The moment their weapons collided again, a thunderous clang tore across the arena, and the two titans erupted into a frenzied spiral of motion. Astrid vaulted backward with a flourish of her radiant wings, somersaulting through midair with impossible grace, then rocketed back in a violent spin, her griffon bone crashing down like a divine judgment.
Thurna braced, sliding across the half-reformed floor, her boots grinding stone into sparks as she parried the blow, only for Astrid to twist mid-swing and carve upward, nearly tearing Thurna's chin open. Blood flew in a crimson ribbon, but Thurna roared and lunged, driving her shoulder into Astrid's gut, shattering the stone beneath them as she smashed her into the floor.
But Astrid didn't stop—she rebounded from the ground mid-impact, catching Thurna's wrist mid-swing and hurling her over her shoulder, bone weapon trailing behind like a scythe of death. Thurna crashed against a wall just as it began repairing, only to spring off it as it mended, using the momentum to cleave down again in a devastating two-handed grip that nearly cracked Astrid's collarbone.
Astrid spun, ducked, then vaulted over the attack, wings shimmering with teal fire, and she whirled around Thurna's back with lethal grace. She let the momentum carry her forward and drove her elbow into Thurna's spine, then raked her weapon across the woman's flank, tearing flesh open.
Thurna didn't even scream—she retaliated, grabbing Astrid's wing and slamming her face-first into a broken stone pillar mid-repair, then spiked her downward with a one-handed hammer toss.
"Haha! Yes more!" Astrid struck the ground with a bone-splintering crack, her fairy glow dimming for a moment as her form flickered—muscle straining to hold shape. Thurna descended with a bellow, swinging her bone in a wide horizontal sweep. Astrid rolled with the last of her strength, narrowly avoiding the strike that pulverized the entire arena floor, sending chunks of stone into the air like jagged hail. She leapt from a chunk of mid-air rubble, twisting her body like a celestial gymnast, and crashed down with her own mimic bone, nailing Thurna square in the clavicle.
The sound of cracking bone echoed across the arena. Thurna staggered, eyes wide, but grabbed Astrid's weapon with both hands, pulling her in. "Got you now, fly-bitch." She headbutted her. Once. Twice. A third time.
Each hit smeared blood across Astrid's nose and brow, but Astrid was laughing—mouth split open, teeth red, eyes manic with joy. She bit Thurna's cheek in retaliation, then drop-kicked her in the stomach, sending her flying.
The arena repaired beneath Thurna's flailing body just in time for her to slam into it with a thunderclap. Astrid landed on her knees, blood dripping down her face, chest heaving. She snapped her bone forward like a whip, using its length to hook a falling piece of reformed wall, yanked herself toward it, rebounded off the surface, and descended once more with deadly force.
Thurna caught the attack mid-descent—her grip crushed around Astrid's wrists—and swung her around like a ragdoll before launching her straight into the corner wall. The wall exploded into debris, stone bursting like fruit. Astrid's mimic form finally started to falter, wings flickering. She coughed, hacking blood, but vaulted forward anyway, her smaller frame returning in a shimmer of teal light as she twirled in the air and delivered a spinning heel kick into Thurna's jaw.
Thurna reeled, staggering, and Astrid followed up with a flurry of jabs and strikes, dancing around her like a lunatic ballerina of violence—each strike meant to break, to disorient, to shred. Thurna absorbed the storm, biding her time, then finally blocked a well-aimed jab, her eyes bloodshot—and with a grunt, channeled the force back into her next swing. Astrid's eyes widened just before the bone slammed into her chest and sent her flying backward like a comet.
From the stands, Lynzelle screamed with delight, food half-chewed and mouth wide. "BASH HER WINGS OFF, PINK DEMON! WAAAAAHH THIS IS AMAZING!" She waved a dripping fried rat-on-a-stick in the air, cheeks round and stained with sauce, while Cainan just stood stiff, arms crossed, watching like his soul was trying to process it all. "This is not normal," he muttered, not taking his eyes off the violence.
In the center of the battlefield, the fighters stood again—barely. Astrid's form had shrunk back down, her mimicry ended, wings tattered, skin torn open in streaks. Thurna's head pounded with every heartbeat, her nose pouring blood, her arms shaking, but she still smiled, delirious from adrenaline.
