.

Her thighs pinned his hips, knees dug into the sand on either side of his waist. The sword lay just beyond reach, but she no longer needed it. Not when he was this weak.

Caelvir writhed beneath her, trying to buck her off, but it was like trying to dislodge a boulder. She held his wrists fast in her left hand, pressing them down against his chest as the tendons in his forearms twitched uselessly.

His breath came in shallow bursts. Blood ran freely from his side, pooling in the sand. The effort of that last move had drained him completely.

Seren no longer needed her eyes. She could feel every inch of his failing body beneath her.

The crowd sensed the shift in power instantly.

"Kill him!" "End it!" "Break him!"

"Finish it!" Valkira shouted, voice sharp with pride.

Brusk's cackle echoed like thunder. "Look at him now! Pinned by a little girl!"

Even Aelric's voice turned grim. "There's only so much one arm can do," he said, sounding disappointed.

Caelvir's chest heaved, and for a heartbeat, his eyes met hers again, fear and defiance flickering in the hollows of his gaze.

But her grip was iron. His wrists were locked, his legs pinned beneath her, and he had no strength left to push her off. Her silhouette above him was backlit by the sun, a faceless executioner poised for the final strike.

And the crowd chanted louder.

"Kill him! Kill him! KILL HIM!"

Seren's breathing steadied. Her free hand inched toward the sword as her body remained unmoving, her weight pressing down into his hips like a closing vice.

There was no escape.