The colosseum breathed with anticipation, the sands quiet.
The announcer's voice cracked the stillness like lightning across dry stone.
"Ladies and lords, lowborn and coin-tossers alike! Today, the winds whisper of something rare, something final!"
The crowd leaned in, buzzing with energy.
"On the left, the warrior who puts fear into the hearts of giants and brutes, both weak and strong. The woman who carves the air as though it were silk, warrior of the wind, the one marked by the House Goldmere... Valkira the Windblade!"
The crowd roared, some rising to their feet as the gates creaked open. Valkira stepped onto the sand, slender and calm, a breeze trailing behind her as if even the air bent in respect.
"And on the right," the announcer continued, his voice growing graver, "a force of raw might. A warrior from the infamous Stonefang Tribe, survivor of the Dust Arena blood pits. Standing fifteen feet tall, born of mountain and wrath, Gor'Madrak the Skull King!"
The opposite gate thundered open. A colossus emerged, his footsteps shaking the colosseum. Chains of human skulls hung from his shoulders, his skin resembling cracked granite. A scar across his chest pulsed like an old wound eager for new war.
The announcer raised a hand for silence. "This marks their hundredth fight, both of them. And to celebrate this rare alignment of fates, we've arranged something special today. Valkira, as you all know, tends to end her matches in mere moments. So for those with heavy pockets: bet wisely. You may not even get the time to cheer."
From the imperial balcony above, Venara of House Goldmere sat with elegance carved from marble, her fingers folded under her chin. Beside her stood Elowen, eyes sharp, watching the sand below like a hawk in still flight.
"She's grown," Elowen said softly. "Since the last time I saw her."
"She has wings now," Venara replied, gaze unmoving. "I just gave her the wind."
Elowen smiled. "A sharp eye, my lady. You branded her before her hundredth. That's unheard of."
"An exception worth making," Venara said. "Normally, warriors are courted after they complete their first stage. But I've always believed in cutting ahead of the line."
They both looked down as the match began.
A bell rang. Gor'Madrak roared, a sound like a landslide. He charged quickly for his size, lifting a club thicker than a grown man's torso.
But Valkira had vanished.
There was no puff of sand, no blur to track.
Suddenly, she appeared behind him. He spun. Nothing.
Then beside him. A flicker. The wind shifted.
Above?
Valkira dropped low again, blade dragging the air as her eyes locked onto him.
She was not merely fighting; she was dancing.
Gor'Madrak roared and swung. The club shattered the air, but Valkira moved with the gust, her body folding with the wind and vanishing with every breath. Her limbs moved faster than eyes could follow, faster than thought itself.
Then came the strike.
A sharp, silver cut across Gor'Madrak's thigh opened a line of blood that bloomed quickly.
He growled, turning, but she had already vanished again.
Strike. Slash. Cut. Each one marked his massive frame.
The crowd gasped, not only at the elegance but also at the terror of it.
Wind followed her blade, an extension of her will. Even from afar, she carved into his skin like a sculptor working stone.
Gor'Madrak bled, his immense body marked again and again.
He swung high, hitting nothing, and roared in confusion.
Then came silence.
He blinked.
Where—
A gust whipped the dust into the air.
And Valkira dropped from the sky.
Time seemed to still.
She fell, her blade descending first. The strike made no loud sound, no explosion. It was clean. She landed silently, her back now turned to the giant.
The half-giant stood for a moment longer.
Then split.
Clean, right down the middle with a perfect, beautiful cut.
The crowd froze, silent.
A soft, collective inhale passed through them.
"...woah," someone whispered.
Then came the eruption.
The colosseum thundered with awe.
The announcer's voice trembled. "Valkira the Wind Blade has finished her hundredth match, and she makes it look like a painting on sand. No one, truly no one, is a match for her!"
He found his footing again. "She shall enter Irene's Iron Arena! And let it be known, no noble house may court her now, for she bears the mark of House Goldmere already!"
The crowd groaned in disappointment.
"A shame!" the announcer added, half-joking. "We could've turned a fortune betting on which house she'd choose. But alas, Lady Venara was too quick, too clever."
Venara clapped once, the gesture simple yet unmistakably powerful.
Valkira glanced up.
Their eyes met, only briefly.
She bowed, then turned and exited the field, cloak trailing and sword silent.
"She's not just using the wind," Elowen said. "She is the wind."
Then she added with a quiet grin, "And you're damn good at picking them."
Venara did not smile. "Nobility isn't about blood or coin. It's about knowing the moment. Finding the caterpillar and betting on the butterfly."
Elowen nodded. "She's already mastered the elemental arts. At this stage, that's astonishing. The others are still learning to shape wind into motion, and she moves like it's her own flesh."
Venara finally turned to her. "Yes. But we shouldn't crown her too soon. There are others who burn just as bright, even if they do so quietly. Fighters I'm watching. Not every storm makes noise before it arrives."
They stood together, watching the sand one last time.
