Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Seren's blade hovered, its tip poised above Caelvir's heart. Her knees dug into his starved torso, pinning his bony hips against the scorching sand. With her left hand, she had both his thin wrists locked together, pressing them into the grit just above his shoulder. His limbs were gaunt, too weak to break free and too light to resist her.

Above, Seren's right arm pulled back, sword aimed for the kill. Her gaze burned with a clean, focused resolve.

Then, Caelvir moved.

Suddenly and violently, he twisted his wrists inward, dragging them toward his chest and pulling against the weak point in her grip—her thumb. Her hold slipped.

At that same instant, he arched his hips upward with a desperate buck, grinding his spine against the sand as he twisted to his right. Seren's forward-leaning balance, centered over him, began to tip.

Her left hand snapped back instinctively, reaching to regain her grip, but it was already too late. Caelvir had freed his right hand.

And with it, he struck.

A jab to her throat, desperate and direct, as his bony knuckles slammed into the hollow of her neck.

Seren coughed, choking for half a breath, and her blade dipped.

Caelvir seized the moment. His fingers clawed at her sword arm, yanking it sideways. The blade, no longer aimed at his heart, sliced into the sand beside his ribs with a dry thunk, missing flesh by inches.

The crowd gasped, their roar collapsing into stunned murmurs.

Caelvir rolled, not cleanly, for his body was too damaged and his ribs screamed with each breath, but just enough to spill her off him and create space between them.

Seren scrambled to her knees, still coughing, blinking as her hair fell across her face. Her eyes burned from the earlier sand. Though she still held her sword, her vision blurred. She blinked hard, trying to locate him.

But this time, Caelvir did not retreat.

He lunged, not with precision but with pure, animal desperation.

He tackled her, shoulder driving into her ribs, toppling her sideways. They crashed into the dirt again, rolling in the arena's heat. She slashed wildly and managed to open a gash along his forearm, but he didn't stop. He was far too gone to stop.

Now, Seren ended up on her back, her sword-hand pinned under his weight. He wasn't stronger—he was lighter and weaker—but the angle worked against her, and the shock had broken her rhythm.

The crowd roared once more.

"Get up, Seren!"

"Finish him!"

"Come on, don't let him reverse this!"

"Cheater!"

In the cells, Valkira's smirk faded. Lysara's fingers gripped the bars tighter. Brusk leaned forward.

"Well, that is... unexpected."

Seren snarled, her eyes narrowing through the blur. One leg remained free, and she snapped her knee up, catching Caelvir in the ribs. He gasped with a sharp wheeze of pain, and she shoved her forearm against his throat, sending him sprawling back into the dirt.

They both lay there for a moment, bruised and breathless.

Caelvir's skin was slick with sweat, streaked with blood and dust, while the sun bore down like a silent overseer. Seren blinked rapidly and finally wiped the grit from her eyes with her shoulder. She rose first slowly, angrily, and with a focused expression. She could now partially make out Caelvir's position, though her vision remained blurry at best.

He didn't run or crawl away. Instead, he simply rolled onto his side and dragged himself upright, ready to fight again.

Seren, bloodied but upright, held her sword in her right hand, the edge trembling only slightly. Her chest heaved with controlled breaths, but her vision remained hazed. The sand still burned in her eyes, forcing her to rely more on motion and outline than on detail.

In contrast, Caelvir looked like a ghost gaunt and bleeding, with badly bruised ribs. He staggered as he shifted his footing. He had no weapon, only trembling hands and Aelric's words ringing in his mind:

"Survival in here doesn't come from brute force. It comes from choosing the right moment to strike and having the will to do it."

Around them, the crowd roared and jeered, but their voices had faded into a wall of meaningless sound. Only her breathing, his heartbeat, and the space between them mattered now.

Seren had no desire to draw this out. Her vision was no longer reliable enough for precision dueling, and she needed a decisive blow.

She stepped forward, closing the distance with two quick strides. Four feet now separated them.

