The pit smelled of blood and ash.
Nyxia stood alone under the pale morning sky, the arena mostly silent save for murmured bets and the rustle of sand in the wind. Her polearm dug lightly into the ground, steady in her grip though her knuckles were already white.
Across the ring, her opponent emerged — not just massive, but monstrous. An orc by lineage, but warped by something darker. The void had marked him like molten tar, purple-black veins crawling across his bare chest, his eyes glowing with fevered hate.
He didn't roar. He just smiled — jagged teeth and all — and rolled his neck with a crack.
"Gonna break you slow, kitty," he growled.
Nyxia didn't flinch.
She ran.
Her opening strike was lightning-quick — a low sweep with the polearm aimed at his legs. He jumped, surprisingly agile, and brought down a cleaver that slammed into her haft. She twisted, redirected it with her momentum, and drove the butt of her weapon into his jaw.
It connected. He staggered. Blood flew.
But he laughed.
His retaliation was merciless. He feinted a downward strike, then faked right, only to slam his shoulder into her abdomen. She gasped as air whooshed from her lungs and was sent flying into the sand.
He charged again. She rolled. The cleaver embedded into the ground beside her head, missing by inches. She retaliated with an upward jab — crack! — her polearm slicing across his bicep.
The crowd roared now, more awake, hungry for carnage.
Nyxia felt her rhythm returning, that dangerous edge she danced when blood was on the wind and death circled like a vulture.
She moved with purpose, circling him, polearm spinning like a crescent moon in her hands. She struck at his knees, then reversed and slashed his thigh.
Another grunt. Another curse.
"Slippery little witch," he spat.
"You're slow," she hissed, "and your breath smells like rot."
He charged again—this time smarter. He absorbed the first hit, letting her polearm bite into his side, then grabbed it mid-swing. With a roar, he ripped the weapon from her hands and hurled it across the ring.
Nyxia barely ducked under his punch and twisted back into a defensive stance—hands up, bleeding, but unyielding.
Then—
She felt it.
The air rippled.
Her eyes darted across the arena.
Arioch.
Leaning on the far wall now, swirling a glass of blood-colored wine that hadn't been there a second ago. He didn't even sip. Just smiled.
She blinked.
He was gone.
She blinked again.
He was behind her opponent, whispering something she couldn't hear. Her vision blurred for half a second, edges of reality pulsing like a heartbeat. Her own thoughts twisted.
Ves's face.
Dead. Hollow-eyed. Whispering:
"This is what you are now."
Her breath caught.
That moment of hesitation—
Was everything.
The cleaver crashed into her ribs with enough force to crack bone.
She screamed.
Blood sprayed from her mouth as she hit the ground, her body curling in on itself. The crowd's cheers blurred into a distant echo, drowned by the drumbeat of pain in her head.
"Come now, girl," Arioch cooed from everywhere. "You can still win. Just give in a little. Let the void show you what you're meant to be."
Nyxia staggered to her feet, trembling, blood dripping down her side and soaking into the sand.
The orc circled now, confident. Playing with his food.
"Thought you were tough," he mocked. "All show, no bite."
Nyxia spat blood.
"You talk too much."
She charged him — reckless, wounded — and landed a brutal elbow to his face. He swung back and split her cheek. She ducked under the next blow, kicking his knee sideways. The joint popped.
He screamed. And grabbed her by the neck.
Lifted her.
And slammed her down hard.
The world tilted. Pain exploded in her skull.
She barely felt the next few hits. Only the warmth of her blood pooling beneath her, the echo of Loque's scream in her mind, and—
Arioch.
Now sitting in the front row, legs crossed, one hand cupping his cheek, watching with bored delight.
"You're not done yet. Not until I say you are."
Her fingers twitched toward her polearm, far away.
The orc raised his cleaver.
This is it.
The void surged inside her chest—unwilling to die.
Loque screamed.
CRASH!
The window exploded.
