Aira was yet to recover as she stood there, her feet rooted to the stone floor, even as the women in the arena—dressed in fitted pants and tightly bound corset tops—slowly divided themselves into pairs. The scent of iron and sweat thickened in the air, and the hush that hung before the storm was laced with unspoken dread.
The fear in some of their faces was palpable enough to taste—sharp and metallic, like blood on the tongue. It was clear that some were being thrown into the tournament unwilling, perhaps for the first time realizing the weight of the spectacle they were made to serve.
It only became clear when swords were brought out, laid bare like offerings, and each woman was made to choose one.