They looked at each other, faces painted in red, teeth showing. Then they charged. No fancy tricks. No finesse. Just a final collision of bodies and willpower. Astrid leapt, Thurna swung, and both attacks landed—Astrid's fist into Thurna's temple, and Thurna's forehead into Astrid's chin. The impact dropped them both instantly.
They collapsed, limp, the arena groaning around them as dust floated in lazy spirals. Stone slowly reknit beneath their bodies, the arena beginning its slow self-repair.
The crowd was furious—roaring in disappointment at the lack of a clear victor, boos and curses echoing off the walls. But down in the pit, neither fighter moved.
Thurna laid on her back, eyes rolling, face battered, muttering, "Godsdamn… fairy."
And Astrid, breath ragged and fast, just whispered back with a grin, "You fight like my sleep paralysis demon…"
Boos roared from the crowd like a living tide. Voices clashed in chaotic waves of complaint and disbelief, hands waving betting slips and half-finished food.
"What the hell do you mean no winner?! I bet a hundred on the fairy!"
"Thurna didn't lose! You saw her standing! That should count!"
"They both got wrecked—what kind of finale is that?!"
"Fix the damn match! I want my gold back!"
"That fairy chick better fight again! I didn't come here for a nap break!"
From the dust and silence in the arena, Astrid laid still, her battered body twitching softly, eyes staring at the sky that wasn't there—just the inside of a dome laced with sigils.
'…I remember those halls. All of them the same. Shimmering, curved, pristine… but so quiet I could hear myself rot from the inside. Back home, I wasn't allowed to leave the sanctum. My wings were too holy. My magic too sacred. They said I was important. But I felt like a pretty cage bird no one cared to actually hear sing. They treated me like a divine relic, not a person. Couldn't laugh. Couldn't scream. Couldn't bleed. Couldn't live. Just… smile. Sing. Obey. So I stopped smiling. Stopped talking. Curled up in corners until silence didn't mean peace, it meant I was trapped.'
'Even now, even here—this world's louder, messier, meaner—but I still feel those walls. Not around my body. Around my damn thoughts. The quiet doesn't leave me. It's in my head. But at least when I fight… when I hurt… it all gets loud enough to drown it out. Violence is the only thing that keeps the silence from swallowing me. My joy comes when things break. When I break. But right now, with blood in my teeth, and people screaming… I'm not trapped. Not really. Not for a moment. I want to hold onto that. Just for a little while.'
Astrid smiled faintly through bloodied lips.
Thurna groaned, then wobbled onto her feet, wiping blood from her nose and forehead, glaring at the crowd with exhaustion and pride.
"SHUT UP, YOU WORTHLESS RABBLE!" her voice cracked through the noise, silencing most in an instant. "You want a winner?! The I'll bring someone else in! Deadly warriors!"
Cheers rose again, this time with anticipation—fresh meat.
Before the crowd could fully register the shift, a pop and soft flicker of warmth appeared at the center of the arena. Standing there, eating calmly from a wicker basket full of skewered meats, was Lynzelle—grinning, lips smeared in sweet glaze, cheeks puffed out.
"…Wait, was she always there?"
"Did she just teleport in with food?!"
"IS THAT THE WIFE?! THAT'S THE ONE WHO MARRIED THE CHAIN GUY!"
Up in the stands, Qorrak choked on air. "What the—?! Cainan, how strong is she?! Is she able to….?"
Cainan's eyes narrowed, arms crossed. "Long story short, she could probably slaughter everyone in here pretty quick with a smile."
Qorrak blinked. "Well. Let's hope she doesn't make a mess."
Cainan grunted. "No promises. She's worse than Astrid."
Lynzelle waved dramatically to the roaring audience, tossing a bone into the air and catching it in her mouth, twirling on one foot like a celebrity. "Thank you! Thank you! Autographs later!"
Then with a crack of thunder, three figures landed with synchronized grace in front of Thurna—triplets, clearly siblings by structure, but each visually distinct.
The first, Tirrel, had short-shaven hair and jagged steel gauntlets, eyes darting with electricity. His vest was sleeveless, cords of copper woven through like veins.
The second, Varrel, had a long, braided ponytail and a high-collared coat of shimmering black, with lightning tattoos that sparked and shifted over his chest like living glyphs.
The third, Sarrel, was leanest, with wild eyes and a grin too wide, a scarf that floated like it had a mind of its own, and plated boots that buzzed with charge.
