That same night, Icarius stood in the arena, a sword in one hand and a round shield in the other. Shadows danced across the ground as torchlight flickered in the wind. The weapon and the shield that should have felt heavy now seemed light, balanced, natural in his grasp. Though he had never wielded them before, they felt as if they had always been part of him, forged for his hands alone.
Across from him stood a black-haired woman, perhaps in her forties. She was missing an arm, yet the way she held her sword, with calm ease seemed to tell the lore of a lifetime spent on battlefields. Like the others, she wore a short-sleeved red tunic beneath a steel cuirass. The blade in her hand rested loosely, no fighting stance.
"Don't go easy on the boy, Bellona," Arthur's voice rang out from beyond the circle, holding a firm tone. "He needs enough skill to survive the coming battle."
Icarius turned slightly, seeing Arthur standing outside the arena with his arms crossed, his expression hard and unreadable.
"As you command, Enyalios Arthur." Bellona replied respectfully, nodding. Her dark and steady eyes fixed on Icarius, assessing him. "Ares's blessing has given you a touch of proficiency with all kinds of weapon," she said, her tone instructive, "but that alone won't save you. To survive, you must learn to draw on Ares's strength to enhance your body through the War Flame."
As she spoke, she spun her sword once, testing its weight, the blade cutting arcs, making the flames of the torches flutter even harder.
"Normally, you'd have weeks to train," she continued. "But we don't have that luxury. So…" Her voice hardened. "…we will do this the hard way."
She stepped forward. Slowly. Like a wave creating momentum.
Icarius's heartbeat quickened. He tightened his grip on sword and shield, raising the latter to guard his face and chest, leaving just enough space to see her approach. Each of her steps pressed against him like a physical weight, an invisible pressure that made his breath come shallow.
Then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone. Or rather, she was already there. Two steps in front of him, her blade flashing toward his side.
Instinct took over. Icarius raised his shield, bracing for the impact, teeth clenched, eyes shut tight against the blow. But the strike never came where he expected. Instead, a crushing force swept his legs from beneath him. He hit the ground hard, his lungs forcefully expelling all air, pain stabbing through his ribs.
When he opened his eyes, the edge of Bellona's blade hovered inches from his eye.
"You've already died once," she said, lowering her sword and stepping back to her starting place. "Never close your eyes to an enemy. A single blink is the difference between life and death. Again."
Icarius struggled to his feet, sword and shield trembling in his grip. He glanced at Arthur, standing outside the ring, arms crossed, his face unreadable. There would be no sympathy. No help. Arthur had told him only one thing: if he wanted to survive, and ever find a way back home, he had to fight.
Icarius drew a slow breath and lifted his weapons again. His eyes locked on Bellona, sharp and unblinking.
"Here I come," she warned, moving forward.