Then they left the imperial box.
******
The metal doors opened with a groan as Valkira stepped into the gladiator cells. Her blade hummed at her side, still clean and untouched by blood. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and old triumphs.
"Valkira!" someone shouted.
Cheers followed. Claps on her back greeted her. Dozens gathered around.
The group had grown much larger. Newcomers, strays, and survivors filled the space. They had nowhere else to go, especially after Brusk's faction crumbled and his legacy was buried under defeat. Valkira had Caelvir to thank for that shift in the tide.
Still, numbers did not mean unity.
They would have to fight each other eventually. Some had already drawn lots.
She spotted Aelric in the corner, crouched by a wounded man and wrapping cloth around a bleeding stump.
"You missed it," Valkira said.
"I know." Aelric didn't look up. "Apologies. I had this one to tend to."
"Well," she said with a smirk. "It was over in a blink."
He chuckled softly. "I'm sure it was."
She examined his healing methods. They were basic, minimal in magic.
"Still clinging to tradition, monk? You could close that wound in seconds."
Aelric exhaled. "Every magic comes with a price. I still use it, but carefully, intricately. Just enough to nudge the natural rhythms, not overwrite them."
He tightened a bandage.
"Too much reliance blinds the eye, deadens the heart, and clouds the senses."
He looked up at her, teasing. "Not all of us are monsters like you."
She tilted her head. "Whatever."
The air grew heavier. Some faces in the room darkened.
She saw the fear in their eyes, the unspoken question.
Who would protect them now?
Aelric was nearing the end of his matches. Lysara too. Without them, the group would scatter like leaves.
"I came to say goodbye," Valkira said, her voice steady.
They looked at her.
"I won't be here anymore. But that doesn't mean you stop. Don't rely on me, or Aelric, or Lysara. You only have yourselves in the pit. So rise. Survive. Don't disappoint me."
She turned, locking eyes with Lysara.
Though she addressed her directly, the words reached everyone.
"See you in the next arena. Fight. Survive. Win your hundredth. We'll gather again."
Her voice softened.
"See you up there."
Lysara's expression remained unreadable.
But a faint smile tugged at her lips.
She was happy. Not in some loud, jubilant way, but quietly, unmistakably.
Happy Valkira had finally flown even if only an inch higher, just one tier above, one arena more.
Aelric stood, cracking his back. "Guess I'll need to hurry if I want to catch up with the young. Youth always rush."
A groan came from the man on the floor.
"Sorry," Aelric muttered. "Too much pressure."
That broke the tension. A few chuckles echoed, a sigh of relief followed.
In that moment, they were no longer warriors. Just people. Worn, scarred, human.
Their last moments with Valkira?
Perhaps.
After all, who can truly survive a hundred battles?
Who, really?
Valkira turned her gaze toward the far end of the dungeon hall.
Caelvir's cell.
A patch of deeper shadow where the torchlight refused to reach.
Still, she felt him there, watching.
And he was.
Eyes locked in the dark, sightless yet unflinching.
Two warriors stood separated by darkness and iron, trading silence like blades.
No nods. No words. But they spoke.
Words passed in silence.
Her stare—sharp as steel and still as breath before the strike—seemed to say more.
That she wanted him to climb, too.
Perhaps so she could kill him herself.
Or maybe it was out of some jagged respect for what he did to Brusk's pack, for what he had become in the dark.
Or perhaps she had simply grown used to him being there.
A constant. A shadow shaped like a man.
Then Valkira noticed a movement, slow and deliberate.
Lysara.
She was walking, carrying a blade in her arms wrapped in cloth.
Not toward the others. Not toward the exit.
Step by step, her boots whispered against the stone floor, leading straight to Caelvir's cell.
Valkira blinked, a brief flash of confusion crossing her face.
Everyone noticed. Murmurs died down, curiosity hanging like a blade in the air.
Lysara stopped.
Right at the edge of his cell, where light broke into jagged strips between the iron bars.
She stood there, eyes locked on him. Colder than usual, yet clearer somehow.
No one expected this encounter between those two.
She spoke.
"This sword... you carried it well."
Her voice was low and calm.
She unwrapped the sword and delivered it to him through the bars.
Then, almost wistfully and softer, she added, "I hope you can fly too… to the next."
Slowly, she raised her hands, pale fingers reaching through the bars toward him.
An invitation.
A gesture no one had anticipated.
She waited.
He did not move at first, staring at her hand as if it were something sacred.
Then, without a word, he stood.
Caelvir stepped forward, callused fingers meeting hers in a firm grip.
"Hope you climb too," he said. "And… thank you. For the kind words. And... the sword."
Lysara's eyes flicked down for just a second.
To the blade. The Sword of Seren.
Lysara smiled.
Small, almost hidden, but genuine.
Rare as gold in mud, and just as gleaming.
Valkira watched. Something in her chest loosened.
Relief.
For reasons she herself wondered.