Chapter 43

After the Quarter Sage, other solo matches ensue. Everything is a haze of red after that. My wound is patched up by an on-ground physician. But I cannot rest just yet because I still have one more match to fight.

The Pensuem.

A one-on-one match fight that is determined by the crowd. Whether the victor slays his opponent or allows him to live with a mere hand gesture. But that rule is struck on this day. The Xercra had it sent to the announcer, no doubt by Merian's request, to declare a Pensuem to be fought to the death.

Myself versus none other than Herem Rimnick.

I can barely stand, but before I know it, I am walking out of yet another portcullis. No shield in hand, only Kelan's sword to safeguard my life. All the collapsed chariots have been dumped on the fringes, in between the stagnant Watchers. All the Spartans and corpses of previous fighters have been removed, but blotches of their blood still stain the darkened ground.

Daylight fades into dusk, giving it a menacing, spectral effect.

They could remove the bodies, but never the bloodshed. Blood I shed.

Still, many of the Spartans' weapons lay scattered. Forsaken relics of the fallen warriors. In the receding distance. Rimnick stands ready with his blade resting on his shoulder, extended behind his neck. The edges of his hair is bristle from the dried blood. Both pain and exhaustion are like weights bound to each of my legs. A nasty graze on the one, and the brink of an arrow's head that had pierced the other.

Every breath an effort, each step an exertion.

Finally, I meet him at the centre.

Fear is a perplexing thing. I stood before a real-life gladiator, naturally daunted, but I lacked the trembles. Faced against the Spartans of Sorcia, and together, we triumphed. Now I stand before Rimnick, and the mere sight of him cripples my resolve in ways I cannot comprehend. Terror's fingers creep from my one shoulder blade to the other, coaxing shivers from me. I try to quash the dread blooming in my gut.

Rimnick cocks his head to one side, sneering at me malevolently. "Oh, look how she trembles. Do I frighten you, Hera?" Something sinister saturates his tone. "Do you fear me?"

He takes a brazen step forward. Thoughtlessly, I inch back.

He echoes a sickening laugh. "I did not know that they would reward me after the Quarter Sage." Something hellish glints in those soulless eyes. Pure malevolence filling those vacant vessels. "Now I have to face the warrior Hera that defeated a champion gladiator." A harrowing look befalls his face. Fear stabs my gut. "But we both know the truth. Do we not?"

He launches forward and I heave up the sword—heavier than before—his blade crashes down on mine. I strike overhead. He parries it effortlessly.

"I know who you truly are."

He lashes out at me again. He spins, with his back to me, he extends his sword to swing left. I block. He returns by thrusting his right armoured shoulder into me. I fumble back a few steps—pain reigniting, ascending to new tiers. Torso bent, clutching my thigh, glaring up at him.

"You think you are better than, wiser than, because you are a Valwa," he says with a foul snarl. He advances towards me at an unhurried pace, brandishing his sword in a threatening flair. "Ironic, since you are the most foolish one among us."

I attack before he can. As a result, Rimnick swings his blade in a rapid sweep—I nearly drop the blade. My other hand slaps onto my dominant arm with a new bleeding lesion. The heat of pain burns through—a quivering groan escapes my mouth. I bar it, my lips tightly pressed together.

In callous retribution, Rimnick unleashes an onslaught of attacks. Ones I barely avoid.

He strikes laterally. I block again. He strikes overhead. I block with my unsteady blade, held horizontally. The blades ringing out metallic shrills.

"You scorn us for looking down at the lowborn because they are inferior. But how are you any different from us? Just because your prejudices are aimed at a different denomination. That does not make you benign nor fair. Only the opposite."

He lunges again. I jerk myself into the opposite line of attack. Then I duck, his blade swoops over my head. He returns with a high kick and I block it with my bracer. I dart backwards—pain flares in my one leg more than the other.

The crowd's steadfast response varies in tones of support. Some spew shouts of anger, and others bellow cheers of encouragement.

"But since you prefer the company of the low, filthy wretches. I concur. You belong with them," he says, rushing at me with hellbent fury.

He swings. I evade. He turns his sword to lay lateral as he spirals down and jabs the pommel of the sword into my leg. Excruciating agony wrings out a great cry from me, both shameful and shameless. Muscles in my throat are straining, my back smacks hard against the ground and it feels as if a dagger is being twisted into my spine. Shifting from side to side, my back slightly arched against the ivory floor.

My agonised screams wane but the pain still prevails.

Rimnick saunters over to me with ghoulish nonchalance. He feigns a sympathetic expression. He lifts his foot and steps on my throat, exerting pressure. The flat sandal gradually crushes my oesophagus. My hands shoot up to grip his ankle, even though I know it is useless. Self-preservation overpowers reason.

A morsel of me accepts impending death.

I writhe beneath him, futilely beating and clawing at his leg. Agony bursting in my throat, my vision failing, darkness slinking into my periphery.

"Pathetic," he throws out like he's disgusted. "There's no honour in slaying you this way."

He lifts his foot—I inhale a sharp breath, followed by several jagged ones.

Slowly, he starts to back away.

"Stand up, warrior."

