Chapter 205: A bloody Match(3)

The hiss of steel against steel rang out as Harriet’s blade came down in a savage arc. The strike was fast—too fast for Aira to fully evade—and it slammed hard into her side. The shock reverberated through her armor, the metal groaning under the force, and she knew with certainty that if not for that protective shell, she would have been carved open to the bone.The impact sent her stumbling backward, breath ripping from her lungs. Pain flared across her ribs as she twisted away, barely bringing her sword up in time to keep Harriet from following through and severing her arm. Her boots scraped across the arena floor, grit grinding beneath them as she regained her footing.

Aira swore under her breath, tasting the copper tang of adrenaline on her tongue, and fixed her gaze on her opponent. Harriet didn’t flinch under the heat of her glare—she didn’t even seem to notice. Her face was a cold mask, eyes fixed on Aira with a relentless, predatory focus. There was no sign of hesitation in her movements, no flicker of humanity in her gaze—only a singular, consuming drive to destroy.

And destroy she would. Harriet’s attacks came faster now, harder—every blow a merciless hammerfall that forced Aira into retreat. There was no space to counter, no time to breathe. It was as if Harriet had stepped beyond the normal limits of skill and stamina into something unnatural, each swing cutting closer to vital flesh.

To those watching, the outcome was already decided. The lords seated near the high pavilion, close enough to watch the king’s every shift in posture, exchanged sharp glances. Their eyes flicked toward Zyren, searching for some hint of his thoughts—curiosity sharpening into disbelief when they found none. His expression was an unbroken wall of calm, as though the woman he was bound to wasn’t moments away from being cut down before his eyes.

If he felt anything at all, it was hidden deep, locked away where no one could see.

Aira’s breath came faster, heat prickling across her skin beneath the armor. Sweat beaded along her hairline, stinging her eyes, slipping down her jaw. Each step back only drove her closer to the edge—of the arena, of her endurance, of her life. Harriet stalked her like a hound scenting blood, matching her retreat step for step.


"Can we—" Aira tried, words tumbling half-formed past her lips, but she abandoned them almost instantly. She could see it in Harriet’s eyes: unless Aira was bleeding out in the dust, Harriet had no interest in conversation.

The longer they fought, the more Aira began to see what was wrong with her opponent. Harriet’s skin was drawn tight over her bones, pale to the point of sickness. The flush of life seemed absent, as though some invisible hand was draining it from her with each movement. Yet still she fought harder, faster, striking with the desperate strength of someone who had wagered everything on this one moment.

Aira’s heart thudded hard against her ribs. The change unsettled her—it felt wrong, dangerous. Then Harriet’s sword hissed past her face, so close it left a whisper of pain along her cheek. A shallow line of blood welled there, warm against the sudden chill crawling down her spine.

The near miss set her pulse racing. Her eyes widened, pupils swallowing the color in fear. She brought her blade up again, only to stagger as Harriet’s boot connected with her shin in a vicious kick. The blow knocked her legs out from under her, and she hit the ground hard, air rushing from her lungs in a pained gasp.

Fear twisted cold in her gut. She scrambled backward, dragging herself away from Harriet’s looming shadow, her fingers clutching at the dirt for purchase. The thought that she might die here—right now—slammed into her with all the force of the blows she was barely surviving.

But fear or not, she forced herself back to her feet. She had no choice.

Harriet’s movements had taken on a frantic edge now, her face set in grim determination. With a burst of speed, she slammed her entire body into Aira’s, the collision sharp and punishing. Aira’s teeth clamped down on her tongue, pain spiking as she tasted her own blood. But she couldn’t afford to focus on it. Not when Harriet’s next swing could end her life.

Steel clashed again, sparks leaping in the narrow space between their blades—then white-hot agony flared in Aira’s arm. Harriet’s sword had pierced clean through the muscle, ripping a cry from her throat. Her fingers spasmed uselessly around her weapon, and she felt it slip from her grasp, falling to the ground with a metallic thud.

Blood poured from the wound, warm and slick against her skin. She dropped to one knee, vision blurring at the edges. Somewhere deep inside, instinct screamed at her to turn—turn toward Zyren, beg him silently, through the bond, to save her. But pride and fear both kept her eyes fixed forward.

Harriet closed in, unrelenting. Aira’s panic sharpened her senses to a razor’s edge. With her good arm she snatched her weapon from the dirt, forcing herself upright once more. She could not—would not—die on her knees.

The crowd’s voices rose around them, a roaring storm of excitement and bloodlust. They wanted death—her death—and the sound of it rattled in her skull until she almost couldn’t tell if it came from outside or from the pounding of her own heart.

She didn’t dare look toward the high pavilion. But she didn’t have to. She could feel Zyren’s presence like a cold shadow in the back of her mind. What she couldn’t feel was anything else—no warmth, no reassurance, no thread of emotion through the bond that tied them.

The realization settled like ice in her chest. He’s going to let me die.

Harriet’s next strike was aimed for her throat. Aira knew, with grim certainty, that even her armor would not save her from this one. She couldn’t stop the tears from pooling in her eyes, though whether from pain, fear, or rage she wasn’t sure.

Her thoughts were both scattered and crushingly heavy. She couldn’t think of a strategy. She couldn’t think of escape. She could only react—parry, stumble, retreat.

The blade came again, a silver blur. Aira deflected it by a hair, but the movement left her open. Harriet’s sword bit deep into her already-injured arm, slicing through with brutal precision.

The world seemed to narrow to the scream of pain tearing from her throat, the hot gush of blood, the dizzying horror of seeing half her arm gone.

If she had been afraid before, now she was face to face with death itself. Harriet moved toward her without triumph, without malice—just a terrible, blank inevitability.

Aira forced herself upright again, though her vision swam and her breath came shallow and ragged. Every beat of her heart felt like a countdown to the moment her body would give out entirely. She didn’t dare glance at her wound, knowing that to look would be to lose the will to keep moving.

Harriet moved. Aria moved with her, the motions born less of training than of instinct and terror. Steel collided. The impact jarred all the way into her shoulder. Her feet scraped for purchase. Her knees felt loose and watery. She tasted dust and old ash and the metallic sweetness of her own blood. In the sliver of calm inside the panic, a petty, bright thought flashed: If I were a monster like him, I would live through this. I would rip the world until it bled. The thought died as quickly as it came, swallowed by pain.

She was dimly aware of the sun retreating behind a thicker bruise of cloud. The light went flat and gray across the arena, deepening the shadows under the tiers, turning the crowd into a single dark wall. Torches threw nervous gold across faces and steel. Footsteps hammered the stone where spectators stamped to urge the killing on. Aria’s breathing rasped loud in her own ears, drowning almost everything else, a saw through wood.

Harriet’s sword licked out and Aria caught it on her blade with her left hand, wrist trembling, then lost the line and paid for the mistake with another bright slice along her side where the armor’s plates met. Heat spilled under the cuirass, sticky and hot. The pain came in waves now—blows of a tide that threatened to pull her feet off the ground.

The cheering of the crowd rose to a fever pitch, their cries louder even than the ringing in her ears. She imagined their faces—rapt, hungry, waiting for the final stroke.

The bond between her and Zyren remained cold and silent. Not a single word of encouragement. Not a whisper of concern.

Terror coiled tighter in her chest as Harriet raised her sword again. This time, Aira was certain it would find its mark.

Her thoughts collapsed to a single, hopeless question.

This is the end, isn’t it?