The pain was akin to fire. Aira had never known anything so consuming, so unrelenting. It was like a searing rod of molten iron had been driven straight into her body, the agony only intensifying the longer it remained lodged within her.
Her breath hitched in shallow, ragged gasps as Harriet's blade pushed deeper through her side. The impact had forced her own sword from her grasp—metal clattering uselessly against the arena floor. She had no strength left to reclaim it. Her body was trembling violently, more from blood loss than fear now. Her right arm, severed and still bleeding, pulsed with each beat of her faltering heart. How was she still alive? Even she didn't know.
Across from her, Harriet's face was an unreadable mask. Blank. Cold. Not even hatred lingered in her gaze—only emptiness. As though this act of murder was as natural as breathing. Her hands were steady, pressing the sword inch by inch further into Aira's flesh, while Aira writhed in excruciating, helpless pain.
