Brusk snorted, shaking his head with irritation. He coughed sharply, the noise like rocks scraping in a dry throat. "Damn sand," he muttered, nostrils flaring. "Gets in your throat. Nasty little grains."
But as he wiped a hand across his face, his eyes drifted—not to Caelvir, but to the two one-armed men standing still at his right. They were barely breathing, frozen not by courage but fear.
"The weak first," Brusk said, his grin returning like a fresh wound.
And then he charged.
Caelvir's eyes widened.
This is it.
You never turn your back in a fight of blades.
Brusk's monstrous legs pounded across the arena, sand exploding under each step. He would reach the men in seconds. Too fast. Too powerful. Caelvir's sword would only strike after Brusk had already cleaved one in half.
Aelric's voice echoed in the cell corridor behind the arena wall.
"So the beast is hungry for blood," he said calmly. "Targeting the weak makes sense. Now… this is Caelvir's chance."
And Caelvir moved.
But not like a tactician. Not like a gambler weighing odds.
He ran—not toward Brusk's flank, but alongside him. Step for step. Like two predators chasing the same prey.
Aelric tilted his head, watching.
"Hmm? Is he planning to strike Brusk from the side while he's focused on the others? Or perhaps…" A faint smile played on his lips. "Perhaps he's going to protect them. Save one, sacrifice the other? Or…"
The horn of Brusk's war cry rose in the arena, and the axe lifted—
Steel met steel. Seren's blade caught the axe mid-swing, sparks flying, a sharp chime splitting the air.
Aelric leaned forward.
"Both it is, then," he murmured. "But here, kindness is rewarded with death."
"Stupid," Valkira hissed. "What is he thinking? Those two are fresh meat—no use in a real fight. Let them die."
The pressure of Brusk's axe was immense. It drove down with the force of a landslide, and Caelvir was forced to kneel, both hands bracing the sword above him like a cross, holding back the flood. The dirt beneath his boots gave way, knees carving trenches in the sand.
"The Blade King kneeling to an axe," Brusk sneered. "Not befitting of you, your grace."
And then Brusk pressed harder.
Caelvir grit his teeth, eyes searching—not Brusk's face, but the surroundings. The angle of the blow. The opening. He expected a kick to the chest, a sudden twist of the axe, anything—
But what came was not from Brusk.
A sharp pain pierced his back.
His breath hitched.
Cold steel sank between his ribs, right where the heart hid.
His hands faltered.
The axe surged down.
Seren's sword spun from his grip, flung like a silver cry across the sand.
Then the axe kissed flesh.
A long, clean slice split across Caelvir's left chest, crimson rising instantly, gushing with the rhythm of a wounded heart.
But his instincts saved him.
At the last second, his body twisted, enough to turn a killing blow into a maiming one. Still, the pain was absolute.
He collapsed.
Two wounds now—one from betrayal, one from brute force. Either could kill a warrior. Together… they sang death.
Valkira's lip curled in disgust. "To be betrayed by the ones you had no business protecting…"
Brusk laughed, dragging the axe behind him like a child pulling a broken toy. "You've come far, boy. Killed left and right. But now?"
He gestured broadly, arms open.
"You lose it all over one stupid decision."
He coughed again, deeper this time.
"Damn the sand."
Then he turned, eyes narrowing at the two trembling men. But mostly, at the one who had stabbed Caelvir.
"You rat," Brusk said softly. "You don't even know who your actual opponent is?"
The man who had stabbed Caelvir tried to speak, voice cracking. "T-told me I could get… out. The guard… he said—"
"Hhmm?" Brusk raised a brow. "Too bad."
He swung the axe once.
It caught one of the men at the shoulder—right where the remaining arm had been. The limb fell, a final offering to fear.
The other man barely flinched before his other arm joined its twin on the ground.
Brusk took a step back. Let the silence fall.
Then, without ceremony, he split both heads with two swift arcs. Not that it mattered. The blood was already draining from them like water from broken vessels.
They would have died either way.
He turned to Caelvir.
But the boy was rising.
Shakily. Crawling, pushing.
His hand reached the sword now lodged in the sand, and he pulled it free, dragging his body upward.
He stood.
Barely.
Leaning on the hilt, breath ragged, chest soaked, knees trembling. His eyes locked on Brusk's. Focused. Quiet. Burning.
Then—Brusk coughed again.
Harder.
He stumbled slightly, spitting something dark into the sand.
Blood.
Real blood.
Not from the throat. Not from a cut he remembered.
Brusk blinked, confused. He looked at his chest, arms. No wounds.
"Did the boy… manage to strike me? But where?"
The crowd murmured.
Even the guards in the stands frowned.
Valkira narrowed her eyes. "When did he damage Brusk?"
Aelric's lips curved into a knowing smile.
He spoke softly.
"It seems one of the best warriors of the Dust Arena... can't stand the dust."