Arven woke slowly, every muscle aching.
The room smelled thick of sweat and sex. The cot beneath him was damp, sheets twisted around tangled limbs. Faint light leaked in through the high stone windows, cold and gray.
For a moment, he didn't move. His body felt heavy, drained, the deep ache of overuse lingering in his bones.
Then memory hit.
Veyra.
Their fight, if it could be called that, and everything that had followed.
He opened his eyes fully.
Veyra sprawled half over him, hair wild across her bare shoulders, a deep scratch curving across her ribs. shallow bruises mottled her thighs. One leg was still draped over his hips.
She looked peaceful in sleep. Or at least as close to peaceful as someone like her could.
Arven let out a low breath, carefully shifting beneath her.
The familiar flicker of blue caught his eye.
Target Veyra:
Desire status: Incomplete
Core desire: Defeat Target Evelyne
He stared at the words for a long moment.
Then a rough laugh escaped him, low and dry.
"So. All that… for nothing," he muttered under his breath.
He let his head fall back against the pillow for a beat, exhaustion pulling at him. His body was wrecked. Scratches covered his skin. His back stung where her nails had torn into him.
And yet… something in him felt clearer now.
He shifted again, careful not to wake her. Veyra stirred faintly, lips parting in a soft exhale, but didn't wake.
Arven pulled free slowly, swinging his legs off the cot. The chill of the stone floor bit at his bare feet.
His clothes were half-ruined. He found what pieces remained, pulling them on with stiff fingers. Each movement sent small flares of pain through his shoulders and ribs.
Once dressed, he glanced back once at the cot.
Veyra lay tangled in the sheets, hair a wild mess, scratches and bruises scattered across pale skin. Even in sleep, her mouth curled faintly, as if still chasing the last fight.
Arven shook his head.
She'll be after Evelyne soon enough, he thought. And I'll need to be ready when that happens.
He slipped out of the room, the door closing soft behind him.
The corridors were still. Morning hadn't broken yet, not fully. The faintest gray filtered in through high, narrow windows, casting shadows along the cold stone floors. A few servants moved quietly, heads low, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Pairs of guards stood at the main intersections, spears in hand, too alert for this hour.
Arven walked with slow steps, every movement reminding him of bruises still healing. His breath misted in the chill, vanishing before it could touch the wall.
He rubbed at his ribs absently, jaw clenched. The last few days had left their mark.
His bones still ached. Muscles flared with each motion, as if his body were reminding him how much it hated him. But he was still on his feet.
I'm already qualified for the next set of fights, he thought. There's no point risking more damage. Not yet.
Weakness was dangerous now. Even the hint of it could invite the wrong kind of attention. But he couldn't afford pride, either.
If he wanted to survive what was coming, he needed to be smarter than the rest. He needed to watch. Learn. Prepare.
A faint burn scratched at the back of his throat.
Not pain exactly, just… dryness. A dragging sensation that never quite left. Like something inside him had been hollowed out and now waited to be filled.
He swallowed, trying to push it down.
It didn't help.
The blood hunger again. It had started subtly, creeping in the day after the transformation. A low thrum beneath his skin.
It wasn't unbearable yet.
But it was growing.
One thing at a time, he told himself.
For now, he needed to train. Recover. Watch the others, Veyra, Evelyne, the new faces still clawing their way up.
By midday, he had made his way to the fighter's stands.
His body wasn't ready. But his mind couldn't sit idle.
From the upper tier beneath a shaded stone arch, he found his place among the others, quiet gamblers, old veterans, and rising names who knew better than to show off every move in the ring.
He pulled his head low, leaning forward on his knees, eyes sharp beneath shadow.
The previous fight had made too many people look twice. It was better not to be seen.
Below, the sand was already marked by footsteps and sweat. The first matches of the day had begun.
Lower ranks. Amateur fighters, mostly. Clumsy footwork. Overcommitted swings. Blood drawn by accident more than skill.
But Arven watched. Every stumble told a story. Every blow taught something.
One girl hesitated too long on a follow-up and got caught by a spinning elbow. A man with power but no control burned through all his energy in two minutes and collapsed when the crowd stopped cheering.
He filed it all away.
Weaknesses. Habits.
The scratch in his throat worsened as the sun climbed higher, slowly tightening until it felt like sand lodged behind his tongue.
He swallowed hard.
Not yet.
His hands flexed against his knees. The blood hunger was louder now, a constant hum under his skin, like something tapping at the edge of his mind.
Still he stayed. Watching.
Not here. Not now.
Later.
He'd feed when the time was right.
The moment Veyra's name rang out, the atmosphere shifted.
The crowd stirred, voices rising with anticipation. Even those who had looked half-asleep a moment ago leaned forward, eyes sharpening.
Arven did the same.
Her opponent was already in the ring, a lean, wiry man with sharp features and a long iron-shod spear. He moved like a shadow with tension behind every step, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Quick. Tactical. He knew better than to trade blows with her.
