The colosseum breathed with anticipation, the sands quiet.
The announcer's voice cracked the stillness like lightning across dry stone.
"Ladies and lords, lowborn and coin-tossers alike! Today, the winds whisper of something rare—something final!"
The crowd leaned in, buzzing.
"On the left, the warrior who puts fear into the hearts of giants and brutes, weak and strong alike. The woman who carves the air like it were silk—warrior of the wind, the one marked by the House Goldmere... Valkira the Windblade!"
The crowd roared, some rising to their feet as the gates creaked open. Valkira stepped onto the sand, slender and calm, a breeze trailing behind her as if even the air bent in respect.
"And on the right," the announcer continued, his voice growing graver, "a force of raw might! A warrior from the infamous Stonefang Tribe, survivor of the Dust Arena blood pits! Standing fifteen feet tall, born of mountain and wrath—Gor'Madrak the Skull King!"
The opposite gate thundered open. A colossus emerged, his footsteps shaking the colosseum. Chains of human skulls hung from his shoulders, his skin like cracked granite. A scar across his chest pulsed like an old wound eager for new war.
The announcer raised a hand for silence. "This marks their hundredth fight—both of them. And to celebrate this rare alignment of fates, we've arranged something special today. Valkira, as you all know, tends to end her matches in mere moments. So for those with heavy pockets: bet wisely. You may not even get the time to cheer."
From the imperial balcony above, Venara of House Goldmere sat with elegance carved from marble, her fingers folded under her chin. Beside her stood Elowen, eyes sharp, watching the sand below like a hawk in still flight.
"She's grown," Elowen said softly. "Since the last time I saw her."
"She has wings now," Venara replied, gaze unmoving. "I just gave her the wind."
Elowen smiled. "A sharp eye, my lady. You branded her before her hundredth. That's unheard of."
"An exception worth making," Venara said. "Normally, warriors are courted after they complete their first stage. But I've always believed... in cutting ahead of the line."
They both looked down as the match began.
A bell rang. Gor'Madrak roared, a sound like a landslide. He charged—fast for his size—lifting a club thicker than a grown man's torso.
But Valkira was gone.
No puff of sand, no blur—just gone.
Then, suddenly—behind him. He spun. Nothing.
Beside. A flicker. The wind shifted.
Above?
Valkira dropped low again, blade dragging the air, eyes locked.
She wasn't fighting.
She was dancing.
Gor'Madrak roared and swung. The club shattered air, but Valkira rode the gust, body folding with the wind, vanishing with every breath. Her limbs moved faster than eyes could follow—faster than thought itself.
And then—strike.
A sharp, silver cut across Gor'Madrak's thigh. A line of blood bloomed.
He growled, turning, but she was already distant again.
Strike. Slash. Cut.
The crowd gasped. Not just for the elegance. But the terror of it.
Wind followed her blade—an extension of her will. Even from afar, she carved into his skin like a sculptor working stone.
Gor'Madrak bled, his massive frame marked over and over.
He swung high. Nothing. He roared in confusion.
Then silence.
He blinked.
Where—
A gust whipped the dust up.
And Valkira dropped from the sky.
Time stilled.
She fell, and blade came down first. The strike was not loud, not explosive. It was clean. She landed silently, her back now turned to the giant.
The half-giant stood for a moment.
Then split.
Clean. Right down the middle. A perfect, beautiful cut.
The crowd was silent. Frozen.
A soft, collective inhale.
"...woah," someone whispered.
Then the eruption.
The colosseum thundered with awe.
The announcer's voice trembled. "Valkira the Wind Blade... has finished her hundredth match... and she makes it look like a painting on sand... No one—no one—is a match for her!"
He found his footing again. "She shall enter Irene's Iron Arena! And let it be known—no noble house may court her now, for she bears the mark of House Goldmere already!"
The crowd groaned in disappointment.
"A shame!" the announcer added, half-joking. "We could've turned a fortune betting on which house she'd choose. But alas, Lady Venara was too quick. Too clever."
Venara clapped once, the gesture simple but unmistakably powerful.
Valkira glanced up.
Their eyes met—only briefly.
She bowed, then turned and exited the field, cloak trailing, sword silent.
"She's not just using the wind," Elowen said. "She is the wind."
Then she added, with a quiet grin, "And you're damn good at picking them."
Venara didn't smile. "Nobility isn't about blood or coin. It's about knowing the moment. Finding the caterpillar... and betting on the butterfly."
Elowen nodded. "She's already mastered the elemental arts. At this stage, that's... astonishing. The others are still learning to shape wind into motion, and she moves like it's her own flesh."
Venara finally turned to her. "Yes. But let's not crown her too soon. There are others—burning just as bright. Quietly. Fighters I'm watching. Not all storms make noise before they arrive."
They stood together, watching the sand one last time.
