The first lunge was a blur. Roen moved with a savage grace that belied his size, his sword a glittering arc of steel. Arin barely managed to twist aside, the blade whistling past her ear, a breath of cold air. A sickening whoosh as it cleaved the space where her head had been moments before. He was fast. Faster than she'd anticipated. He had training, reach, and a burning, primal rage that fuelled every strike. She had only her quickness, her street-honed instincts, and the sheer, stubborn will to survive.
He pressed the attack, a relentless storm of steel. Each swing was designed to maim, to break. Arin danced back, her feet light on the stone, the plain dagger in her hand a small, defiant flicker against his massive sword. She parried, deflects, and weaves, the clang of metal echoing in the vast courtyard. The guards, unmoving, watched the gruesome ballet. Aenythar, perched high above, shifted, a low growl rumbling in its chest, its eyes never leaving her.
"Come on, little mouse!" Roen snarled, his voice raw with fury. He feigned a high strike, then dropped his weight into a brutal sweep aimed at her legs. Arin leapt, clearing the blade by a hair's breadth. "Make me bleed! I want to see it! It'll hurt so much more when you're begging for mercy!"
He was trying to get under her skin. To make her angry. And it was working. She ducked under another wild slash, the wind of his blade rustling her hair. She spun, bringing her dagger up, aiming for his arm. He blocked it easily with his sword, the impact jarring her hand. But she held on.
She darted in, a quick, desperate thrust aimed at his side. He shifted, too fast, and her blade only scraped his leather tunic. Not enough. She needed to draw blood.
Another lunge, another desperate parry. Her arm ached. Roen was relentless, his movements precise, deadly. He was playing with her. Toying. And the thought made her blood boil. He was enjoying this.
She saw an opening, a slight hesitation in his footwork. It was risky, too wide, but her anger, a cold, sharp thing, pushed her. She lunged, not at his chest, but low, aiming for his leg. The same leg.
Her dagger sliced through the thick leather of his fighting leathers. A scream tore from Roen's throat, a guttural roar of pain and disbelief.
"Ah! You little bitch!" he howled, staggering back. A dark stain bloomed on his thigh.
Arin pulled back, her dagger dripping, and a wicked, triumphant satisfaction coursed through her. She had done it. Again.
But then, as she watched, the wound, already gushing, began to knit itself together. The dark blood slowed, then stopped. The torn leather on his thigh mended itself. In mere seconds, only a faint, angry red line remained, a fading memory of her strike.
He healed. And she didn't.
The reality hit her like a punch to the gut. All this effort, all this risk, and he would just… heal. Her anger, already a raging inferno, flared brighter, clouding her judgment. She saw red. She saw the smirk on his face, the casual way he had dismissed her. The rage consumed her.
She lunged again, fueled by blind fury, not strategy. It was a mistake. A fatal one.
Roen, despite his healing wound, was ready. He moved with a speed that startled her, his sword a blur. A sharp, stinging blow landed on her wrist, and the dagger, her only weapon, flew from her grasp, skittering across the stone.
He wasted no time. His hand shot out, grabbing a handful of her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to her knees. Her scalp screamed in protest.
"On your knees, commoner," he hissed, his voice thick with venom, his face inches from hers. His breath, smelling of stale wine and fury, washed over her. "This is your place. Under my heel. Did you really think you could win? Against a dragon prince? You're nothing but a rat in the gutters of Drakoryth. Filth!"
Aenythar, high above, shrieked, a piercing sound that echoed across the courtyard, as if in agreement. Its wings flared, casting a massive, terrifying shadow.
Arin's vision swam. The pain in her scalp was excruciating. But through it all, a defiant, reckless spark ignited deep within her. He wanted her to beg? To break?
She smiled. A slow, chilling, utterly unrepentant smile.
And then she spat. Directly into his face.
The glob of spittle, mixed with a tiny fleck of her own blood from her busted lip, landed squarely on his cheek.
Roen froze. His eyes, already murderous, widened in shock and then narrowed to pinpricks of pure, incandescent rage. A guttural growl rumbled in his throat.
Arin didn't wait. She moved, a blur of instinct and desperation. Her head still yanked back, she slammed her elbow backward, hard, into his gut. A grunt of pain escaped him. Before he could recover, she followed it with a brutal knee, snapping it up into his groin.
Roen howled. A choked, strangled sound of agony. His grip on her hair loosened, his eyes bulging. He folded, hands clutching himself, dropping to his knees with a sickening thud.
