Page 63

D.A.M.E

T he power of the Gods is suffocating.

It surges through me like fire—too much, too heavy, pressing into my lungs, my veins, my bones. It drowns out everything else—my pain, my exhaustion, the blood dripping down my temple. It should make me stronger. It should make me unstoppable.

But for a brief moment, I feel small.

The weight of their will bears down on me, thick as iron chains, and something inside me wavers.

I almost forget why I’m here.

Why I stand in this arena. Why I took up this fight.

It wasn’t for them. It wasn’t for the Gods.

It was for her .

My daughter.

Her laughter, her small hands gripping mine, the light in her eyes when she ran to me. The warmth of her embrace. The way her voice had once called my name.

And how it never will again.

Because of her.

The Nightwalker stands before me, her golden eyes dead, her presence otherworldly. She tilts her head, eyes narrowed. "Is that all?"

The sand is slick with my blood as I press my hands into the ground. My fingers curl into the dust, feeling the grit between my skin and the earth. My arms tremble with the effort, my ribs screaming with every ragged breath. I taste iron, thick and bitter on my tongue, but I push past it.

I have to get up.

Get up!

Pain surges through me like fire, burning through my limbs, clawing at my spine. My knee is shattered. My vision swims, but I force myself upright.

She's still standing.

Untouched.

Waiting.

A damned smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. Mocking. Like she knows— she knows —that no matter how hard I fight, how much I bleed, this will only end one way.

Something inside me snaps.

A growl tears from my throat, raw, animalistic, as I lunge. My body screams , but I don’t care. I swing, reckless, desperate— and she moves. Effortless. Slipping through my attack like mist, like she had already seen it coming.

I hate her.

More than I have ever hated anything.

I pivot, ignoring the pain ripping through my leg as I drive my knee up, aiming for her ribs, for anything—anything that will make her feel this.

She catches it.

Fingers coil around my leg, cold, steady. A single twist, and I’m wrenched off balance and slammed back into the sand, the impact rattling through my bones.

I groan, but I can't stop. I won't stop… Don't stop!

I shove my hands into the ground again, dragging myself up, my breath heaving, my golden markings flickering.

The divine power is failing me.

I thought they cared. That they were seeking justice for all the sins this Nightwalker had committed. I thought I'd be their champion. Their new weapon.

But I was wrong.

It was the moment I had felt their power, that I also felt their greedy, self-absorbed intentions. This is merely entertainment for them. The result of wounded pride.

And now… I'm losing.

The justice I'd been seeking slips through my fingers like dust.

I clench my jaw, pushing to my feet, my legs shaking beneath me. I feel the eyes of the Colosseum on me, the silence pressing against my skull. No more cheers. No more chanting.

Because they see it, too. This isn’t a battle anymore; it’s a massacre.

"You killed my baby girl!" I yell, my voice cracking with grief. "You don't get to win."

I grab the hilt of my divine sword; it's nothing more than a broken remnant of what it once was.

The hilt remains intact, wrapped in worn leather, the golden grip melded to a warrior’s hand from years of battle.

But the blade—what’s left of it—is jagged, uneven, a fractured piece of divine steel jutting out from the guard.

The edges are no longer smooth, no longer honed for clean strikes.

Instead, they're sharp in all the wrong places, splintered like cracked bone, gleaming with a cruel, serrated beauty.

It's no longer a weapon meant for precision.

It's a thing meant to tear , to rip , to drag through flesh with all the agony of something that should not be whole.

I lift the broken sword into the air, my grip tightening around the worn leather hilt. My body is screaming, but I move anyway—light on my feet, impossibly fast.

But she's faster.

I don’t even see it happen. One moment, the jagged remnants of my blade raised, poised for one final, desperate strike. The next, pain explodes through my chest, raw and blinding, as if my very soul is being torn from me.

My breath catches. My body stiffens, and then I feel it.

Her hand.

Inside me.

Fingers wrapping around my heart, pressing against the frantic, terrified rhythm of its beat.

A sharp inhale rattles through my lungs as I look down. The Nightwalker’s arm is buried to the wrist in my chest, her skin untouched by my blood, as if it refuses to stain her.

She tilts her head, her voice a whisper, soft as death itself. "Like father, like daughter."

The words sink deeper than her hand ever could.

Blood spills past my lips. My knees buckle, but her grip keeps me standing, keeps me alive long enough to feel the full weight of this moment. Tears gather in my eyes, blurring my vision, but I'm not crying from the pain.

I was never afraid of death. I was afraid of this… The growing, horrifying realisation that I can’t kill her. That I am not strong enough.

The agony dulls, fading into something distant, something cold .

And then—

The pain fades, replaced by something softer, something distant.

A memory.

I see her.

Small hands reached for mine, fingers curling tightly around my own as if she feared the world would take me from her. Her grip was always strong—too strong for a child, I used to joke, laughing as she pouted, determined to prove her strength.

"One day, I’ll be stronger than you, Papa!" she had declared, her eyes alight with something fierce, something bright .

I had scooped her into my arms, pressing a kiss to her temple as she giggled, warm and safe against my chest.

"Then I suppose I’ll have to train harder, won’t I?" I had said, smiling down at her.

She beamed, tucking her head beneath my chin, small and whole , her voice muffled against my armour.

"No matter what happens, I’ll always be near," she had whispered, the words so soft, so full of certainty that I had believed them.

I had believed them.

But she is not here.

She's gone.

The memory fades, slipping from my grasp like sand through trembling fingers.

Reality rushes back—sharp, cold, unforgiving.

My breath stutters, shallow and uneven. My body is failing, blood spilling freely from my lips, warm and thick as it drips down my chin.

My tears, hot and broken, fall in slow drops onto her arm, smearing into the ink of her markings.

The glowing tattoos ripple with a soft, pulsing green—something far too beautiful for something so monstrous.

"She didn’t fear death, either," the Nightwalker murmurs.

Her voice is steady, calm, as the edges of my world blur, dark tendrils creeping in at the corners of my vision.

"She feared leaving you alone. Her last words, her last thought, her last memory—it was you. Her father. Her hero. Her saviour."

A sob builds in my throat, but I can't release it.

Because she's wrong.

I'm none of those things. I failed. Failed to protect her. Failed to save her.

And now, I can't even give her justice.

"W-What did I d-do wrong?" My voice is weak, fractured, barely more than a whisper.

My knees buckle, my weight pressing into the Nightwalker as I stumble forward. My chest collides with hers, my head slumping over her shoulder.

How pitiful. In the end, it isn't the Gods holding me up; it's the monster who broke me.

Her breath is warm against my ear, her voice softer now, almost sad.

"Nothing. You were perfect."

The words slice through me; a cruel kindness, a dagger that doesn't wound the flesh but buries itself somewhere deeper.

"But I exist... and you never stood a chance."

She releases me, and I fall.

My knees hit the sand first, then my hands, my body trembling as the world around me tilts. My vision swims, the edges unravelling like frayed fabric as I choke on my own blood.

She stands over me—magnificent. Terrible. White hair whipping behind her, the air itself bending to her presence, and her hands...

Empty.

My heart still beats its last breath inside me.

She didn't take it.

Why?

The world slows. My thoughts feel distant, my body light, untethered. My breathing no longer feels like a struggle, the pull of the blackness so much closer now, so much easier to give into.

But I force the words out, so quiet I don't know if she even hears them.

"You shouldn’t get to win."

She tilts her head, a small smile curving at the corner of her lips.

And then she leans down, her voice dropping to something softer, something secret like it’s meant only for me.

"I don't plan to."