Venara stood tall on the balcony above the arena, her presence wrapped in grace, her smile carved with careful practice. From below, she appeared the very image of composed nobility, the jewel of House Goldmere. Yet beneath that porcelain calm, something inside her coiled with unease.
She hated that her heart still dared to feel anything, still dared to worry.
"Just go and finish it now. It's over," said Lord Masquien, slouched comfortably in his chair beside her. His voice, though lazy, carried the cruel assurance of a man who believed he'd already won.
Venara said nothing. She blinked slowly and turned her gaze downward again.
Why? she thought bitterly. Why did you have to do that?
He had risked everything to protect two one-armed thieves, men who held no value to the Houses and had no place in the games. Worse still, the dagger—the betrayal—a blade in the back from the very ones he'd tried to shield.
It was tasteless, foolish, and it made her sick.
Now Caelvir stood, if that could still be called standing, leaning heavily on the Sword of Seren with both hands clutching the hilt as if the blade were the only thing keeping him tethered to life. Blood dripped from his mouth with every breath. His body trembled, and every second he remained upright looked like it was borrowed from death itself.
Brusk did not move either.
Brusk, the butcher of a dozen men, the giant with arms like tree trunks, the pride of Masquien's coffers, remained still in the sand. His shoulders hunched unnaturally, and a cough escaped him, followed by red.
Venara's eyes narrowed.
Something is wrong.
Masquien noticed as well. His brow furrowed. "When did the boy manage to land a blow?" he asked aloud, though more to himself than to her.
Venara didn't answer. She didn't know. No one did. That last strike had never happened. Brusk had broken Caelvir down like a mountain falling upon a man. And still, somehow...
Brusk staggered slightly. The weight of his axe, once wielded like a feather, now seemed too much. His knees nearly buckled.
Was this a miracle?
A guard from the hallway rushed forward and whispered something to Masquien's personal guard, who in turn leaned toward the lord's ear. Venara watched Masquien carefully. Whatever words were shared struck him like a slap.
Masquien's face turned crimson.
"That stupid, good-for-nothing brute!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he cleared his throat and turned to her. "Forgive my language, Lady Venara."
"No apology needed," she said smoothly, her voice cold as ice. "Though I wonder... what was that about?"
Masquien shifted, visibly rattled. His usual smirk had vanished. "Just... private House matters," he muttered.
Venara's expression did not change, but she filed that away. The mask was cracking. The man who had watched the entire fight with smug certainty now looked like he had seen a ghost. She said nothing more.
Instead, she looked down again—not at Brusk, but at Caelvir.
Blood painted his face like warpaint. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. His mouth opened with another cough, bringing up more red. And still, his eyes burned bright.
What do you see down there? Venara wondered. What truth lies behind those eyes that makes you believe you can still win?
And what truth did Masquien just hear that shattered him?
The colosseum had fallen into a strange silence, the kind that only follows disbelief.
Even the air felt heavier, thick with the scent of iron and sweat, with sand kicked up into spiraling ghosts by the final clash.
Brusk remained upright, but he swayed, his hulking form somehow smaller now. A smear of crimson painted the corner of his lips. His axe, once so light in his monstrous hands, now dragged through the dirt with each step, its edge hissing across the stone like a wounded serpent.
Opposite him, Caelvir.
Barely standing.
The Sword of Seren trembled in his hand. Blood wept from the gash across his ribs and from the wound in his back where betrayal had sunk its teeth. He leaned on the sword as though it were the only truth left in the world.
Each breath he drew sounded like tearing cloth—wet and shallow. His boots left prints of red as he shifted his stance. The noise of it—the slick squelch of blood, the rattle in his throat, the clang of the sword tip tapping against the sand—formed a symphony of pain.
Then Brusk roared.
RRRAHHHH!
The sound boomed across the arena like thunder in a sealed chamber, primal, desperate, furious.
He surged forward, axe raised high.
Caelvir didn't wait.
He gritted his teeth, pushed off the ground, and ran into the storm.
The impact was animal. Axe met sword, metal clashed against metal, and sparks flew as the shock jolted down their spines.
They pressed in close.
Too close for weapons.
Brusk elbowed Caelvir in the jaw. The crunch of bone against bone echoed. Caelvir stumbled, spat blood, but twisted low and slammed his shoulder into Brusk's gut.
A cough. Another burst of blood from Brusk's mouth.
Caelvir used the moment to slice upward with Seren's blade.
Too slow.
Brusk caught his arm mid-swing and drove a knee into Caelvir's stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. A strangled sound escaped Caelvir's throat, half gasp and half cry, as he doubled over.
The crowd groaned in shared pain.
But even bent in agony, Caelvir moved. He dropped the sword, just for a moment, and punched a brutal uppercut into Brusk's jaw.
The giant reeled.
Caelvir retrieved the blade, spun it with a flicker of technique honed in dark hours, and slashed.
The cut landed. Not deep, but enough.
Brusk staggered back, bleeding from the thigh now. He looked down at the wound as if confused by it, insulted that he could even be injured.
He roared again and charged, sand exploding beneath his boots.
They met in the center for one final clash.
Steel screamed against steel. Their weapons locked again, but this time Caelvir pushed back.
Brusk's body shook.
The strength had gone from his arms, from his legs. His veins bulged, and his eyes, wide with fury, blurred now with exhaustion.
He swung wildly, too wide, and Caelvir stepped in. One, two, three slashes.
Wounds opened across Brusk's chest like blooming red flowers. His knees buckled. Still, he raised the axe once more.
A final blow.
But it never came.
Caelvir thrust forward with a clean stab beneath Brusk's ribs.
Silence followed the wet sound of the sword piercing flesh.
Brusk looked down, mouth parted. Blood spilled from between his lips in a slow, steady stream.
His axe slipped from his hand.
The thud of it hitting the ground echoed like a closing door.
Then Brusk fell forward, face-first into the sand, a mountain finally collapsing.
Dead.
The arena did not erupt in cheers.
Because Caelvir could barely stand.
Blood poured from his wounds in thick rivulets. His legs shook. He coughed again, a terrible wet, broken sound. But he lifted his head, just barely, and let go of the sword. It remained upright, buried in the sand.
He leaned on it once more.
He had survived.
The crowd's roar still echoed across the colosseum, a storm of sound crashing against the walls. And yet, on the balcony, Venara heard none of it.
Her gaze never left the arena floor.
Caelvir stood alone.
Blood drenched him, soaking into his clothes, dripping from his lips, and pooling beneath his boots. He leaned on the Sword of Seren like a dying king upon his throne, back bent, chest heaving, but still, he stood.
And beside him lay Brusk's corpse.
Still.
Broken.
Defeated.