The colosseum air was heavy with the scent of dust, sweat, and blood. Above, the stands were brimming with murmurs—hushed, almost reverent. The crowd knew what kind of fight was about to unfold.
Valkira stepped onto the bloodstained sand with a practiced grace. Her silhouette cut a sharp figure against the morning light. She was tall for a woman, her frame lean but sculpted by countless battles. Every muscle, every step, spoke of discipline. Her body bore the elegance of training and the weight of survival.
She wore a lightweight, brown leather armor, worn yet meticulously maintained, hugging her form while allowing room to move. A short robe, skewed to the right, fell over her shoulder, fluttering slightly in the breeze like a half-forgotten standard. Leather bracers covered her elbows and knees, scratched from countless number of combats. Her boots rose just past the ankle—dusty, scarred, and silent as she walked.
But it was her sword that drew every eye.
Slender and deadly, it shimmered faintly in the sunlight, teal-blue engravings curling like veins along its blade—subtle but impossible to forget. The handle bore intricate symbols: birds in flight, butterflies mid-dance. It looked like a relic from a noble house, a weapon never meant for this filthy arena.
Yet it sang here.
The air around the blade bent subtly, distorting like heat haze. A faint howl followed the sword's every movement, as though the wind itself whispered warnings of its edge.
Across the arena stood her opponent.
A boy, barely older than twenty, trembling in the half-shade. He wore little—just a tangle of cords across his waist, nothing more than rags. His chest rose and fell erratically, skin slick with sweat, ribs protruding. In his hands, a rusty blade that looked like it would snap before it pierced anything.
He belonged to Valkira's group. She knew his name but didn't say it aloud.
This was supposed to be his fifth fight.
Today, luck had abandoned him.
His eyes flitted across the crowd, desperate for mercy that didn't exist here. He looked back at Valkira, wide-eyed. He knew. Knew what she was. What she had done. What she could do.
But Valkira's expression didn't shift.
No tension, no disdain, no pity. Just calm.
Two enter. One leaves.
That was the way.
Yet… there was something strange. Valkira thought it, and so did many others. Why this match? Why such a wide gap between battle rankings? Sixtieth against fifth? It reeked of manipulation. An arrangement made in shadowed corners. A lesson perhaps. Or a warning.
The horn sounded.
A thunderous note that split the air like a judgment from the gods.
Valkira began walking forward. Not fast. Measured steps. Calculated. Her opponent staggered back, his feet dragging shallow trenches in the sand as he circled, trying to stay beyond reach. Each time he stepped, she matched it. She was the tide. Unrelenting. Creeping closer.
At five feet, she stopped.
Then struck.
Steel hissed through air. His blade rose in reflex, colliding mid-air with hers in a screech of friction. He grunted, legs buckling slightly from the force.
"Fight me," Valkira said, 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, frantic, but not entirely unskilled. There were flashes of form, hints of drills he'd been run through. Desperation made him unpredictable.
He swung wide. She ducked. He lunged forward, and she twisted, letting his blade pass her shoulder before snapping her own across his ribs—not cutting, just tasting his defense.
He panted, staggering. But he didn't give up. He came at her again, teeth clenched. One, two, three more strikes. Wild. Reckless.
But predictable.
With one clean parry, Valkira spun and sent his sword flying across the sand. It landed far behind him with a dull clang.
He collapsed to his knees.
Chest heaving.
Face pale.
Valkira stood before him, sword pointed down. She looked at him—not with anger, not with scorn. But with judgment.
"So that's the extent of your will to live?"
He looked up, eyes wide with horror. "Please… boss, don't—"
He wasn't finished.
With a sudden jerk, he clawed at the ground, scooping up a fistful of sand. With a cry—more of a sob than a war cry—he flung it at her face.
But Valkira had already moved.
Her sword raised at just the right angle. The sand struck the flat of the blade with a soft hiss, harmless.
She stepped in, swift as a striking hawk.
Then—THUD.
Her boot drove into his ribs. He gasped, spittle flying.
Again.
THUD.
He curled.
Again.
THUD.
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 up, warm and silent.
His body jerked once, then crumpled.
Valkira looked down, 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. No need for mercy when mercy is a blade turned toward your own neck.
And never— her grip tightened —never hesitate.
This place didn't reward kindness. It devoured it.
Here, you lived only if your opponent didn't.
She turned away from the corpse, cheers erupted, distant and meaningless.
As Valkira wiped her blade clean with the hem of her robe, she turned and 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 hadn't opened.
She came to a stop a few steps away, 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've been halfway back to her cell by now, drinking tepid water and wiping the blood from her limbs. Her hand twitched slightly by her sword's hilt.
Then—BOOOOM.
A deeper, darker horn shattered the sky.
It wasn't the clean, clipped tone that signaled an official fight. This was heavier—meant for something else entirely. The arena hushed like a gasp caught in a thousand throats.
High above, the stone balcony jutted out 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 like he welcomed 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, eyes cool and expressionless.
"But my dear friends," the announcer continued, pacing the edge of the balcony with flair, "when one gladiator stands so far above the rest, it begins to tilt the balance. Doesn't it? The scales become heavy—too heavy. And it would be a shame to make this all so... predictable."
The crowd murmured, curious.
"Now, a hundred-against-one might be a tad unfair—even for our dear Valkira the Windblade. And we are reasonable men here."
Laughter. A few whistles from the crowd below.
"So let's be modest. Let's be generous even. What's the number that sings in 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 poured a group of twenty fighters, disoriented and blinking in the light. Some stepped forward hesitantly, some were pushed from behind. All of them carried weapons—real ones. Military-grade swords, the kind reserved for guards and elite units. Those with smaller builds carried sharp, curved daggers or short knives.
She knew those faces.
Fresh prisoners.
They had arrived recently, hauled in chains along with the one who haunted her thoughts every night—Caelvir.
Most of them hadn't fought yet. A few bore the nervous twitch of men who had survived their first match by accident or luck.
They were not warriors.
Not yet.
And yet here they stood—armed and thrown before her like sheep dressed in wolves' teeth.
"Now, now," the announcer grinned, voice thick with mischief, "you must be wondering what this is all about. Let me assure you—it's merely to spice things up! We've heard whispers—complaints, even—that the new blood hasn't brought quite the thrill our dear nobles expected."
More laughter. Someone in the crowd shouted, "We want blood!" and others joined in.
"Well!" the announcer twirled theatrically. "We do what we must to entertain. And while 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 forming a loose line. Some still looked unsure whether this was a trick. Others glanced between her and the weapons in their hands.
The announcer's voice soared once more.
"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.
"Begin!"
The arena gates slammed shut.
Valkira stood alone on one end of the sand.
Twenty opponents across from her.
And her grip tightened around the sword that bent the air with every breath.