They posed together—awkwardly adjusting each other mid-pose and whispering.
"Tirrel, move your foot."
"I am moving—Varrel, you're in my way!"
"No, I'm always in the middle!"
Thurna groaned behind them, "Ughhh you idiots. Just strike a pose already."
Finally, they stood still, arms out, lightning coiling behind them.
"For Goddess Thurna, we strike!"
"She will not be shamed by some pretty-faced snack goblin!"
"I am Sarrel! This is Tirrel and Varrel! We are the Triple Storm!"
"And YOU—" Tirrel pointed at Lynzelle. "—WILL BE DESTROYED FOR HER HONOR!"
Lynzelle just smiled with puffy cheeks, still chewing. "Come on then."
They vanished, lightning streaks blasting across the arena, their movements blindingly fast as they surrounded her.
"Our Soulbrands are synced! Speed and electricity combined—we move as one!" Varrel shouted.
"The faster we move, the stronger the current! Our Soulbrand etched at birth links our Affinity—kinetic discharge channeled through Crest Magic!" Sarrel added.
"Each movement creates a charge—we fight with the lightning inside our identities! Our power is who we are!"
Lynzelle blinked, smiling, still chewing. "Neat."
Tirrel dashed forward, electricity around his fist, aiming for her face.
CRACK—
Lynzelle's fist met his face mid-strike, and it wasn't just a hit—it was devastation. Blood burst from his nose as he flew backward, slamming into the arena wall and sliding down like a sack of wet laundry.
Varrel and Sarrel screamed and flew in together, spiraling like twin bolts.
Two more punches. BRUTAL. Crunches. They collapsed into walls twitching, eyes spinning, limbs flailing like puppets. The crowd exploded with cheers and laughter.
"MARRY ME, YOU VIOLENT GODDESS!"
"KICK ME NEXT!"
"HURT ME WITH THOSE HANDS!"
Lynzelle blinked innocently, then turned toward Cainan. Her scythe had been resting beside him. With a soft pop, she switched places with it. Now seated beside Cainan, still munching.
He sighed. "Of course you did."
Another pop—she returned to the arena holding Cainan's hand, and the food basket in the other hand. "RAISE MY HAND!"
Cainan shook his head, slowly backing away. "No."
She pouted dramatically, quivering lip and huge glassy eyes. The crowd cooed.
"BOO! Raise your wife's hand, dammit!"
"What kind of husband is he?!"
"I'd never treat her like that!"
"Go ahead and divorce him and get with a real man!"
Cainan growled. "Ugh. Fine. This doesn't fit a witch hunter like me…"
He stepped forward, grabbed her hand, and raised it high.
The crowd went wild.
…
The heat from the arena had finally begun to settle, though the embers of adrenaline still clung to every breath. Blood marked the cracked stone beneath their boots, remnants of battle slowly dissolving as the self-repairing floor shimmered and pulsed with arcane stitching.
Thurna stood with her shoulders back, a proud smile hiding the fatigue in her posture, and in her hand, held out delicately by two fingers, was the prize: the Radiance Chamber pendant. "You won it fair and square," she said, her voice smooth but not without strain. "So here. Take it before I change my mind."
Qorrak stepped forward, his eyes tracing the glimmer of the pendant with a reverence one might reserve for a god's relic. He took it gently, holding it up. The Radiance Chamber pendant glowed faintly, its chain thin but laced with what looked like celestial sinew, veined with gold and threads of faint starlight. The centerpiece was a shard of translucent crystal shaped like a fractured sun, glinting with refracted hues no human gem should contain. It felt warm in his palm—alive, almost humming.
Qorrak said nothing, the weight of the object settling into more than just his hand.
Thurna exhaled. "Shit.. I hate this feeling. Losing." She shook her head and forced a crooked smile, brushing her loose strands of her out of her eyes. "Ugh, I'm joking. Mostly. Good luck with whatever mad plan you've got for that thing." Then her gaze drifted to Cainan, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and playful appraisal. "And you…You're Cainan, Bloodhunter under Lord Idrathar of Kalazeth. I've heard of you, like everyone has."
Cainan nodded slowly, not quite surprised. "Yeah."
