Page 10

10

SEREN

T he clash of steel rings through the arena, a sound sharper than any scream, louder than the roar of the crowd.

I should be horrified.

I should look away.

But I don’t.

The first warrior lunges, his blade slicing the humid air between him and his challenger. The impact shudders through my bones, vibrating in my ribs like a second heartbeat.

The sand beneath them is already dark with spilled blood.

The way they move, it’s not just brutality, not just carnage.

It’s something else entirely.

It is not a mindless brawl. There is grace in it, a rhythm to the way the fighters strike, retreat, weave through each other’s defenses with the kind of ease that only comes from years of war. It is muscle memory turned into art, a deadly dance of precision and force.

It is beautiful.

The realization should unsettle me.

I should be sickened by the way one of the fighters twists his opponent’s wrist until bone snaps, should flinch as his fangs sink into the tender space between neck and shoulder.

Instead, I find myself watching, my breathing controlled, my pulse steady.

This is not like the violence I have suffered before.

That had been cruel. That had been something inflicted upon me.

This?

This is power.

Naga don't fight to destroy. They fight to prove.

Strength is not just for winning. It is for claiming.

A body that falls here doesn't fall in disgrace.

It falls in worth.

I tear my gaze from the pit, from the bodies writhing in combat, and shift my focus to Xirath.

He doesn't watch me.

Not directly.

But I can feel his attention like an unspoken weight against my skin, pressing without force, assessing without demand.

He is waiting.

For what, I don't know.

To see if I will turn away?

To see if I will weep at the bloodshed?

I hold his gaze for a breath before looking back at the fight.

Let him wait.

A warrior lunges, his blade carving through the space where his challenger had been only seconds before. The dodge is seamless, as if the second fighter had already predicted the movement before it happened.

A counterstrike, quick, decisive.

Blood splatters the sand, and the crowd roars.

I exhale.

This is their way.

This is how they decide who is worthy.

I should not belong here.

But I do.

The thought slithers through me, cold and unwelcome, but I don't push it away.

I have spent my life running from cages, escaping from hands that would brand me as theirs.

Yet Xirath has not tried to break me.

He has not thrown me to these fighters, has not demanded my obedience, has not forced me to my knees.

He only waits.

That is worse. I don't understand what I am supposed to do with that.

Another warrior falls, his body crashing against the blood-drenched sand.

A victor stands above him, tail coiled, muscles thrumming with the euphoria of conquest.

He doesn't kill his fallen opponent.

He bares his fangs in respect.

The defeated warrior kneels, pressing a hand to the sand, acknowledging his loss.

There is no shame here.

Only the knowledge that he will fight again.

I let my fingers curl against my sides, pressing into my palms. I had expected something else entirely from this world.

From this naga standing beside me, the one who has declared me his without chains, without force.

The crowd stills.

A new challenger steps forward.

He is larger than the others, his black scales streaked with silver, his eyes older, sharper.

The murmurs ripple through the stands, a name whispered like a warning.

Veyron.

I shift slightly, but Xirath’s tail flicks, a fraction of a movement, so slight I almost miss it.

A warning.

Veyron tilts his head toward me, his gaze assessing, weighing.

Something in my stomach twists.

I have seen that look before.

Xirath doesn't turn his head, but his voice is steel when he speaks.

"You will not challenge me today, Veyron."

The larger naga considers this.

He smiles.

"It is not you I challenge."

The world narrows to a singular point.

To the way Xirath’s body goes completely still.

Not in fear.

In calculated, measured restraint.

Veyron shifts his weight, the sand shifting beneath his tail. "The human. She doesn't belong here."

Something cold slithers down my spine, but I don't let it show.

I have heard these words before.

From men who believed they were owed something.

From masters who thought possession was the same as devotion.

From Jalith.

Xirath doesn't respond immediately.

Instead, he lifts his head slightly, a predator deciding whether to strike.

Veyron doesn't wait.

He moves.

Fast.

Too fast.

I don't even see the moment Xirath reacts.

One second, Veyron is lunging.

The next, Xirath has him pinned, his tail wrapped so tightly around Veyron’s neck that the larger naga cannot move.

The crowd falls utterly silent.

Xirath leans in, his fangs bared, his voice cold enough to freeze bone.

"You will not challenge me today," he repeats, slower this time, letting each word carve itself into the stillness.

Veyron doesn't struggle. Xirath releases him, shoving him back with effortless strength.

Veyron doesn't try again.

Instead, he touches a hand to his throat, where the scales have been marked by the ghost of Xirath’s hold.

A warning. And a promise.

Xirath finally looks at me.

Not asking.

Not forcing.

Just waiting for my reaction. And I don't look away.