Artemisia squirmed in his grip, her body trembling with conflicting emotions. Part of her wanted to throw him off and fight, to avenge her people and her honor. Yet another part of her, the part that had succumbed to his advances, yearned for this forbidden pleasure.
She bit down hard on her lip, fighting the urge to give in. "No!" she growled, her voice cracking with desire.
Suddenly, she broke free from his hold, spinning around and slamming her knee into his groin.
The blow caught Themistocles off guard, and he grunted in pain, doubling over. Artemisia seized the opportunity, drawing her sword and lunging at him again. Their blades clashed in a deadly dance, the sound of steel on steel echoing throughout the ship's cabin.
Breathing heavily, she circled around him, trying to gain an opening. Sweat trickled down her back, and her chest heaved as she fought for breath. Themistocles matched her movements flawlessly, his swordplay precise and deadly.
"You're good, Artemisia," he panted between breaths. "But you won't best me today."
Artemisia continued to press her advantage, her movements becoming more aggressive. Her blows became faster and more precise, leaving shallow cuts on his armored torso. He parried and dodged her attacks skillfully, but she could sense his fatigue growing.
"You're tired, aren't you?" she taunted, her voice hoarse from the battle. "Your body is exhausted from your earlier exploits."
He chuckled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Never underestimate a Spartan, Artemisia," he replied, his voice strained. "I've faced worse than you."
With a sudden burst of speed, he lunged at her, his sword aimed for her exposed neck. She dodged, rolling out of the way, and their blades clashed again. This time, however, his momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled, stumbling forward onto the edge of the railing.
Quick as a snake, Artemisia leapt onto him, her knee pressing against his chest, pinning him down. Her sword was at his throat, its edge inches away from his jugular. "Yield, Themistocles," she growled, her eyes blazing with hatred and determination.
Themistocles grunted, his breathing becoming labored. "Never! I'd rather die here than submit to you," he spat, struggling futilely against her hold.
Suddenly, a flash of movement caught her attention. Turning her head slightly, she saw one of Themistocles's men, hidden behind a storage crate, aiming a spear at her exposed back. Before she could react, the spear pierced her shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her body.
The distraction was all Themistocles needed, he kicked out with his left leg, connecting solidly with her knee, sending a sharp bolt of pain shooting through her leg. He followed up with a powerful swing of his sword, aiming for her exposed neck.
Artemisia yelped in pain, and for a split second, she lost her balance. He seized the opportunity, wrapping his free hand around her wrist, twisting her arm painfully, forcing her to release her grip on the sword.
Themistocles now had the upper hand, his grip on her wrist firm, holding her arm tightly. He delivered a swift punch to her stomach, knocking the wind out of her, and followed up with a powerful kick to her thigh, sending her flying backward onto the deck.
Stunned and hurt, Artemisia rolled onto her side, gasping for air. She managed to grab her fallen sword, but Themistocles was faster, his blade flashing in a deadly dance around hers. Each blow landed with devastating precision, cutting through the air like a razor-sharp knife.
Themistocles moved in closer, his breath hot against her face. "Give up, Artemisia," he panted, his eyes gleaming with victory. "It's over."
Artemisia gritted her teeth, her vision spinning with pain and rage. Despite the pain coursing through her body, she managed to stand up shakily, her sword raised defensively. "I won't yield!" she growled, lunging at him again.
Their swords clashed once more, sparks flying as metal met metal. They danced around each other, each blow driving them further across the deck. Artemisia's movements were slower and less agile than before, but she refused to yield.
Sweat poured down their bodies, mixing together as they fought relentlessly. The ship rocked violently under their combined weight, groaning in protest. Both fighters were battered and bruised, blood staining the deck beneath them.
Determined not to die here, Artemisia gathered all her remaining strength and launched herself forward, her sword slashing downward in a powerful arc. Her aim was true, and the blade connected with his exposed shoulder, leaving a deep, bloody gash.
Themistocles howled in pain, stumbling backward. Blood trickled down his torso, staining his armor crimson. "You... bitch!" he snarled, his eyes blazing with hate.
Enraged by his sudden vulnerability, Artemisia pressed her advantage, her sword aimed at his exposed neck. But before she could deliver the killing blow, Themistocles lunged forward, his own sword aimed directly at her abdomen.
She cried out in surprise and agony as it pierced her belly, tearing through her armor and flesh like paper. Blood spurted forth, painting a scarlet trail across the deck. She was mortally wounded, her vision spinning, and darkness closing in.
Themistocles wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. He pressed his lips against hers, his tongue probing her mouth savagely. His breath was hot and foul, filled with the stench of blood and alcohol.
"You're almost dead now, Artemisia," he growled between kisses, his voice husky with desire. "But before you do, you'll taste my victory."
Artemisia struggled weakly, her strength rapidly fading. "Y-You!" she managed to choke out between gasps for air.
But it was futile resistance. Themistocles continued to kiss her, his tongue thrusting deeper into her mouth, exploring every crevice. His hand reached down, cupping her breast roughly, squeezing it roughly. She winced in pain, but there was nothing she could do to stop him.
The ship rocked violently, the sound of battle continuing around them. Blood pooled around them, staining the deck red.
As Themistocles continued his vile assault, Artemisia tried to break free, but he held her tightly. She couldn't believe this was how she was going to die—not in combat, but at the hands of this filthy coward.
In a final act of defiance, Artemisia's hand gripped the hilt of her sword, her fingers trembling with exhaustion. With all her remaining strength, she thrust it upwards, aiming for his exposed chest. The blade pierced through his armor, hitting his heart.
Themistocles's eyes widened in shock, and he pulled away from their kiss, blood spurting from the wound. "No!" he managed to croak out before collapsing to the ground, his body convulsing in agony.
Artemisia's vision began to fade, darkness closing in on her. She fell to the ground beside him, her own lifeblood pooling around her. She coughed up a final breath, her eyes searching his face one last time. "Your demise has not avenged my honor, Themistocles," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the din of battle. "Only marked the end of mine."