Aenythar shrieked again, a deafening roar of fury, its massive body shifting on the statue. The guards jolted, their hands flying to their swords, their faces suddenly etched with alarm. But none moved. Roen's rules. Private match.
Arin didn't waste a single heartbeat. Her hand darted out, scrambling across the cold stone. Her fingers closed around the familiar hilt of her dagger. She didn't hesitate.
She plunged it in. Deep. Into Roen's thigh again, exactly where she'd struck him before. He was still doubled over, vulnerable, clutching his groin.
His scream this time was a ragged, animalistic sound, a crescendo of pure agony. Arin twisted the blade, grinding it, making sure he felt every agonizing millimeter of the plain steel. She loved the sound of it. It was the music of his humiliation.
"Still bleeding slowly, Prince?" Arin snarled, her voice raw, defiant. "Or is that just your dignity leaking out?"
Roen roared, a primal sound of rage. He lunged, a desperate, uncontrolled movement, his hand lashing out. His open palm connected with her face, a brutal, jarring slap that sent her head snapping sideways. Her teeth clacked. A searing pain exploded across her cheek. The taste of copper filled her mouth.
No one had ever slapped her. Not like that. Not in anger. A cold, furious fire ignited in her veins, colder and more potent than the rage that had preceded it.
"You little bitch!" Roen shrieked, his voice hoarse with pain and fury. He was struggling to rise, his face contorted.
"You arrogant, self-important pig!" Arin spat back, her voice shaking with righteous fury, her words cutting deep, aimed to pierce his princely arrogance. "May your dragon choke on your wretched pride, and your gilded throne splinter beneath your festering arse!"
He lunged again, a wild, unthinking animal. He ripped the dagger from his leg with a roar, the wound closing, knitting itself together with horrifying speed. He had both weapons now: his long sword and her small, sharp dagger.
Arin stumbled back, clutching her throbbing cheek. Her weapon. Gone. He had it. She was unarmed.
He swiped, a wide, furious arc of his sword. She barely ducked, the blade passing inches above her head, the wind of its passage biting her ear.
Then he moved with a sudden, devastating speed, faster than she could react, faster than fury. The sword blurred. A sharp, searing pain tore through her left side. She gasped, a choked cry escaping her lips, and stumbled back, collapsing to the cold stone.
Her ribs. He'd cut her. Deep.
She felt the immediate gush of warmth. Blood. Her blood. The pain was immediate, blinding, sharp as a thousand needles. Every breath was a fresh agony. Her vision swam, the courtyard tilting precariously.
Aenythar shrieked, a triumphant cry that ripped through the air, its powerful wings beating once, twice, a monstrous shadow engulfing the palace walls. Roen stood over her, his face dark with triumph and lingering rage, the sword dripping with her blood.
"Kneel, commoner!" he roared, his voice amplified by the dragon's presence. "Kneel, or I'll have Aenythar burn you alive! I'll watch your miserable life turn to ash!"
Arin coughed, a ragged, bloody sound. The world spun. Her ribs screamed. She was losing blood, fast. But something within her, a core of stubborn, defiant pride, refused to break. Kneel? Never.
With a monumental effort, she pushed herself up, her legs trembling, her vision blurring at the edges. She swayed, her hand pressed against the gushing wound on her side. Pain, red and consuming, threatened to overwhelm her.
She looked at him. Her eyes, though shadowed by pain, were still sharp, still defiant.
"Burn me, then," Arin whispered, the words ragged, tasting of blood. Her chin lifted, a small, stubborn tilt. "Do it, you royal bastard. You won't see me kneel."
Aenythar moved, a tremor running through the ground. The massive dragon reared, its head thrown back, its colossal wings unfurling, casting a shadow that swallowed the entire Southern Courtyard, stretching across the gilded palace, a dark, apocalyptic omen. Flames began to build deep within its throat, a terrible, searing light visible behind its teeth. The air grew thick, heavy with the metallic tang of sulfur.
Roen's face was a mask of cold fury and savage glee. "Those will be your last words, little mouse," he sneered, his voice a mocking echo.
Aenythar's chest expanded, a furnace roaring to life. Arin stared at death, a towering, scaled horror. She didn't flinch. She didn't run. Not like a hero, not like a fool, but like a girl who had already lost everything, except herself. And she would not lose that. She would welcome it.
The dragon opened its colossal jaws.