The wind stilled.
Then—steel screamed.
Lysara launched forward, sword light in her grip, dancing with intent. Her frame a wisp of movement, lean and coiled. The swordsman charged as well, thunder in every step. His boots struck the earth like falling hammers, his sword a slab of iron drawn from the depths of war.
They collided—not bodies, but wills.
Metal rang, sparks kissed the sun, and dust curled around their feet like smoke. The first clash was not a single blow, but a sequence: her slender blade glancing off his wide sweep, parrying and sliding like water across stone. His sword—heavy, deliberate—met hers again, and again, until the rhythm of their battle found breath.
Not muscle versus finesse—but force meeting art.
The swordsman moved like a storm. Not just power—precision. He twisted his core, hips, and shoulders behind every blow. His blade wasn't just swung—it was thrown like a wave, anchored by mastery. He used his full weight, elbows tight, knees bent, maximizing range and velocity. He was no brute. He was a tactician inside a fortress of iron.
Lysara's sword moved like a ribbon caught in a tempest. Each strike was a whisper at first, growing sharper. She slid under his arcs, stepped through the gaps between his strikes, turned pivots into slashes and parries into counterattacks. Her sword wasn't just fast—it was invisible. It didn't sing like metal—it whispered like breath.
Gasps echoed across the colosseum. Then cheers.
The crowd rose as one—astonished.
They had never seen a fight like this.
Steel met steel again and again in a rhythm too fast for the eye to follow. Every movement lifted dust into the air, gold swirling around them like fireflies. The arena floor grew hazy, filled with fine sand disturbed by footwork too perfect to be accidental.
He roared—deep and primal—each cry feeding his momentum. His armor clanked with every motion, a furnace of motion and pressure. He used his size, trying to press her back, to corner her, to break her stance. A kick, a shoulder rush, a weight-bearing lunge. He threw everything into every swing.
She deflected without flinching.
She fought with precision, not power. Her strength had never been in muscle. It was in angles, timing, awareness. She finished battles quickly because she had to. She didn't have the luxury of endurance.
One mistake, and his strength would crush her.
She needed a moment.
A single opening.
She saw it then—a sliver.
At the curve of his neck, where helmet met chestplate. A space no wider than a coin. A spot most swordsmen couldn't dream of targeting, let alone striking mid-battle.
Not now, she thought.
His blade crashed down—she spun away, her body sliding over sand like it knew the terrain by instinct. The wind lifted her hair, her feet never still. He came low, a cleaving swing aimed to gut.
She stepped to the right. Quick. Reflexive. Clean.
She countered—blade flicking up toward his neck.
Inches too high.
Her blade sliced the air, swift and sure, but the tip scraped only the edge of his shoulderplate before glancing off into nothing. She ducked under his retaliatory swing, sand spraying as she twisted to his side. Without a breath wasted, she struck again—
Inches too low.
The impact sent a tremor up her arm, a dull vibration humming through her wrist to her shoulder. It wasn't clean. It wasn't enough.
Then—
Her sword rang off his helmet. The impact jarred them both. It didn't pierce. But it tilted his head—just slightly.
A helmet may block a blade, but it doesn't stop the skull inside from rattling.
He staggered, half a step, barely perceptible.
She had already retreated, readying again. But then—she saw it.
Now, she thought.
She surged forward, the breeze made blade. He roared again, louder, stronger—his blade coming down, an arc of steel screaming toward her chest.
He knew. He fought back, even now.
Two blades. Two targets. One moment.
Her sword lanced forward, guided by instinct, not aim. The dust lifted in a sudden storm as their feet moved, legs pivoting with impossible force. Sand swallowed their steps.
SLASH.
A single sound. Not of pain—but of finality.
They passed each other.
Then stillness.
Backs facing. Sand settling. A reversal of stance, of time.
The crowd held their breath.
The blow was too fast to see. The outcome—a mystery suspended mid-air.
She, leather-armored, exposed in places no knight would dare show. He, wrapped head-to-toe in steel. Her chances? Slim.
To win, her sword had to thread a needle. His blade needed only to strike anywhere.
Whose steel found the mark?
Neither moved.
Then—Lysara turned.
Her blade pointed downward. Her stance calm. Cold eyes, clear and glasslike, blinked once.
She was still.
Harmless.
The swordsman remained rooted.
His sword sagged.
He muttered, hoarse. "It's cold..."
A single drop of red slid from his neck—then more.
A breath later, his head fell.
It did not tumble. It dropped, like it accepted its fate.
A clean strike. No hesitation. No noise. No glory.
Just death.
The crowd didn't react at first.
Then came the roar. Delayed. Deafening. Wild.
A tide of voices surged, calling her name, or just screaming with disbelief.
Lysara did not raise her blade.
She simply walked.
Wind tugged gently at her cloak.
The match was over.
Victory claimed.
A hush fell in her wake, as if the colosseum itself exhaled.
A cold breeze passed through the arena.
It traced her skin, soft as memory, and curled across the blood-warmed sand.
She was a breeze.
A cold one.