Lysara's blade came down.
It split the air, silver and final, screaming toward Caelvir's blood-soaked back. He knelt, barely upright, hands trembling around the hilt of Seren. His breath was a ragged rattle. His body a ruin.
But he moved.
One lunge to the side. Pure instinct. Pain roared through every torn muscle.
His hands left the sword.
Fingers darted to his left hip.
A dagger hissed free.
He slashed toward her flank—fast. Desperate.
But not faster than Lysara. A desperate trick too predictable for her.
She pivoted—sharp as wind against a cliff-face, but steadier.
She could have pressed the attack. Could have risked it, let her sword fall and end it there. But she didn't gamble. Lysara never gambled. Her instincts were honed too sharp, her mind too clear in the chaos. Even mid-swing, she read the shift in Caelvir's movement—the twitch of his shoulder, the flick of his wrist. A dagger. Close. Fast.
Too close.
She adjusted.
Her sword halted in midair, slicing to the side with trained precision.
The blade caught the dagger just as it came for her ribs—an instant before it could bury itself in her side.
Steel rang out, violent and brief.
The dagger spun away from his hand, a silver blur flung into the sand.
Gone.
But Caelvir didn't hesitate.
This was it. This was the moment.
His left hand twitched near the last dagger, sheathed at his right. But instead, he dove for Seren, lying in the sand.
His right hand gripped the sword's hilt.
A cry—half breath, half roar—and he struck.
The blade carved through the air in a brutal arc, angled straight toward Lysara's right — the shoulder without a pauldron, exposed and vulnerable beneath torn cloth and streaks of blood.
He knew. She knew.
Lysara's instincts flared.
Her body moved before thought could catch up — spine twisted.
Her blade sang down to meet his.
Steel against steel—
But it never came.
Caelvir dropped his sword.
Let it fall.
Lysara's eyes widened. Her own sword, already in motion, had no time to stop.
It pierced his right side, slid between ribs, deep, deep—until it could go no further.
Blood. Guts. Heat.
But Caelvir's left hand had already drawn the dagger from his right.
And it had plunged forward at the same time.
Into Lysara.
Too fast to stop.
She flinched—just an inch. Just enough.
The dagger missed her heart.
But not by much.
They froze.
Both struck.
Two blades buried.
No movement. No follow-through. No strength left.
Only steel, blood, and silence.
Lysara never took a direct blow. That was her gift. Reflex. Speed.
But not now.
She was too tired. Her breath too shallow. The dagger below her heart left her body unmoving.
Caelvir was the opposite. He'd taken every blow, but now… his body was giving in. The blood loss was too much. His arms were heavy. Muscles dead weight.
They stood. Locked in death.
Two warriors. Two blades. And nothing else.
Lysara's sword slipped from her hand.
It hit the sand with a soft sound.
Before the Blade King.
But Caelvir's grip didn't falter. His dagger stayed buried, though his hand shook.
The crowd, once thunderous, fell into stunned silence.
And then—
A murmur.
A chant.
"Finish her."
"Kill her."
But Caelvir didn't move.
His eyes were barely open, head lowered, breath shallow.
Lysara looked up. Toward the sky. Not him.
She coughed. Blood dripped from her lips. Her arms pale. Her hands cold.
He needed to end it.
He needed help. Now.
Venara… Aelric… someone…
But—
She had given him a moment.
Spared him.
And he'd answered with a dagger to the heart.
A trick. A gamble.
He took in a breath. It scraped against his ribs.
"Any… final… words?" he rasped.
Lifeless eyes. Lips pale. Cheeks wet with blood.
Lysara's hand crept up.
Cold fingers brushed his wrist. Barely there.
A faint smile touched her lips.
A strange, fleeting warmth in that crimson-stained face.
"A dre…am… I have," she whispered.
Her lips trembled.
Then—something impossible.
Her eyes…
They glowed.
For the first time, the cold was gone.
Gone from those eyes that had stared down friends and foes alike — eyes that never blinked, never flinched. They had always been steel.
Now, they held something different.
A spark.
A flicker of fire where there had only ever been frost.
A sunrise from the west and sunset from the east would have made more sense. More sense than seeing her like this.
But there it was.
Just for a single moment before death.
"Do… you… see… the fire… in them?"
Caelvir forced his head up.
He met her eyes. And understood.
"I see… a spark."
Her smile held.
A breath.
Then another.
"I wi–sh… I could… spen… a mome… longe… with these…"
He didn't move. Couldn't.
An inch more and he'd end her.
But he didn't.
Lysara's voice wavered again.
A glance at the blade buried in her heart.
"Suc–h… a shame… to die by this… and not Se-ren's…"
Her breath trembled. Body weakening.
She looked at him one final time.
"My fi…nal wish…" she said, nearly a whisper. "Would... ya... hol... on… to my dr…eam?"
She turned her gaze skyward again.
"… cold… eyes… put… spark… in…"
Her hand went limp.
Caelvir didn't know if her hand went cold first…
Or if his did.
Her eyes faded.
Glowed no more.
Black. Empty.
Her cheeks still streaked red. But the skin beneath had gone pale.
Caelvir's hand released the dagger.
He dropped to both knees.
The Blade King knelt.
And before him—
Lysara fell.
Crimson sand embraced her.
Hot wind blew across cold skin.
Eyes once burning now stared, lifeless, into the blue above.
Cold eyes of a fallen warrior… on burning sand.
Caelvir's vision dimmed.
He swayed.
The sky blurred.
But he felt something in the breeze…
Not just warmth.
Hot.
Hot as the sand beneath him.
His ears heard nothing.
Silence? The sound of wind?
The sound of death?
No—something broke through, faint and distant.
A voice.
Familiar.
The announcer.
"And the winner is… THE BLADE KING!"
Cheers might've followed. Roars of celebration, fists raised, the arena shaking. Or maybe not.
Caelvir couldn't tell.
A silence hung in the heat.
The sands no longer burned—his knees, cold against them. Or maybe they'd just gone lifeless.
He felt it.
Blood—too much lost.
Strength—too far gone.
His body swayed.
He had waited too long.
He had danced with death.
And now, death had drawn too close.
Too close.
He could feel it.
His hands turned to ice.
His breath stuttered.
His body began to kneel.
And his eyes began to close.
So this is it… this is—
Death.
But… he didn't want to die.
Not yet.
But death would not court any delay.
Not for kings. Not for warriors. Not for anyone.
Even if asked for a moment longer, death did not bargain.
Not here.
Not in the dust.
Here, kindness is only rewarded with death.