The bell rang once more, and the herald raised the golden staff.

  — “Next match! Sarya Veyrunn, Huntress of Autumn… versus the Valkyrie Ragna Chains, Mistress of the Whip!”

  The arena trembled. Ragna entered spinning her chain whip; every crack sounded like thunder trapped in the ground. Light breastplate, belt of hooks, high boots. The smile of someone who enjoys making her opponent dance.

  Sarya walked in without haste. Her red braid swayed against her hip, the twin curved daggers resting at her sides. No bravado — only that amber gaze, far too calm for a crowd that loud.

  — “Will you run, Huntress?” Ragna taunted, cracking the whip just before Sarya’s feet. “Or will you bleed pretty for me?”

  Sarya didn’t answer. She stepped left, then right, studying rhythm, wrist weight, breathing — reading the pattern.

  The bell sliced through the air.

  Ragna struck first. The whip hissed low, rose, split into two sharp snaps, then came down sideways to tear through Sarya’s guard. Snap, spin, snap — three beats, a cruel dance. With each strike, red lines scarred the sand like serpents.

  Sarya stepped back once, tilted her head by a hair, and the chain passed so close the spectral wind scratched her neck. Another strike came down from above — she ducked, moved a step forward, right into the whip’s dead zone.

  Ragna pulled back, wrist twisting — the chain coiled around the Huntress like a ring.

  — “Got you.” Ragna’s smile gleamed.

  The chain tightened — then loosened. Sarya’s body was no longer there.

  She’d slipped aside like a predator changing paths mid-chase, hand flashing through the air. A dry tap on the wrist — the whip dropped heavy, half a beat off.

  From above, Helena Summer narrowed her golden eyes.

  — “Watch closely… she’s not fighting. She’s reading.”

  Flora Anapelum straightened slightly.

  — “A reading without hesitation… as clean as Spring itself.”

  Kotan Aspen crossed his arms, a crooked grin on his face.

  — “And cold on purpose. I like that.”

  Aurelius Rowan said nothing. His mantle of burnt leaves remained still.

  Ragna felt the shock in her wrist and forced the weapon back, eyes sharpened now. One crack aimed for Sarya’s ankle, another at the same instant for her shoulder — two beats, a trap.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Sarya exhaled softly.

  — “Domain of the Crimson Huntress.”

  Her voice was barely a whisper, yet the arena felt smaller.

  A faint crimson shimmer wrapped around her — not flame, but focus. The smell of sand, the weight of leather, the bite of the wind — all became sharper.

  The first strike came low. Sarya stepped on the chain’s path, pinning it for a breath, like breaking a beast’s trail. The second came high — she tilted her shoulder, let the leather sing an inch from her face… and entered.

  Ragna’s eyes widened. The Huntress was inside — where whips fear to fight.

  — “Too late,” Sarya said.

  Her right hand clenched — the whole body aligned like a drawn bow.

  A one-inch punch struck Ragna’s spine between the shoulder blades — tac, dry as a twig cracking in the cold. The shock broke the body’s signals for a blink — Ragna’s arm trembled, the chain lost its soul.

  She turned by instinct, trying to strike back with elbow, knee — anything. The Huntress was already behind her, breathing like a mantra.

  — “Stage two,” Sarya murmured, and the crimson aura tightened.

  Second punch. Another inch. This one to the center of the chest, beneath the breastplate. The sound echoed — Pá! — and a dent sank into the hardened leather.

  Ragna fell backward, eyes unfocused, fingers opening as if releasing a burden.

  Silence.

  Then a roar — a mix of fear and fascination. The whip lay in the sand, sketching broken circles.

  The herald raised the staff, checked pulse and breath, then cried:

  — “Valkyrie Ragna Chains, out of combat! Victory to Sarya Veyrunn!”

  For a second, the crowd didn’t react — brains chasing what the eyes had just seen. Then came screams, flags, and the Huntress’s name rose like a murder of crows in the cold air.

  From the Patriarchs’ terrace, Helena Summer tilted her chin with a half-smile.

  — “Autumn trains well.”

  Flora nodded seriously.

  — “Very well.”

  Kotan tapped the parapet with a fist.

  — “If my House had half that control in their first year, I’d retire.”

  Then, dryly to his students:

  — “And you admire me for not having any half-elf children.”

  A few laughed awkwardly. Aurelius Rowan only exhaled — and smiled.

  Not a proud smile, but one of recognition — as if seeing his own forest reflected in another’s eyes.

  Kyros José Fernandes, across the terrace, watched silently.

  — “On the other hand…” he muttered, only for himself. “Your son seems to be in trouble, Aurelius.”

  Aurelius didn’t answer — his faint smile remained.

  ---

  In the secondary arena, another duel raged. Valen charged at the Valkyrie of Fists — a round-faced girl with calm eyes and arms wrapped in white bands. The crowd called her Barbara Firm-Fist; those who knew her preferred not to tease.

  Valen tried feints, jumps, a spinning kick. Barbara barely moved — just waited.

  When he stepped in range, two short punches — one to the gut, one to the chin — and a third he never saw.

  — Pum. Pum. Pá.

  Valen flew half a meter, face-planted into the sand, butt in the air, arms wide as if hugging the ground. The stands burst into laughter, and someone yelled:

  — “Flip the steak, Valen!”

  Kyros sighed, turning back to the main arena.

  — “Trouble, as I said.”

  Aurelius scratched his beard, blushing slightly.

  Lukas, who had watched Sarya’s final move, felt his stomach tighten.

  — “She’s strong… really strong.”

  César spoke quietly, without his usual teacher’s tone.

  — “Did you feel that aura? That’s killer instinct, kid. Cold. Controlled. If that Valkyrie isn’t dead, it’s because the Huntress held back. That level of control is insane.”

  Morgana purred, voice dripping with sweet venom.

  — “And she’s gorgeous. Look at that bust, those red braids swaying on her hips… let her punch you once, Chocolatinho, just so I can see that crimson bloom on your chest.”

  — “Not the time.” — Lukas and César, in unison.

  — “Witch,” César added.

  Morgana laughed.

  ---

  The herald lifted the staff again, waiting for the noise to fade, and announced with a voice that filled every corner:

  — “Highlights face highlights! For the blood spilled and the skill displayed, the best shall cross blades with the best!”

  The crowd held its breath.

  — “Next duel of honor: Lukas Fernandes… versus Sarya Veyrunn!”

  Boos and cheers collided like crashing waves. The name “Chocolatinho” surfaced in spots and was swallowed by cries of “Huntress!” The air smelled of dust and something electric — expectation.

  From the side balcony, Dariam bit his lip so hard that blood trickled down. His eyes burned with fury… and something he wouldn’t admit. He growled two words no one dared repeat and crushed the railing under his grip.

  Luiz, meanwhile, laughed loud, slamming his spear to the ground.

  — “So, skinny… you’ve changed, got sharper. But can you pass this one?”

  Lukas inhaled, raised his still-unruned shield, feeling the metal bite his arm.

  — “I can.”

  Sarya’s shadow slid across the arena floor like an autumn leaf pulled by wind.

  The bell began to rise.

  End of Chapter 15.