"Well damn," she grinned, digging into her pockets and flipping two black-inked business cards their way. "Big fan. You and that wife of yours ever want to make real coin, you know where to find me." She flicked her thumb toward the arena behind her. "If you kill any witches—and I know you do—bring me their cursed relics or something valuable they might have on them. I'll pay good money and also information since I hear of a lot of things in the underground. Everyone wins."
Lynzelle lit up. "I love this woman. More money…"
Cainan muttered, "Okay. But no tricks. Hard to really trust people."
"You and me both, kid."
Cainan thought, 'I feel like I'll be away from the capital at times. Earning some side coin and information would be good for me and Lynzelle..'
Thurna turned to Astrid, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You were tough. I'll have you next time."
Astrid, still bruised and small in her fairy form, smirked wide, wings twitching. "Oh yeah? Bet I can take you with just my left leg and a toothpick."
"Is that a challenge?"
"Yes! It is! Fight me!" Astrid grinned wider, clearly riled up again.
But before anything exploded, Cainan and Lynzelle each grabbed Astrid's arms, and began dragging her away, the fairy growling half-heartedly, her threats slurred by exhaustion. "Just one punch. One more—just—lemme bite her ankle…"
That left Thurna and Qorrak in the now-quieting arena, standing before the now-glimmering floor. The heat of battle had bled out. Now it was just echoes and purpose.
Thurna let the silence hang a moment. Then: "Hunting a witch?"
Qorrak didn't answer immediately. He turned the pendant over in his hand before looking at her sideways. "I thought you didn't care what your buyers did with your merchandise."
"I don't." She leaned against a pillar. "But you're not just a buyer."
Qorrak raised a brow.
"I'm being nosy. Just this once." She crossed her arms, but not defensively. "Back when you talked about trying to find your place—figuring out who you are—I felt that. More than I should admit."
She looked past him, toward the stands now clearing out. Her voice softened. "I became all this—what you see now—selling relics, smuggling artifacts, brokering cursed items for blood money… all of it because it's the only way I saw to win. And maybe winning was all I ever wanted. I didn't grow up with anything. I stole food from nobles just to keep my sisters from starving. Stole medicine from temples because we weren't Light-touched enough to be worthy of healing. Every win back then came from breaking a rule. And it felt good."
Her eyes lowered. "But somewhere along the line, I started losing people. Not because of the witches. Not directly. But because of my greed. The way I saw it, you couldn't win without giving something up. So I let people go. Friends. Lovers. Family. I told myself it was worth it."
She breathed deep. "But lately… I've been wondering if the path I thought was about winning… was just another kind of loss. I hate losing. I hate it more than anything. But the worst part isn't the blood, or the fights, or even the silence when a match ends. It's knowing I might've pushed away everything good just to win at something I don't even understand."
She stepped forward and looked him dead in the eye. "So when you talked about wandering…about trying your best and still not knowing who you're supposed to be? Yeah. I felt that. You're not just some buyer to me, Qorrak. You're a reflection I don't want to admit I see."
Qorrak stared at her, for once speechless. His hand closed gently around the Radiance pendant. "I had no idea."
Thurna smiled—not the crooked, playful grin she gave the crowd. A softer one. "You weren't supposed to. Now." Her voice returned to that familiar swagger as she stepped back. "What witch are you hunting?"
Qorrak's gaze didn't waver. "We're hunting Elsha."
Thurna's brow arched. Her posture straightened, a rare flicker of sincerity replacing the ever-present sarcasm curling her lips. "Elsha?" she echoed. "Oh, I've heard of her. Rumors. Quiet ones. The kind people only speak about with salt on the tongue."
She stepped away from the pillar and paced a slow half-circle around Qorrak, drawing on the smoke from her half-burnt cigar. Her voice dropped, reverent and grim. "Once, she was beloved. A healer in the north. Honest hands, saint's touch. The kind of woman midwives and widows prayed for. But her talent grew too radiant. Too precise. A baron's son accused her of witchcraft—jealous bastard. Wanted her for himself, couldn't have her, so he turned her into a weapon for gossip."
Qorrak listened, still and silent, as her voice deepened with the weight of legend.
"Her husband was a guardsman," Thurna continued. "Oath-bound to the city watch of Dorrveth, the capital of Thálgrimr. He betrayed his vows and helped her escape before the witch-pyre was built. And in vengeance, the town burned him instead. Tied him to the stake. Said that love for a witch was the same as heresy. Said that his soul was already damned." She paused, watching the memory unfold in her mind like a tapestry of embers. "And now… she returns. Beautiful. Terrible. Dressed in grace and cruelty alike. They say she wears her guilt like a veil."
