The roar of the crowd was deafening. A sea of jeering faces filled the arena, their cries fueled by bloodlust and coin. Standing in the center of the pit, Alera tightened her grip on the twin daggers in her hands. The metal was slick with blood—none of it hers, not yet.
Her breath came in sharp, controlled bursts. Her fiery red hair clung to her sweat-dampened skin, strands falling into her steely green eyes. She could still taste the metallic tang of dust and blood in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of death.
Her opponent lay crumpled a few feet away, his body twitching as the last remnants of life left him. Alera didn't flinch. She had long since grown numb to the sight. In the arena, hesitation meant death, and survival came at a cost she could no longer tally.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena. "AND THE CRIMSON BLAZE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTORY!"
The crowd erupted, chanting her name.
"A-LE-RA! A-LE-RA!"
She hated it.
Every cheer was another reminder that they saw her as nothing more than a spectacle, a tool to satiate their hunger for violence. But she didn't let her disgust show. She kept her expression cold, impassive, because she couldn't afford weakness. Not here.
The heavy iron gates behind her began to creak open. Alera turned, muscles tensing as another opponent stepped into the arena. He was a brute of a man, towering over her with a chest like a barrel and arms thick as tree trunks. A spiked club rested on his shoulder, its jagged edges gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
The crowd roared louder, sensing blood.
Alera's lips pressed into a thin line. She adjusted her stance, her daggers poised, her mind calculating. She didn't have the luxury of brute strength, but she didn't need it.
Speed. Precision. Outlast him.
The man charged with a roar, his club swinging in a wide arc. Alera ducked low, the air above her head hissing as the weapon narrowly missed. She spun on her heel, slashing at his exposed side. Her blades found flesh, carving twin lines across his ribs.
The brute grunted, more annoyed than hurt. He swung again, faster this time. Alera leapt backward, her feet skidding on the blood-slick sand. The club slammed into the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and debris.
Her breathing quickened as she assessed him. He was slower than her but methodical, each strike forcing her into a tighter space.
"You think you can dance forever, little girl?" the brute growled, his voice low and mocking.
Alera didn't answer. She circled him, her movements fluid and deliberate, searching for an opening.
The crowd grew restless, their chants shifting into boos and curses. They wanted blood, and they wanted it now.
The brute seemed to feed off their energy. He lunged again, this time faster, and Alera was forced to roll to the side. Her shoulder slammed into the sand, pain jolting up her arm. She scrambled to her feet, her daggers raised defensively.
The brute laughed, a deep, guttural sound. "You're quick, but not quick enough."
Alera's jaw tightened. She refused to let him rattle her. Instead, she focused on his movements—the way his weight shifted before each attack, the subtle rise of his chest as he prepared to strike.
Then she saw it.
A flicker of hesitation in his stance. He was favoring his left leg, ever so slightly.
Her eyes narrowed. There.
The brute charged again, his club raised high. This time, Alera didn't dodge. She ran straight toward him.
The crowd gasped as the two fighters closed the distance.
At the last second, Alera dropped into a slide, her daggers slashing across the brute's vulnerable leg. He roared in pain as his knee buckled, sending him crashing to the ground.
Alera was on him in an instant, her daggers flashing as she aimed for his throat. But the brute wasn't finished. With a desperate roar, he swung his arm, backhanding her with enough force to send her sprawling.
She hit the ground hard, her vision swimming. Pain blossomed across her ribs, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe.
The brute staggered to his feet, blood pouring from the deep gashes in his leg. His face twisted in fury as he limped toward her, his club dragging behind him.
Alera forced herself to move, her body screaming in protest. She rolled onto her side, grabbing one of her daggers.
The brute raised his club, his expression triumphant.
Now or mever.
With a cry, Alera surged forward, driving her dagger into his throat. The brute's eyes widened, his roar turning into a wet gurgle as he collapsed to his knees.
She didn't stop. She couldn't.
Alera yanked the dagger free and slashed again, and again, until the brute fell face-first into the sand, lifeless.
The arena fell silent for a moment, the crowd stunned by the sudden turn of events. Then the cheers erupted, louder than ever.
Alera staggered to her feet, blood dripping from her blades. Her chest heaved as she looked around, meeting the eyes of the spectators.
She didn't feel victorious. She felt empty.
The announcer's voice rang out again. "THE CRIMSON BLAZE PROVES HER WORTH ONCE MORE!"
The guards appeared, stepping into the arena to escort her back to the cells. Alera didn't resist as they grabbed her arms, their grip rough but practiced.