Shards of glass rained down like crystal daggers as Loque's massive form launched through it with terrifying speed, the wood of the windowsill splintering under his claws. Screams rang from the hall as the beast bounded onto the roof and leapt into the street below, a blur of spectral white trailing mist behind him.
The entire room erupted.
"LOQUE?!" Boo jolted upright, nearly stabbing Draj with an arrow as she fumbled to grab her bow.
"What the hell?!" Perseus scrambled to his feet, half-dressed, still shaking sleep from his limbs.
"He's gone! Where is he going?!" Draj cursed, grabbing his shirt and boots, eyes wide as saucers.
Boo was already by the door, flinging it open.
"Nyxia," she whispered, dread sinking into her gut like a stone. "She's gone too."
They burst into motion.
Half-dressed, weapons in hand, adrenaline crashing into their veins.
She was barely conscious, vision doubling, breath ragged and wet. Her fingers scraped at the earth, grasping for her polearm like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline.
Above her, the orc raised his cleaver again, lips peeled back in a snarl.
And then—
Loque hit him like a thunderclap.
BOOM.
A blur of white tore across the pit with spectral flame trailing in its wake. The orc was lifted clean off his feet and sent crashing into the arena wall, his body hitting the stone like a broken rag doll.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
Dust exploded.
Loque landed over Nyxia's body, his form huge and burning with otherworldly fury, teeth bared, chest heaving with every enraged breath. His eyes locked with hers, wild and frantic, his muzzle nuzzling her wounds, pressing to her chest—
No die. No die. No die.
Her blood slicked his fur. Her hand reached up—
"Took you long enough," she rasped.
At the edge of the pit, the others arrived.
Boo shoved her way through the crowd first, skidding to a stop with wide eyes.
"Oh my gods—"
Perseus nearly crashed into her back, breath gone, cloak flapping behind him. Draj was close behind, chest heaving.
And there she was.
Nyxia.
Again.
In the pit.
Bleeding.
Bruised.
And smiling like a damn fool with a broken rib.
Perseus's entire body locked. His jaw clenched so tight it popped.
"She snuck out again," Boo said in disbelief. "She—she went back. She's fighting again?!"
"Look," Draj whispered, pointing toward the stands.
Arioch.
Still as ever. Leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, watching. Smiling. Eyes locked on Nyxia like she was a painting he was about to sign.
"Mother of—" Perseus growled.
Nyxia, lying beneath Loque, blinked up at the sky.
Pain throbbed in every inch of her body. Her pulse felt like thunder in her ears.
She looked toward the stands and met Arioch's eyes for just a second.
His lips moved.
"Mine."
The single word slipped from Arioch's lips like smoke.
"Mine."
The effect was immediate.
Something in Nyxia snapped.
Her body seized, back arching violently under Loque's paws. Her eyes, already unfocused with pain, rolled white for half a heartbeat — then slammed open wide, void-black, veins darkening across her neck and chest like ink bleeding through silk.
"No—no—Nyx?" Boo whispered from the stands.
Loque let out a startled, desperate snarl, trying to pin her down, but her strength surged with unnatural fury. With a snarl like a dying star, she threw him off with one savage twist, her body jerking to its feet in a single, whip-fast motion.
Sand kicked up around her heels. Her mouth opened—but no sound came.
Only rage.
An all-consuming, primal rage that crackled with void energy, bleeding out of her like smoke from a volcano.
The crowd fell utterly silent.
The orc, dazed and limping back to his feet, raised his cleaver with a sneer—
And Nyxia launched.
Like a wildcat unchained.
Like a star imploding.
She crashed into him with a force that shouldn't have come from someone that broken, that wounded. Her hands tore at his throat before his cleaver even finished rising. She dragged him to the ground, snarling, slamming his head into the sand again.
And again.
And again.
CRACK.
Bone gave way. Blood geysered.
The orc gurgled.
She wasn't done.
Her hands—claws now, lit with voidfire—ripped into his chest, tearing armor like paper, splitting skin like silk. The shriek that tore from him was short-lived.
She plunged her hand into his ribcage with a sickening shluck, yanked out a mass of something pulsing and dark.