Thurna's voice dropped low, as if quoting a scripture older than god-blood:
"I want to die at the stake where he died for me. By the hand of someone who understands love and ruin. Those were her words that were written on stones in blood." She exhaled. "Her story ends where it began. That's what she wants. A stake. A fire. A proper end, but only by the hand of someone worthy of it."
Qorrak swallowed that weight quietly. "Thálgrimr, huh?"
"The Ironbone Kingdom," Thurna confirmed. "Mountain-cut northern highlands. Tough people. Stone-blooded Thálmen. They don't bury their dead, you know—they nail their bones to the mountains. It's how they believe their ancestors hold up the kingdom. And kings, they're not crowned. They're iron-branded over the heart."
Her voice had gained rhythm now, reverent. "Forgiveness is illegal there. Every citizen wears bone-inscribed armlets recording their family's sins. Guilt isn't weakness—it's identity. It's power. And then there's a cult around Elsha.."
Qorrak rubbed his chin. "A cult now?!"
Thurna nodded. "Yeah. Call her the 'Bride of Ash.' Think she's some divine martyr sent to cleanse the world with love that ruins and ruins that love. Tragic romance turned religion. You know how desperate people get—they'll latch onto anyone strong who bleeds the way they do."
Qorrak frowned. "How the hell didn't this reach Kalazeth? That place is right around the border. They've got ears everywhere when it comes to witches."
Thurna crossed her arms. "Three reasons I think. First: Thálgrimr don't talk to outsiders unless you're buying steel or burying kin. They don't send warnings. Second: folks are terrified of Elsha. You don't gossip about things that burn you from inside your dreams. And third…" Her voice trailed as she looked sideways. "Someone might've made sure it didn't reach Kalazeth."
Qorrak stiffened. "Someone silenced it?"
"Could be." She shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time. But keeping a secret like that from Kalazeth's reach, that's damn near impossible." She glanced toward the pendant in his grip. "People've tried to stop her, though. Vagabonds. Hunters. Druids. Shamans. Saints. Wizards. All kinds." Her voice softened. "Good luck. If you ever need a contact, someone with ears deeper than a cathedral's crypt… you know where to find me. You'll always be welcome here."
Qorrak hesitated, then grunted. "Thanks." He stepped back—and without warning, he reached to his shoulder, and ripped his left arm off with a grimace, bloodless but gory, aether pulsing from the stump. The limb was thick, muscled, engraved with his runes.
Thurna blinked, startled. "Wait—what—?"
"Payment," Qorrak grunted, handing it to her. "For the h formation. I didn't leave empty handed."
She snatched it fast, but her expression teetered between greedy glee and faux concern. "Are you sure?" she teased, holding it out as if to give it back—only to pull it away again. "I mean, I could keep this… but I don't want to rob you—"
"Yes, you do," Qorrak muttered.
She smirked. "Fair."
"My arm'll grow back in an hour."
"That's hot."
Without another word, Qorrak turned and exited into the fading torchlight of the upper chamber.
Outside, in the cobbled edge of town under a cracked sun, Cainan leaned against a crooked lamppost with Lynzelle clinging to his side, her arm looped around him like a lazy vine. She looked bored, her heel tapping rapidly against the stones.
"Can we please go hunt a witch now?" she whined. "I'm drying out here."
Astrid hovered mid-air beside them, her small fairy frame glowing faintly with post-battle residue. She twirled a dead flower stem between her fingers, wings flitting with impatience.
Then came Qorrak.
Cainan glanced at him, squinting. "What the hell happened to your arm?"
"Oh my…gross," Astrid chirped, floating back a bit.
"Was that your favorite arm?" Lynzelle asked, half-serious, tilting her head. "It looked like it could punch nice."
"Don't worry about it," Qorrak said chuckling, brushing past them. "Got what we needed. Elsha the witch. We walk and talk like always."
"Finally." Cainan narrowed his eyes.
Astrid sighed excitedly. Lynzelle grinned like a kid before a storm.
And together, they walked down the road—toward the mountains where bones held up kingdoms, and a woman waited to die in the place where love had burned.