Veyra entered barefoot.
Her steps were steady, unhurried, the sand molding beneath each heel. Her ribs were wrapped tight in fresh bandages. A new cut traced a red line high on her thigh. She didn't favor it. If anything, the damage made her smile wider.
It wasn't warm.
It was the kind of smile that warned you something was about to break.
The announcer barely finished speaking before the spear snapped forward, sharp, controlled, a precise thrust aimed at Veyra's shoulder.
She was already moving.
The man circled, keeping distance, his weapon striking in flurries of jabs meant to test her timing. Each attack came fast, too fast for most fighters to answer.
But Veyra didn't try to match his rhythm.
She crashed through it.
She took a cut along the forearm and didn't so much as blink. The next thrust came, slightly wider than it should have, and she lunged in.
Her hand snapped around the wooden shaft, yanked it sideways with a twist of her torso. The spearman stumbled, eyes going wide.
Her knee came up in a blur and drove hard into his gut. The breath left him in a choked wheeze.
The crowd howled.
What followed wasn't a fight. It was dismantling.
She didn't stop to change positions. Didn't reset her stance. She just kept moving.
Fists. Elbows. A headbutt that split his lip. Her strikes didn't have elegance, they had weight. The man stumbled, tripped over his own weapon, and tried to pivot.
Too slow.
A spinning elbow caught his temple mid-turn.
He hit the sand like a dropped sack of bones.
The crowd roared louder.
Arven sat motionless in the stands, eyes fixed on her as the medics rushed in.
Veyra stood over the man for a moment longer, blood trailing down her thigh, chest rising and falling with deep, slow breaths. Her grin hadn't faded.
She was still dangerous. Still wild.
But watching her more closely now, Arven could see it. Openings. Gaps. Her strength was overwhelming, but she didn't defend well. She didn't think three steps ahead.
Not like Evelyne.
A woman like Evelyne would let her burn herself out, then take her apart.
Arven leaned back under the archway, letting the breath ease out of his lungs.
I'll need to be ready for her too.
When Evelyne's name was announced, the shift in the Arena wasn't loud, but it was immediate.
The gamblers leaned forward without a word. The nobles stopped whispering. Even the other fighters, those who usually scoffed or talked through most matches, watched with quiet intensity.
Arven felt it before he realized it. His breath caught. His focus narrowed.
She stepped into the Arena with the grace of a blade being drawn. Smooth. Precise. Unmistakably dangerous.
Her armor gleamed in the sun, every strap aligned, every plate fitted perfectly. Her long blond braid was coiled and bound tight against her back. And her eyes, sharp, pale, utterly focused, swept across the sand without emotion.
No wasted movement. No posturing. She wasn't here to perform. She was here to win.
Her opponent was the opposite.
A broad-shouldered brute of a man, already gripping a heavy longsword with both hands. He rolled his shoulders, sneered across the ring. His stance was solid, but his footwork lazy. Big swings. No subtlety.
He charged her anyway.
The first clash could've been choreographed, it was so clean.
His blade came down in a full-body arc meant to break her guard entirely.
Evelyne didn't block it. She shifted.
Just enough.
Her sidestep was perfect. Fluid. Her sword snapped out once, tracing a shallow line across his upper arm as she moved past.
He growled and came harder, swinging low.
She moved again, not with speed, but with control. She let him press forward, let him think he had momentum.
Every step she gave was measured. Every retreat drew him in tighter.
Then came the break.
A slight shift in her hips. A half-feint. The man twitched toward the wrong opening.
Her blade lashed out.
One cut. Then another. Then a third. All shallow. All fast. All meant to disorient and bleed.
The man staggered, breath ragged, blood soaking into the fabric at his side.
He tried to swing again.
She stepped inside it.
Her final thrust struck hard into the inside of his thigh, an exacting, disabling blow.
The brute collapsed with a scream, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers.
It was over.
The match hadn't lasted a minute.
Evelyne stood still, blade lowered. Her expression gave away nothing. Not pride. Not relief. Not interest.
Just cold, absolute control.
Arven let out a slow breath through his nose, shoulders easing.
She wasn't just fast. Wasn't just good.
She was disciplined.
Deadly.
No wasted effort. No hesitation. No gaps.
The kind of fighter Veyra's storm of aggression couldn't touch directly.
And if he ever had to face her-
He didn't finish the thought.
Somewhere inside, he already knew it wouldn't end well.
The hunger pressed harder now.
As he rose from the bench, the scent of blood drifted past him, a young fighter limping by, arm wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth.
Arven's pulse spiked.
His teeth ached faintly.
Not here, he told himself again, breath sharp.
He left the stands, moving into the quieter halls. The chill stone helped clear his head.
I need to feed. Soon.
But first, he needed to think.
Veyra's wild fury. Evelyne's cold perfection.
And himself, caught somewhere between.
The next few days would decide everything.