Wincing, I heave up my shoulders, flopping over to be on all fours. Rimnick rushes at me and whams his foot into my injured side—knocking the air from my lungs—flipping me over. Pinned on my back again. Sandelled kicks hail down, I twist and thrash, curled up against the infinite blows that leave me gasping with every strike.

"I said," he barks. "stand up, warrior!"

My face pulled tight; I reach for the sword. I scramble back up. My chest heaving, coughs wracking my frame as I hold onto my neck, throbbing with constant aches.

Honour. A hot spike of anger. "Honour!" My voice is gravelly, my words grated into shreds. "You speak of honour! But where was yours when you ambushed me like the coward you are!"

His eyes narrow slightly, as if he doesn't recall my ordeal.

Then he taps his forehead in mock remembrance. "You speak of our liaison? You throbbed for every inch of me. The warrior Hera could slay a gladiator champion but could not fight off a Herem? You can tell the lie of what I did to you, whilst your body harbours the truth that you revelled in every moment of our night of unspeakable sin."

I will not be goaded and allow myself to be blinded by just rage.

I lengthen my spine, raising my head, unsteady but determined. I move into a fighting stance as I call upon my ebbing strength one last time.

"I was incapacitated by an elixir. You took advantage whilst I laid bare, then had me bound." I utter with pure despise, at the edge of all-consuming rage. "Because even then you knew, untethered, I would have torn you apart, limb from limb. Because that is how you would perish, and perish still, by the hand of a woman, you so revile."

Rimnick bolts into an attack—I repel his blade—he returns with a sweeping kick that I evade. He lashes out and I redirect his force by pushing his blade out of the way of my own. Then I launch into an attack, surprising him with brute force in my sword strikes. After the fourth, my blade manages to make an incision on his non-dominant arm.

He glowers at me with eyes simmering with malice. He's livid. Good.

He unleashes a sequence of feral attacks, domineered by his anger. I muster full strength to block his assault and recounter in one swift motion, stepping into the move to add more power. He attempts to counterattack, but I dodge, and I graze the same arm with a twin slit.

A metallic shriek shatters the air.

I dart back, panting, perspiring profusely. Already hurting from several glancing blows. I swing first; he receives the blow with the flat of her blade. In that instant, he turns the edge toward mine, leveraging around the engraved blade. He dives low to target my legs; I parry his attempt, countering with an expulsion. I apply a greater force at a downward angle. His point violently turned aside, leaving him open to attack. Deftly, he disengages, using a quick motion to move the point of his blade around my own, knocking it aside with a smirk.

"You are fortunate." We cross blades. His eyes glitter with dark malice. "The only thing that preserves your life is that you may be carrying our heir." His eyes dart to my stomach. "I hope they have their mother's eyes."

In ferocious silence, I rain down blow on blow so furiously, tactic devolves into infernal anger. And Rimnick releases a laugh. I feign an overhead attack and when Rimnick moves to block. I hold his blade in place, thrusting my foot into his groin, impairing his balance.

"You are nothing!" I scream. Metal screeches. "And you will die as nothing!"

I dart to the left, pretending to swing. I recounter to the right with a spin, I duck, and I drive my blade into his thigh. His laughs dissolve into a mindless scream. Distracted by his pain, demanding every grain of power. I knock the sword from his grip and it flies far from his reach, clattering on the ground with a shriek. Rimnick tries to take a step, but he sinks to both knees.

Before he can move again, I whip my blade forward—cold steel touches his throat, forcing him to raise his chin grudgingly. He looks up into my eyes and I glare down into his; depthless pits. They bear nothing. I push the blade further, not enough to pierce his flesh. The tip merely causes a slight dent in his skin.

Why can't I do it?

Why can't I do it!

"Do it," he says flatly. Neither provocation nor a plea. "Do what we both know you want to do."

My eyes fill their sockets. I begin to quiver, trembling violently. Not from fear but from unfathomable, unexplainable rage like a volcano that is about to erupt. And I do.

I release an uncontrollable roar, screaming into his face. It resonates through me as I bellow my fury, the anguish he has caused me, and the maelstrom of emotions furies. Even the stands have been hushed to an audible silence, allowing my caterwaul to ricochet through the arena. An earth-shattering scream that cleaves to the air that could summon a thousand thunderstorms. Tears burst from my eyes, and they flood down my cheeks, blurring my vision. The deluge of tears cease and the last of my screams fade into the stark silence.

I tilt forward. "What I want is to be nothing like you." Words rattling. I wring out every ounce of conviction, pouring it into my words. "I am far from perfect, but at least I do not have to stomp on people just to elevate myself. I am not good, benign or wise. But I make the choice every day to try and be."

I yank my sword back, straightening. I outstretch a fist and I turn it downwards, dropping my thumb to the ground. I raise the gesture to the sky, toward the Xercra to show that despite what he ruled. I will not slay him; I will spare him.

There has been enough—I have killed enough on this day.