Then she roared.
A sound that shattered the silence and tore into the soul of every onlooker.
Gasps. Screams. People fled the stands.
Children cried.
Blood soaked the sand.
And Nyxia stood, covered in it, chest heaving, weapon forgotten, teeth bared like a feral beast in heat and pain and vengeance.
Arioch's smile never faltered.
Perseus looked horrified.
"Nyxia!" he screamed from the railing.
She didn't even turn.
Loque was the first to move—cautiously.
He stepped toward her, head low, tail twitching.
"Nyx," Boo called softly. "Sweetheart, you're okay now. You did it. It's over."
But it wasn't over.
Nyxia's hands trembled as blood dripped from her fingers. Her legs buckled—but she caught herself.
And her eyes—still voidblack—lifted toward Arioch once more.
He gave her a single, slow, mocking bow from the shadows. Then he vanished—into smoke, into nothing, leaving only his laughter curling through the pit.
Perseus moved then—ran down the steps.
Loque edged closer, pressing his muzzle to her thigh, whimpering, nudging, whispering through their bond.
Come back. Please. Come back.
The blood hadn't even stopped steaming when Perseus shoved his way past a frozen pit guard and dropped into the arena.
"Nyxia!"
She stood in the wreckage of her kill, chest rising and falling, fingers twitching as the last threads of void energy crawled beneath her skin like worms. Her lips were parted slightly—barely breathing.
He stormed toward her, fury lighting his steps.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!"
She didn't flinch.
The crowd had long since scattered. Boo and Draj stood at the edge of the pit, not daring to interrupt. Loque paced protectively beside Nyxia, muscles taut, fur bristling.
"Are you insane?!" Perseus bellowed, voice echoing against the blood-stained walls. "You almost died—again! And this time you…!"
He trailed off, looking down at the ruin she had left behind.
The mangled corpse. The crushed skull. The ribcage peeled open like rotten fruit.
"You didn't just beat him," Perseus hissed. "You slaughtered him. This isn't a game, Nyx! What if—what if you didn't come back this time?! What if the void keeps you?!"
She blinked slowly. Still quiet. Still trembling.
"I had to," she murmured, barely audible.
"No. You didn't." His voice cracked. "You chose this."
He took a step forward.
Put his hands on her shoulders—firmly, shaking her just enough to snap her out of it.
"Look at me! Damn it, look at me!"
And then—
Loque snapped.
With a guttural snarl that shook the arena walls, the great beast launched himself forward.
Claws out. Teeth bared.
Perseus didn't even have time to dodge.
Loque slammed into him like a meteor, knocking him flat on his back with a sickening thud. Dust and blood flew.
Perseus barely got his arms up before the spectral leopard was on him, snarling in his face, teeth inches from his throat.
"Loque—NO!" Nyxia's voice ripped through the haze, sharp and commanding, the first real sign of life in her tone.
Loque hesitated—fangs still bared, breath hot and wild—but didn't bite.
"Down."
Slowly, reluctantly, the beast backed off, stalking in a wide circle between the two of them, hackles raised like knives.
Perseus sat up, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief, dust and blood streaking his cheek.
He looked at Nyxia again—not with fury this time, but something else.
Fear.
Not of her.
For her.
"…Nyx," he said more softly now, coughing. "What's happening to you?"
And this time—
She didn't have an answer.
Nyxia didn't say a word as she limped out of the pit.
Her boots dragged crimson trails through the sand, her polearm a useless weight across her shoulders. The blood had dried sticky down her side. Her vision swam, her ribs screamed with every breath, but worse than the pain was the silence that followed her—like a noose tightening around her neck.
The coinmaster stood waiting behind the barred window of the fighter's office, tallying blood money with cold efficiency. He didn't comment on the gore still clinging to her. Didn't flinch at the look in her eyes.
"Double what was promised," he muttered, sliding a heavy coin pouch toward her. "You put on quite the show."
She took it.
Didn't respond.
Didn't look at him.
The clink of gold was like a bell tolling at her funeral.