Freya stood poised on the field, her nerves taut, as she prepared for the imminent confrontation. She would face an opponent chosen by Roarke, and inevitably, it would be a dragon, and dragons are known for their physical strength. Her training had been rigorous, but she had never engaged in combat with any of the mythical creatures from the Lore, and the thought of battling a dragon stirred fear and worry within her.
Glancing toward Ivan and Alvar, she found them standing motionless, watching from the sidelines. Their roles were clear. They were here only to intervene if mortal danger arose; otherwise, she was on her own, as was dictated by her role.
With a heavy sigh, she pondered Roarke's motives. What was he trying to achieve with all of this?
As she waited, a few more people continued to trickle into the arena, and then Roarke finally made his appearance, positioning himself prominently where he could oversee the entire space.
Freya caught his gaze briefly and felt a surge of defiance. She was not here to entertain him or anyone else. Her plan was simple: to lose as quickly and unremarkably as possible and thus make the ordeal boring for him.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Ivan moving; Roarke had gestured for him and Alvar to join him where he sat. He leaned in and told them something that elicited a chuckle from both.
Perhaps she should kill one of their own, she thought. Then they wouldn't be laughing for long, but then she calmed herself down. They probably intended to agitate her.
"Chastity?" Roarke's voice sliced through the tense air, his tone mocking.
She looked up sharply at him. "I know your weapon can kill, but make sure to use it well, or you might find yourself on your deathbed."
So, he was comfortable with this because she was a healer capable of recovering from fatal injuries. But healing didn't negate pain or the potential for suffering, a fact he didn't seem to care about.
A wave of dread washed over her, the sun's heat penetrating her silken garment, prompting beads of sweat to form on her brow.
"So I get to kill one of your men?" she called out.
Roarke's chuckled. "If you can."
Resigned, she began to untie her silken robe. Aware of the many eyes on her, she reminded herself that modesty held no value here among the dragons. Besides, the silk was too constrictive for what lay ahead.
Discarding the robe, she was now clad only in her white linen undergarment, which offered more freedom of movement.
She placed the robe aside and turned back to face the arena. Her opponent was entering now—a towering figure with wild, dark brown hair that tumbled to his broad shoulders. His skin was sun-kissed and gleaming as if anointed with oil. He wielded a sword so large that a single swing from it promised to send her staggering back, if not outright flying across the arena.
Taking a deep breath, she walked back to the center of the arena to meet him. As they stood facing each other, despite his intimidating build, his eyes seemed calmer than she expected.
"Are you ready for the fight?" he asked, his voice even.
"Do you know my weapon can kill you?" Freya countered.
"Let's hope that happens before you find yourself bleeding on the ground," he replied grimly.
Her heart skipped a beat. She had no desire to kill this man, which meant she was likely to get hurt herself.
She cast a glance at Roarke, questioning his motives silently again. Was this a test to see if she was an assassin sent to kill him?
"Weild your weapon!" her opponent commanded, snapping her attention back to the imminent duel. He lifted his sword, poised and ready.
"Scythe!" Freya called out, extending her hand. The weapon materialized into her grasp, emerging from the ether with its sinister aura.
The scythe was a formidable weapon, its long, curving blade gleaming with a deadly luster that seemed to absorb the light around it. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, aged yet sturdy, culminating in an ornate design that suggested both elegance and lethality. The blade itself was crafted to look almost like an elongated tear, sharp and menacing, an embodiment of death's inevitability.
As Freya gripped the scythe, a surge of power coursed through her, imbuing her with the dual essence of her goddess—the ability to heal and to harm.
The weapon seemed to pulse with a chilling energy, its presence alone enough to instill a sense of dread. It was as if the air around it thickened, the scent of death mingling with the cold bite of fear.
Her opponent eyed the scythe warily, clearly unnerved by the ominous energy it radiated.
With resolve, Freya raised the weapon, prepared to defend herself. Her adversary charged, his sword raised high. She met his strike with the handle of her scythe, but the force sent a jarring pain up her wrists.
She groaned as her feet slid back, and a shove from him sent her tumbling to the ground.
"This is a waste of time," he scoffed, his voice echoing slightly in the open field.
"I agree. Tell that to your king," she retorted, frustration lining her words.
He stepped back, giving her space to rise. Ignoring the ache in her wrists, Freya stood, her expression set in determination. She gripped her scythe tightly, readying herself as he approached again.
He struck repeatedly, each attack a test of her endurance. She parried and dodged, the impact of each block resonating through her arms, pain flaring with every collision.
Immensely strong as he was, Freya's advantage lay in her speed. However, the dilemma remained: she could end this by striking him with her deadly weapon, but she was adamant against killing. So, she was forced into a grueling dance of defense. Eventually, she recognized the futility of prolonging the inevitable pain and decided to let his next attack land, hoping to end the ordeal swiftly.
When his sword clashed against her scythe once more, the force was so great that it sent the weapon flying from her grip, scattering a searing pain through her hands and arms like wildfire. She tumbled to the ground with a stifled groan, bracing herself for the final, fatal blow she expected to follow. But instead of pain, the sound of metal clashing against metal rang through the air.
Blinking against the dust, she looked up to see Ivan, having stepped in, his sword intercepting her opponent's fatal strike. "It should be enough now," he declared firmly, and her opponent stepped back.
Putting his weapon back into its sheath, Ivan then leaned down and scooped her up effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing more than a leaf.
"Woah! What are you doing?" She exclaimed.
"My duty," he responded calmly, continuing to carry her away from the arena.
"If so, could you not have come earlier, while my wrists were still intact?" she retorted.
"I step in when I deem necessary," Ivan replied, his voice steady and unfazed.
Freya sighed and silently commanded her scythe to disappear.
"That wasn't necessary," came a sudden voice, stopping them in their tracks.
Turning her head, Freya saw Roarke blocking their path, his expression grave.
"You have tested her enough now," Ivan stated.
"That is for me to decide," Roarke countered sharply. "You should not meddle so much. I'll take her," he added, reaching out to take Freya from Ivan's arms.
"Wait! I hurt my wrists, not my ankles. I can walk. Put me down!" Freya demanded.