Seren tightened the straps of her worn leather armor. Her fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calm facade she tried to maintain. Today marked her seventh fight in the arena. Each previous battle had been a step closer to the freedom she so desperately sought, yet the weight of this particular match pressed heavily on her shoulders.
Valkira approached, her presence commanding as always. "You've trained hard, Seren," she said, placing a firm hand on Seren's shoulder. "Trust in your skills."
Lysara nodded in agreement, her expression stoic. "Remember your footwork. Stay light, stay alert."
Seren managed a weak smile, drawing strength from their support. She recalled the countless hours spent under Valkira's tutelage, the bruises, the sweat, the tears—all leading to this moment.
The clanging of iron gates interrupted her thoughts. Guards marched down the corridor, their footsteps echoing ominously. They stopped before a cell, unlocking it with a resounding click.
From the shadows emerged a gaunt figure, his eyes devoid of emotion.
His steps made no sound on the stone. Like the dungeon floor had learned to go quiet for him
"Caelvir," Aelric murmured, his gaze fixed on the boy.
Valkira's eyes narrowed. "I don't care what his name is," she spat. "He's a beast, nothing more."
Seren's heart pounded in her chest. She had heard the tales—the boy who had devoured his opponent in his first fight. But as she looked at him now, he seemed fragile, almost skeletal. Still, a chill ran down her spine.
"You'll be fine," Valkira reassured her. "He's inexperienced, untrained. You've got this."
Seren nodded, steeling herself. She couldn't afford to falter. Not now.
The arena roared with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed across the stands. "Ladies and gentlemen, today we have a special match! Seren the Star, beloved by all, faces off against the infamous cannibal beast!"
Cheers erupted, mixed with jeers and crude remarks. Seren felt their eyes on her, not as a warrior, but as an object of desire. She gritted her teeth, focusing on the task at hand.
As she stepped onto the sandy floor, memories flooded her mind. She had faced worse monsters. Monsters with voices. With hands.
Her homeland, the snow-covered plains of the Elarian tribe, known for their ethereal beauty and fair skin. The day bandits raided her village, the screams, the blood, the fire. Her capture, the chains, the leering eyes of slavers. The day she killed her master, tasting freedom for a fleeting moment before being thrown into the colosseum.
Brusk's gang had taken her first, their assault leaving scars deeper than any blade could. She had been a shell, empty and broken, until Valkira extended a hand, pulling her from the abyss. Since then, Seren had fought not just for survival, but for redemption, for a future alongside the woman who had saved her.
The fights were getting harder. At first, it had been brutish amateurs—panicked, clumsy boys thrown into the sand like animals. But lately, the opponents moved differently. Their eyes weren't wild, but patient. Their strikes carried weight. Each victory left her breathless longer than the last, each wound taking more time to heal. But she kept standing. Always. And she owed that to Valkira… and to Lysara's brutal, exacting drills. They had carved steel into her spine.
Still, Seren lived with a gnawing fear—a quiet one, lodged behind her ribs. What would she do if, one day, the name called from the gate was Valkira's? Or Lysara's? There could only be one left standing when the horn blew at the end. The thought was a blade in her throat. She swallowed it every morning.
She didn't want freedom without them.
That dream—freedom—was a blurry thing, more feeling than image. But sometimes, when the air was still, she imagined it anyway. A hill somewhere, green and soft. No sand, no steel. A quiet house. Valkira laughing, maybe. Or just silence, the good kind. A life without Brusk's snarling mob. Without announcers barking her name. Without blood soaking her thighs. She'd never spoken this dream aloud. Not even to Valkira. It was too fragile.
But none of that mattered now.
Across the sand stood her enemy.
A ghost in skin. The cannibal. The boy. The beast.
Seren narrowed her eyes at him, searching for something human. But he only stood there—gaunt, slow-breathing, his arms loose, like he wasn't even sure where he was. His ribs poked through his skin. His eyes were dark hollows, expressionless. There was no anger in him. No hunger. No purpose. Just silence.
He looked weak. Malnourished. Like he'd blow away in the wind. But she didn't trust that. Monsters didn't always bare their teeth. The child he had eaten—he had looked like this too, right before he tore her apart.
Still… his posture was loose, the way amateurs stand when they've never truly fought someone who meant to kill them. His grip was wrong on the dagger he held. Valkira had taught her better. She could read it—every angle, every inch of an opening. She'd kill him. Swift and clean.
Her hand gripped the sword tightly, the one she'd taken from a snarling thug in her first match—a lackey of Brusk's. He had jeered at her, called her soft, told her he'd strip her bare in the dirt. She slit his throat in the third minute. That was when the cheering started.
They cheered her every time now.
But never for her skill.
It was always: "Show us your chest, pretty thing!" or "Spin for us, snowflake!" or worse. Even when she bled, they called it beautiful. A girl from the north, white-haired and pale, tossed into the pit—she was a fantasy to them. A plaything. No matter how many bodies she stacked beneath her name, they still watched her like animals from behind the bars.
She hated them. Every one of them.
But she bowed, she smiled, she survived. That was how it worked. Until she could crawl out of this hell beside Valkira.
And now?
Now she had to kill this monster.
The horn sounded, signaling the start of the match. Seren took a deep breath, stepping forward, determination burning in her chest. She would win. She had to.
And then thirty more. And then sixty. And then one hundred. And then a thousand.
Until the door opened.
And she could leave.