Then they left the imperial box.
******
The metal doors opened with a groan as Valkira stepped into the gladiator cells. Her blade hummed at her side, still clean, untouched by blood. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and old triumphs.
"Valkira!" someone shouted.
Cheers. Claps on her back. Dozens greeted her.
The group was much larger now—more than it had ever been. Newcomers, strays, survivors. They had no other place to go. Not after Brusk's faction crumbled, his legacy buried under defeat. Valkira had Caelvir to thank for that shift in the tide.
Still... numbers didn't mean unity.
They would have to fight each other eventually. Some had already drawn lots.
She spotted Aelric in the corner, crouched by a wounded man, wrapping cloth around a bleeding stump.
"You missed it," Valkira said.
"I know." Aelric didn't look up. "Apologies. I had this one to tend to."
"Well," she said, smirking. "It was over in a blink."
He chuckled softly. "I'm sure it was."
She eyed his healing methods—basic, minimal magic. "Still clinging to tradition, monk? You could close that wound in seconds."
Aelric exhaled. "Every magic comes with a price. I still use it. But carefully. Intricately. Enough to nudge the natural rhythms—not overwrite them."
He tightened a bandage.
"Too much reliance, and magic blinds the eye. It deadens the heart. Clouds the senses."
He looked up at her, teasing. "Not all of us are monsters like you."
She tilted her head. "Whatever."
The air grew heavier. Some faces in the room darkened.
She saw it in them—the fear. The unspoken question.
Who would protect them now?
Aelric was near the end of his matches. Lysara too. Without them, the group would scatter like leaves.
"I came to say goodbye," Valkira said, her voice steady.
They looked at her.
"I won't be here anymore. But that doesn't mean you stop. Don't rely on me. Or Aelric. Or Lysara. You only have yourselves, in the pit. So rise. Survive. Don't disappoint me."
She turned, locking eyes with Lysara.
Speaking to her, but addressing all.
"See you in the next arena. Fight. Survive. Win your hundredth. We'll gather again."
Her voice softened.
"See you up there."
Lysara's expression remained unreadable.
But a faint smile tugged at her lips.
A rare sight.
She was... happy.
Happy Valkira had finally flown—if only an inch higher.
If only one tier above.
If only one arena more.
Aelric stood, cracking his back. "Guess I'll need to hurry if I want to catch up with the young. Youth always rush."
A groan came from the man on the floor.
"Sorry," Aelric muttered. "Too much pressure."
That broke the tension. A few chuckles, a sigh of relief.
In that moment, they were no longer warriors. Just people. Worn. Scarred. Human.
Their last moments with Valkira?
Perhaps.
After all, who can truly survive a hundred battles?
Who... really?
Valkira shifted her eyes toward the far end of the dungeon hall.
Caelvir's cell.
A patch of deeper shadow where the torchlight dared not trespass.
Still, she felt him there—watching.
And he was.
Eyes locked in the dark, sightless but unflinching.
Two warriors separated by darkness and iron, trading silence like blades.
No nods. No words. But they spoke.
Words said in silence.
And her stare—sharp as steel and still as breath before the strike—seemed to say more.
That she wanted him to climb, too.
Perhaps to kill him herself.
Or maybe out of some jagged respect—for what he did to Brusk's pack, for what he became in the dark.
Or… maybe she was simply used to him being there.
A constant. A shadow shaped like a man.
Then Valkira noticed something—movement, slow and deliberate.
Lysara.
She was walking, carrying a blade in her arms wrapped in cloth.
Not toward the others, not toward the exit.
Step by step, her boots whispered against the stone floor—headed straight for Caelvir's cell.
Valkira blinked. A brief flash of confusion.
Everyone noticed. Murmurs died down, curiosity hanging like a blade in the air.
Lysara stopped.
Right at the edge of his cell—where light broke into jagged strips between the iron bars.
She stood there, eyes locked on him, colder than usual… and clearer somehow.
No one expected this encounter.
Not now.
Not between those two.
She spoke.
"This sword... you carried it well."
Her voice was low, calm.
Sword unwrapped, she delivered it to him from in-between the bars.
Then, softer, almost wistful, she said, "I hope you can fly too… to the next."
And slowly, she raised her hands—pale fingers pushing through the bars toward him.
An invitation.
A gesture no one saw coming.
She waited.
He didn't move for a moment, staring at her hand like it was something sacred.
Then—without a word—he stood.
Caelvir stepped forward, callused fingers meeting hers in a firm grip.
"Hope you climb too," he said. "And… thank you. For the kind words. And... the sword."
Lysara's eyes flicked down for just a second.
To the blade. The Sword of Seren.
And then—
She smiled.
Small, almost hidden. But genuine.
Rare as gold in mud. And just as gleaming.
Valkira watched. Something in her chest loosened.
Relief.
For reasons she herself wondered.