Acknowledged. The portcullis from my rear begins to open, glancing at it from over my shoulder. I look back down at an unrepentant Rimnick. I glimpse the Xercra's gallery to see that Duce Merian is no longer there. I turn from Rimnick and I march unsteadily towards the rising portcullis. My body registers every hit, slash, graze, and wound. My gait crippled by a relentless limp.

Rumbles of perplexed, indistinct muttering ripples through the tiered stands.

Alarming gasps implode from the crowds. Rimnick.

I spin around and parry his ambitious strike. Commanding strength, I ram my blade through his heart—his breathing snags. His eyes bulging out, veins on both his forehead and neck are bursting and prominent. My blade is buried in his chest. A cough breaks from him and blood splatters on my face in small, warm beads. Blood pools in his mouth, streaming down with each ragged rasp.

"You—right," he utters tautly, pronounced between the gagging and gurgling sounds. "I—wrong." A repulsive smile lances through his face, exposing his bloody, reddened teeth. "There's—darkness—in you."

His eyes roll back and his head dips as he slides out from my blade, collapsing to the ground. My sword drops to my side like it is suddenly too heavy to bear, his blood dripping off my blade. I fumble a few steps backwards before I completely whirl around, new tears bubbling. The crowds rupture the atmosphere with their booming cheers and shouts.

"Adalia the warrior!" one yells.

And it sparks a wildfire of chants.

AD—ALIA THE WAR—RIOR !

AD—ALIA THE WAR—RIOR!

AD—ALIA THE WAR—RIOR!

I say and do nothing. Completely deprived, hollow, depleted of all my emotions that seem to have perished with Rimnick. I hobble to the portcullis with my gaze fixed forward, flippant to the booms of adulation. My apathy seems to only escalate their cheers into a thundering furore.

Eventually, I pass through the portcullis, and it descends behind me. I wobble down the ramp, turning left to enter a passage of the dungeon. I throw myself against the wall, my back pressed against it. I bend over to rest one hand on my knee, regulating my breathing. Deep and controlled.

"Hera Adalia." A voice sings.

Glacially, I turn my head in its direction. Duce Merian strides up to me with a spring in his step and a full-blown grin on his face. Duce Merian knew what Rimnick did to me, how he wronged me, degraded me—defiled me. I do not find it a coincidence that I was chosen to face him.

"You were spectacular out there," he fawns and claps his hands twice to echo his praise. "You are spectacular. I had no idea you had that in you, your ferocity, drive, and skill. It is unmatched."

When he's closer enough, I snap upright, shooting my sword out to point it at him. Levelled with his neck, bringing him to a jarring standstill. Fear flickers in his eyes, but he dismisses it with a wavering smile.

"Hera?" Confused.

"Why?" I snap. Hostility throttles my tone. "Why?"

He gawks back at me as if I am mad. I drop the sword to my side. I lunge for him, seizing his top collar and shoving him back. His rear hits the sidewall.

"Hera Adalia! I demand that you unhand me this—"

"Why did you make me do it?" I exclaim.

His eyes are at its maximum size. Swiftly, I move the sword so the edge of the blade lays beneath his chin, verging his throat. Duce Merian flips up both hands in instant surrender.

"Does the High King delight in such depravity?" The blade grazes his throat harmlessly. "Because of you, I have killed. Because of either you or His Majesty. I am a killer, a killer of so many. And for what? What does any of this senseless slaughter prove!" Teeth gnashing, I say, "You, the High King, and these wretched Trials have robbed me of an innocence that I can never reclaim!"

"As is expected, Hera," he utters, fear shaking his words. "A ruler holds all under his reign in his...or her hand. Peace is forged through war. And a great Ruler must learn when to spare a life and when to take it."

My other hand moves to grab the tip of his manicured hair, pressing the back of his head against the wall as he stares down at me wide-eyed. He reeks of fear.

"This is not war!"

Something in his eyes tells me differently.

"It is always about war, Hera. As the High Ruler, The High King, has too much power to let greed, anger, resentment or vengeance cloud his ruling. He has to have sound judgement because every action he makes, every decision will have repercussions. Every choice he asserts is difficult because he can never act on a whim, not in a flash of anger, no matter how justified. The Crown is all important."

"So you allowed his crime against me—defiling me—to go unpunished for a test of character?" I press down on his forehead even harder, his face reddening. "Is that why in the end you had me face Rimnick to the death?"

He looks at me as if takes pity on me for my ignorance, as if I still do not understand. His mouth parts to speak, but a sudden blaze erupts in my head, causing a pendulum of pain. I draw from him. My siege on him is relinquished. I cannot see him, but I can hear his frantic, accelerated steps fading into the opposite direction at a craven speed. I slam my hand against the wall, desperately seeking stability. The world around me spins sickly, struggling to keep my eyes open, grappling for consciousness.

Now I battle against my own body.

"Adalia!"

I look up at a growing shadow, forming into a muscular build. Kelan.

He slows his jog into a pause once he spots me. The mere sight of him emboldens me with a glimmer of strength. Daringly, I try to walk over to him. After two steps it's like the ground beneath my feet caves in and everything around me quakes wildly. Or is it me?

My eyes meet with Kelan. He's sprinting towards me in a frenzy.

My vision falls on its side. My world turns black.