A single horn blew—a long, low note that trembled through the ground beneath her feet.
Lysara turned.
The time had come.
As her boots moved through the shaded tunnel leading to the arena, shadows clinging to her armor, memory walked with her. Not vividly, not forcefully, but as a faint gust—dust lifting in a quiet breeze.
She remembered her father's voice, low and final. "She just eats and eats."
She remembered her mother's silence, and the clink of a single coin falling into a trader's palm.
She had been five.
Eyes cold, lips tight.
The world didn't cry for her, and she didn't cry for herself.
The merchant who took her in wore silk robes and indulgence like perfume. He had a smile for guests, and a hand for everyone else. He was noble-blooded, he claimed, with a harem of wives, mistresses, and girls too young for either title.
Lysara served him—cupbearer, floor-scrubber, handmaid, flesh. He had her in silk sometimes, in chains other times. Her job was to please, and when pleasure became routine, it turned into performance.
Eyes frozen, cheeks colorless.
The man had a taste for control. Even in fantasy. He dressed her once in armor, claiming it made her look fierce.
She was twenty when she first touched a sword. A display piece, supposedly. But her grip was strong. Her movements, careful. The merchant saw something promising, and she became his bodyguard the next year.
Eyes lifeless, yet sharp. Hands cool as ice.
Then, at twenty-three, she saw it. Another girl—five, maybe six—sold to the same home. Before the merchant could reach for her, Lysara reached for her blade.
The merchant's throat opened under her sword. A clean, red line.
She was sent to the colosseum. Dust Arena. No trial. No delay.
Misery was hereditary, after all.
There, she met Valkira.
Strong. Confident. Her laughter lit the dusk-colored sand. Ambition gleamed in her eyes like armor polished too often. She fought not just to survive—but to rise.
Lysara had none of that. She fought because that was all she knew.
But Valkira looked at her with warmth, and warmth could thaw.
Lysara's eyes remained cold.
Yet her cheeks took color—red, just once.
And her lips parted, faintly, for a small, almost-forgotten smile.
Her hands, when held in Valkira's, burned with life.
Hope was infectious, after all.
Together they trained others. Newcomers, lost faces. Those with no fire, no foundation. Those who moved like ghosts across the sand.
Eyes dark. Lips shut. Cheeks sunken. Hands frozen.
She trained them with patience, not kindness. With repetition, not motivation. Yet something stirred.
And then she met Seren.
An icy beauty. Precision in every glance. Seren reminded Lysara of herself, perhaps too much. Both carved from similar stones, both burdened with silences that spoke too loud.
Still, Lysara's eyes stayed in the shadows, with not even a shred of warmth.
But she smiled whenever Seren and Valkira laughed together, their eyes burning with sunlight.
She trained Seren harder than the others. Every drop of sweat now meant one less drop of blood later.
A truth she'd learned far too well.
But Seren died. Her kill count was low, her victories few.
Lysara didn't care. Not really.
The colosseum assigned numbers. It measured survival in wins and kills.
But Lysara saw worth in other things—the softness of a smile, the warmth in one's gaze.
We all love and adore what we are denied, after all.
We forget to love what we have. But time is cruel. It moves ahead, but never back.
The light hit her eyes.
She stepped forward—one foot on hot sand. Her expression blank. Her gaze cold.
The crowd roared. The wind tugged at her mismatched armor. One pauldron too large. One missing. A deliberate imbalance. She wore it like a scar.
Ahead, her opponent waited. A tall swordsman, muscles dense as stone. His blade almost comically large. He stood confident. Probably had a list of kills behind him.
Probably.
Lysara had ninety. That, she knew for sure.
Her sword—slender, elegant, gleamed under the sun. It looked delicate, harmless. The breeze of a summer morning.
But it had ended lives. More than most could count.
They called her The Breeze.
A name she hadn't chosen.
Once a breeze, always a breeze.
She recalled the fight that gave her that title. One swing, a perfect arc. The man's head had stayed atop his shoulders for a few heartbeats, blinking, confused. Then it toppled like a stone.
The wind had been soft that day.
She hadn't meant for that strike to be beautiful. But death can be cruelly graceful.
If she were to name herself, what would she choose?
Lysara the Queen of Blades? No. Too proud. She didn't feel like royalty.
Lysara the Killer? True, but too bitter.
Lysara the Strong Warrior? Empty. Strength that only existed to slit throats wasn't strength worth singing about.
Lysara the Sweet Cake Lover? ...Well. She liked sweets. Cookies. Cream-filled pastries. Little joys tucked between battles. Valkira used to call her that, too embarrassing.
But that name would never echo in the stands.
She wasn't good at titles. Apparently.
The crowd quieted. The match was about to begin.
She stared at the swordsman.
A hush fell as her blade stilled.
Blood still warming the sand, breath quiet in her chest. Then—it came.
A breeze, light and sudden, brushing against her cheek like a whisper long forgotten.
Cold, too cold for the sun-soaked arena. It passed without purpose, without mercy.
Just like her.