Venara stood tall on the balcony above the arena, her presence wrapped in grace, her smile carved with careful practice. From below, she looked the very image of composed nobility, the jewel of House Goldmere. But beneath that porcelain calm, something inside her coiled with unease.
She hated how her heart still dared to feel anything. Still dared to worry.
"Just go and finish it now. It's over," said Lord Masquien, slouched comfortably in his chair beside her. His voice, though lazy, carried the cruel assurance of a man who believed he'd already won.
Venara said nothing. She only blinked, slowly, turning her gaze downward again.
Why? she thought bitterly. Why did you have to do that?
Risking everything to protect two one-armed thieves—men of no value to the Houses, no place in the games. And worse, the dagger. The betrayal. A blade in the back from the very ones he'd tried to shield.
It was tasteless. Stupid. It made her sick.
Now Caelvir stood, if it could be called that—leaning heavily on the Sword of Seren, both hands clutching the hilt as if the blade were the only thing tethering him to life. Blood dripped from his mouth with every breath. His body trembled. Every second he remained upright looked borrowed from death itself.
And yet—
Brusk didn't move.
Brusk, the butcher of a dozen men, the giant with arms like tree trunks, the pride of Masquien's coffers, stood still in the sand. His shoulders hunched unnaturally. A cough escaped him—and red followed.
Venara's eyes narrowed.
Something was wrong.
Masquien, too, noticed. His brow furrowed. "When did the boy manage to land a blow?" he asked aloud, but more to himself than to her.
Venara didn't answer. She didn't know. No one did. That last strike—there hadn't been one. Brusk had broken Caelvir down like a mountain falling on a man. And yet...
Brusk staggered, just slightly. The weight of his axe, once wielded like a feather, now seemed too much. His knees nearly buckled.
Was this… a miracle?
A guard from the hallway rushed forward and whispered something to Masquien's personal guard, who in turn leaned toward the lord's ear. Venara watched Masquien carefully. Whatever words were shared, they hit him like a slap.
Masquien's face turned crimson.
"That stupid, good-for-nothing brute!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
Then, as if remembering himself, he cleared his throat and turned to her. "Forgive my language, Lady Venara."
"No apology needed," she said smoothly, but her voice was ice. "Though I wonder… what was that about?"
Masquien shifted, visibly rattled. His usual smirk nowhere to be found. "Just… private House matters," he muttered.
Venara's expression didn't change, but she filed that away. The mask was cracking. The man who had watched the entire fight with smug certainty now looked like he'd seen a ghost. But she said nothing more.
Instead, she looked down again. Not at Brusk.
At Caelvir.
Blood painted his face like warpaint. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. His mouth opened with another cough—and more red. And yet… his eyes.
His eyes burned.
Still.
Unfazed.
What do you see down there? Venara wondered. What truth lies behind those eyes that makes you believe you can still win?
And what truth did Masquien just hear that shattered him?
The colosseum had fallen into a strange silence, the kind that only follows disbelief.
Even the air felt heavier — thick with the scent of iron and sweat, with sand kicked up into spiraling ghosts by the final clash.
Brusk stood tall, but he swayed, his hulking form somehow smaller now. A smear of crimson painted the corner of his lips. His axe, once so light in his monstrous hands, now dragged through the dirt with each step — its edge hissing across the stone like a wounded serpent.
Opposite him, Caelvir.
Barely standing.
The Sword of Seren trembled in his hand. Blood wept from the gash across his ribs, and from the wound in his back where betrayal had sunk its teeth. He leaned on the sword like it was the only truth left in the world.
Each breath he drew sounded like tearing cloth, wet and shallow. His boots left prints of red as he shifted his stance. The noise of it — the slick squelch of blood, the rattle in his throat, the clang of the sword tip tapping against the sand — it was a symphony of pain.
Then Brusk roared.
RRRAHHHH!
The sound boomed across the arena like thunder in a sealed chamber — primal, desperate, furious.
He surged forward, axe raised high.
Caelvir didn't wait.
He gritted his teeth, pushed off the ground, and ran into the storm.
The impact was animal. Axe to sword, metal to metal — the clash sent up sparks, the shock of it jarring down their spines.
They pressed in close.
Too close for weapons.
Brusk elbowed Caelvir in the jaw — the crunch of bone against bone. Caelvir stumbled, spat blood, but twisted low and slammed his shoulder into Brusk's gut.
A cough. Another burst of blood from Brusk's mouth.
Caelvir used the moment — sliced upward with Seren's blade.
Too slow.
Brusk caught his arm mid-swing and drove a knee into Caelvir's stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. A strangled sound escaped Caelvir's throat — half gasp, half cry — as he doubled over.
The crowd groaned in shared pain.
But even bent in agony, Caelvir moved. He dropped the sword, just for a moment, and punched — a brutal uppercut into Brusk's jaw.
The giant reeled.
Caelvir retrieved the blade, spun it with a flicker of technique honed in dark hours, and slashed.
The cut landed. Not deep. But enough.
Brusk staggered back, bleeding from the thigh now. He looked down at the wound, as if confused by it. As if insulted that he could be injured.
He roared again and charged, sand exploding beneath his boots.
They met in the center — one final clash.
Steel screamed against steel. Their weapons locked again, but this time Caelvir pushed back.
Brusk's body shook.
The strength was gone.
Gone from his arms, gone from his legs. His veins bulged, and his eyes, wide with fury, began to blur with exhaustion.
He swung wildly — too wide — and Caelvir stepped in. One, two, three slashes.
Wounds opened across Brusk's chest like blooming red flowers. His knees buckled. Still, he raised the axe once more.
A final blow.
But it never came.
Caelvir thrust forward — a clean stab beneath Brusk's ribs.
Silence followed the wet sound of the sword piercing flesh.
Brusk looked down, mouth parted. Blood spilled from between his lips in a slow, steady stream.
His axe slipped from his hand.
The thud of it hitting the ground echoed like a closing door.
Then Brusk fell—forward, face-first into the sand, a mountain finally collapsing.
Dead.
The arena didn't erupt in cheers.
Not yet.
Because Caelvir still stood. Barely.
Blood poured from his wounds in thick rivulets, his legs shaking. He coughed again — a terrible sound, wet and broken. But he lifted his head, just barely, and let go of the sword. It remained upright, buried in the sand.
He leaned on it again.
He had survived.
The crowd's roar still echoed across the colosseum, a storm of sound crashing against the walls. And yet, on the balcony, Venara heard none of it.
Her gaze never left the arena floor.
Caelvir stood alone.
Blood drenched him, soaking into his clothes, dripping from his lips, and pooling beneath his boots. He leaned on the Sword of Seren like a dying king upon his throne—back bent, chest heaving, but still… he stood.
And beside him lay Brusk.
Still.
Broken.
Defeated.