Elowen's presence was always silent until it wasn't. A shadow beside Venara's shoulder, voice low enough to avoid even the breeze.
"She's Lysara," Elowen whispered, her eyes locked onto the woman standing opposite Caelvir in the arena. "Friend of Valkira."
Venara did not look at her guard. Her gaze remained on the pair below, caught in the eye of a colosseum that had quieted in awe.
"I remember," Venara said, her voice as steady as her posture. "Valkira once asked that she train with her on Goldmere grounds. She said Lysara's blade was precise. Said she could teach her something new."
"She did." Elowen's voice turned thoughtful, then edged with concern. "You're rooting for Caelvir?"
Venara's smile curled, not unkind, not warm either. "I'm rooting for my investment."
That made Elowen chuckle once, breathless. "Valkira will take a blow, emotionally."
She paused, caught herself, and corrected, "Then again... they're yours, after all."
Venara said nothing for a moment. Then, coolly, she replied, "This is the colosseum. It's made to entertain. And it's cruel by design."
Her fingers clasped lightly, eyes never straying from the ring.
"One life given," she murmured. "Another taken. That can't be helped."
A sigh. Soft as silk.
"It would be a shame to lose either one of them. But rules are rules."
And then the announcer's voice rang out, slicing through the quiet with sharpened pomp.
"Would her majesty the queen honor us by signaling the beginning of this sacred duel?"
All eyes turned toward the velvet throne.
The Queen rose.
Her movement was slow, precise. One gloved arm lifted like the swan's wing before a plunge. A pause — eternity condensed — and then her arm cut downward.
The signal.
A horn blared, deep and ancient, its sound echoing like a dragon's call across stone and sky.
A cold breeze licked across the colosseum — sharp, sudden, almost unnatural. It tugged at cloaks, kissed skin with ice. Venara felt it down to her bones, and from the way Elowen's brow twitched, so did she.
And then they moved.
Lysara shot forward first. Of course she did.
Her figure launched forward like a gust unshackled, feet barely grazing the sand as if the air itself urged her on.
Her mismatched armor shifted with her stride — one oversized pauldron catching light like a dented moon, the other shoulder bare, unprotected, exposed.
She wore it not like a flaw, but like a badge, a declaration: This is who I am. I don't need symmetry to kill you.
Sand whipped in her wake as she lunged, blade a blur of steel and wind.
She was wind incarnate — a blur of silver steel and pale limbs. Her sword arced toward Caelvir, precise as a needle's point. He met it with a clean parry, feet braced wide, his body still as stone.
Clang. Steel met steel.
Lysara's eyes, sharp and alert even mid-swing, flicked down for the briefest instant.
She saw them.
Daggers. One to his left. One to his right. Sleek, black-handled, perfectly positioned. Still sheathed — but waiting. Waiting for an opening. A single breath of carelessness and they'd be in his hands.
She would give him no such breath.
Lysara twisted on the balls of her feet, swept low, and brought her blade around with such speed the air split around it. Caelvir stepped back, but only just. A strand of his hair floated down.
He exhaled. Smiled faintly.
Lysara's face did not move. Not an inch. Her pale eyes were empty. Cold. Her breathing — if she even did so — was invisible to the eye.
She charged again, light-footed, near gliding. Each step faster than the last.
She was using the wind. Not visible, not flashy — but felt. In the sudden snap of her legs, in the way her sword danced just a fraction too fast, in how her dodges were perfectly timed to miss blade by hair-widths.
Venara narrowed her eyes.
A gust carried dust from the ground, curling around Lysara's feet, rising with her movements.
Caelvir blocked again, then stepped into a counter. It was forceful — a shoulder behind the strike, a warrior's weight in the blade. But she spun away, letting it slip past, and sliced across from below.
He ducked, barely.
Again.
Again.
Clang—slash—step—spin—clang.
It was not a brawl.
It was not brute carnage.
It was a dance.
Lysara moved like a whisper. Every step was calculation. Every angle she took forced Caelvir to retreat. Her sword was her tongue—cold, sharp, silent.
But Caelvir was not a fool.
He was broader, his shoulders a fortress. He made fewer movements, but they were efficient. He let her come, waited, blocked, then struck like a hammer to anvil. His parries absorbed her strikes, his counters nearly broke her rhythm—but not quite.
They circled each other now.
Sweat beaded on Caelvir's brow. Lysara remained expressionless, but her chest rose ever so slightly faster now. Her light frame would tire first.
She knew it too.
She surged forward again — a blur. Her blade came low, then twisted mid-strike to come high, a feint with the footwork of a dancer. Caelvir blocked high, just in time, but her boot caught his shin.
He didn't fall. He didn't even flinch. But the crowd noticed. A gasp rolled like thunder above them.
Venara's fingers tightened. Elowen leaned in.
"She's too fast," Elowen whispered.
"No," Venara said. "She's just fast enough. But he… he's thinking."
And he was. His eyes followed her now not just in motion, but in patterns. He stepped differently, more centered. Ready.
The swords clashed again. Sparks flew. Dust danced. The rhythm was accelerating, two dancers trying to find who would lead.
Lysara's blade nicked his shoulder — cloth torn, not skin. He grunted, impressed.
Caelvir's strike caught her side — not deeply. Enough to make her step back.
Their eyes locked.
One breath.
Two.
The crowd was silent, hanging on every twitch.
And then, again, they rushed.
The dance continued — a blur of strikes and parries, of air split and steel screamed. The sound of metal on metal rang like music in the colosseum.
Neither had fallen.
Not yet.
But one would, eventually.
Venara sat still upon her seat, unmoving in form, yet inside, her pulse mirrored the tempo of their blades.