A single horn blew, a long, low note that trembled through the ground beneath her feet.
Lysara turned. The time had come.
As her boots moved through the shaded tunnel leading to the arena, with shadows clinging to her armor, memory walked with her as a faint gust, like dust lifting in a quiet breeze.
She remembered her father's voice, low and final: "She just eats and eats."
She remembered her mother's silence, and the clink of a single coin falling into a trader's palm.
She had been seven.
Eyes cold and lips tight.
The world did not cry for her, and she did not cry for herself.
The merchant who took her in wore silk robes and indulgence like perfume. He had a smile for guests, and a hand for everyone else. He claimed to be noble-blooded, with a harem of wives, mistresses, and girls too young for either title.
Lysara served him as cupbearer, floor-scrubber, handmaid, and flesh. Sometimes he dressed her in silk, other times in chains. Her job was to please, and when pleasure became routine, it turned into performance.
Eyes frozen, cheeks colorless.
The man had a taste for control even in fantasy. Once, he dressed her in armor, claiming it made her look fierce.
"Cold eyes of a woman in armor are hot," he used to say.
She was twenty when she first touched a sword. It was meant to be a display piece, supposedly. But her grip was strong, and her movements careful. The merchant saw something promising, and she became his bodyguard the following year.
Eyes lifeless, yet sharp. Hands warm, grips used to holding a sword's hilt.
Then, at twenty-three, she saw it. Another girl—five, maybe six—sold to the same home. Before the merchant could reach for her, Lysara reached for her blade.
The merchant's throat opened under her sword, a clean, red line.
She was sent to the colosseum, Dust Arena, without trial or delay.
Misery was hereditary, after all.
There, she met Valkira—strong and confident, her laughter lighting the dusk-colored sand. Ambition gleamed in her eyes like armor polished too often. She fought, not just to survive, but to rise.
Lysara had none of that drive. She fought simply because that was all she knew.
But Valkira looked at her with warmth, and warmth could thaw even what was frozen.
Lysara's eyes remained cold. Yet her cheeks took color—red, just once. And her lips parted, faintly, for a small, almost-forgotten smile.
Her hands, when held in Valkira's, burned with life.
Hope was infectious, after all.
Together, they trained the newcomers, the lost faces, those with no fire and no foundation, who moved like ghosts across the sand.
Eyes dark. Lips shut. Cheeks sunken. Hands frozen.
She trained them with patience rather than kindness and with repetition rather than motivation
Then she met Seren, an icy beauty, precise in every glance. Seren reminded Lysara of herself, perhaps too much. Both seemed carved from similar stones, both burdened with silences that spoke louder than words.
Still, Lysara kept her gaze in the shadows, holding back even a shred of warmth.
But she smiled whenever Seren and Valkira laughed together, their eyes burning with sunlight.
She trained Seren harder than the others, believing that every drop of sweat now meant one less drop of blood later.
That was a truth she had learned far too well.
But Seren died. Her kill count was low, her victories few.
Lysara did not care. Not really.
The colosseum assigned numbers and measured survival in wins and kills.
But Lysara saw worth in other things—the softness of a smile and the warmth in one's gaze.
We all love and adore what we are denied, after all.
Time, however, is cruel. It always moves ahead and never looks back.
The light hit her eyes.
She stepped forward, one foot landing on hot sand. Her expression remained blank, her gaze cold.
The crowd roared as the wind tugged at her mismatched armor, with one pauldron too large and one missing. The imbalance was deliberate. She wore it like a scar.
Ahead, her opponent waited, a tall swordsman with muscles dense as stone. His blade, almost comically large, rested in his hands as he stood with confidence. He probably had a list of kills behind him.
Probably.
Lysara had ninety. That, she knew for sure.
Her sword—slender and elegant—gleamed under the sun. It looked delicate, even harmless, like the breeze of a summer morning.
But it had ended lives, more than most could count.
They called her The Breeze, a name she had never chosen.
Once a breeze, always a breeze.
She recalled the fight that gave her that title. One swing, a perfect arc. The man's head had remained atop his shoulders for a few heartbeats, blinking and confused. Then it toppled like a stone.
The wind had been soft that day.
She had not meant for that strike to be beautiful, but death can be cruelly graceful.
If she were to name herself, what would she choose?
Lysara the Queen of Blades? No, that sounded too proud, and she did not feel like royalty.
Lysara the Killer? True, perhaps, but far too bitter.
Lysara the Strong Warrior? Empty. Strength that existed only to slit throats was not strength worth singing about.
Lysara the Sweet Cake Lover? Well... she liked sweets and cookies, cream-filled pastries, little joys tucked between battles. Valkira used to call her that, which was too embarrassing.
But that name would never echo in the stands.
Apparently, she was not good at titles.
The crowd quieted as the match was about to begin.
She stared at the swordsman.
A hush fell while her blade stilled.
With blood still warming the sand and breath quiet in her chest, it came.
A breeze, light and sudden, brushed against her cheek like a whisper long forgotten.
Cold, far too cold for the sun-soaked arena, it passed without purpose and without mercy.
Just like her.