Caelvir stumbled, his left shoulder drooping as his stance swayed like he was moments from collapse.

It was a bait.

And Seren took it.

With a snarl, she lunged, her sword driving toward his midsection in a deep thrust meant to end the fight.

But Caelvir had already begun to move. As her blade shot forward, he dropped low, one knee to the sand, and twisted his torso, allowing the blade to slice past the side of his head so closely that it parted strands of his hair.

At that same moment, he shot both arms upward. One hand grabbed her sword wrist while the other locked around her forearm.

Seren hissed and yanked back, but she was too close, too committed.

Caelvir rose swiftly, his shoulder slamming into her chest and throwing her off balance. The sword, still in her grip, became tangled between their bodies.

They crashed into the sand again, Caelvir landing on top with his knees straddling her hips. Seren still clutched the sword, but her arm was pinned against her side. Her eyes widened. She snarled and tried to shove him off.

But Caelvir refused to release her.

He grabbed the hand still gripping the weapon and forced it inward, turning the blade slowly, almost painfully, toward her chest.

She summoned her strength, but his leverage was superior. He used her own wrist, her own locked elbow, to drive the sword against her body.

Her eyes flew wide as the tip of the blade touched her collarbone and slipped just beneath it.

"Don't," she growled. "Please. I still—"

And with a final, brutal push, he drove the blade into her heart.

Her body arched beneath him. The sound she made was not a scream but a wet gasp, half-breath and half-death.

The crowd fell silent. Seren's eyes fluttered, then stilled.

Caelvir held the hilt for a long moment, his fingers clenched white around hers. Then, slowly, he let go and leaned back. Blood soaked through his thighs and chest, the blade standing between them like a flag.

Valkira's face hardened.

Lysara turned her head, eyes narrowing.

Brusk stepped back from the bars, jaw tightening. "No way..."

The crowd erupted. Some cheered, wild and frenzied. Others booed. Some simply stared in stunned silence.

Caelvir stood over her, his knees shaking and his skin pale.

Seren's body lay still in the sand, her beauty untouched by the brutality that had claimed her. The sword—her own sword—remained embedded in her chest, gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

Blood pooled beneath her, staining the sand, yet there was something almost surreal about the stillness in her form. Even in death, her features remained flawless, the gentle curve of her lips untouched by the agony she must have endured.

She had not been known for the strength of her strikes or the fierceness of her will. Instead, she had been admired, almost worshipped, for her grace and poise. To the audience, Seren had always been something to behold, a symbol of the arena as much as the bloodshed it hosted.

Now, in her final moments, that same beauty lingered. Her skin, though pale, remained unmarred by the brutal reality of the fight. Her hair, though tangled with arena dust, framed her face with an ethereal softness.

Even in death, she looked like a statue, a beautiful tragedy carved by gods who had decided that beauty would be her greatest weapon.

There was no grotesque contortion of the body, no twisted limbs or torn flesh to mark her final struggle. She lay as if sculpted, her chest rising and falling with the faintest breath, a delicate elegance still clinging to the way she had died.

Caelvir, weak and bloodied, felt the weight of his victory settle over him. He didn't move. He couldn't move. He only stared down at the girl who had once seemed so untouchable.

His stomach growled. Hunger still gnawed at him, vicious and constant. His instincts screamed for him to devour her, to satisfy the void in his gut. But something in the way her beauty remained, untouched by the horror of the fight, made him hesitate.

For once, Caelvir chose restraint. A half-loaf of stale bread would suffice, just enough to hold off the madness, just enough to remind himself that he could still be something more than what they expected.

And with that, he turned away from Seren, leaving her body undisturbed, her beauty a silent and haunting presence in the sand.

The crowd, still uneasy, began to murmur.

"Seems like the cannibal beast won't desecrate this one..."

In the shadows behind the bars, Aelric exhaled and dipped his chin in a faint nod.

"There's only so much one arm can do," he murmured, "but it was enough."

And at last, Seren's image lingered in the air; delicate and haunting, like the memory of a dream.