The Filanoir, the Isadans, the Ormin, the Ularians and Jadaians, all found their way into the arena. Some had no choice, others chased the promise of gold, and the very last of them were in search of the greatest gift of all, eternal glory. It was either a punishment or a profession, to be food for the lions or the one to whom the crowd sang praises. It was, after all, a life that ends on the sands.

"We belong to the Empire," Neer said, licking the porridge off the wooden spoon. "You, me and everyone else. Don't think you're any better."

Daia looked around and caught sight of dozens of scarred faces hunched over the long rows of tables. There was nothing that tied them to that place, nothing that would bring such a diverse group of people into one room unless it was a threat to their lives or the promise of a reward.

"The arena," Neer continued, "is the only thing you have to worry about until you either die or win your freedom. You can forget about everything else. The Empire won't tolerate disobedience."

Neer was Ularian, big and angry as they're usually described, with markings on their skin from their early years of training, and without a single weakness.

"Don't they have porridge where you come from?" he asked, seeing Daia’s disinterest in food.

"Yes, they do. And the sense of taste, too."

"Must be a lovely place. Where was it again?"

"I don't think it matters," Daia replied, tasting the pale breakfast for the first time. "All roads lead back to the Empire, don't they?"

Across the tables stood a row of soldiers, guarding the entrance. They seemed more like statues than living beings. Only their eyes twinkled under the bronze helmets, following every movement in the room.

"Don't look at them. They don't like it," Neer said darkly. "They'll remember you, and I'd rather be remembered by the crowds. I'm not sure they have any brains at all under all that metal."

Daia leaned closer to the table. "So the only way out is to win, right?"

"Win?" he laughed, almost choking, "Look around. Every single one of these poor bastards wants the same thing you do. Can you beat them all? My advice is to keep your head down and survive. Then you can talk about winning."

She frowned, still eyeing the corners of the room, the windows and the bars that separated her from the "playground" on the sand. It was a cage, created to squeeze the most primal instincts out of people.

Before they had even finished breakfast, the arena master came in with a long list of names. He read them slowly, one by one and as loudly as he could so that those standing far away would know it was time to choose sides. The arena was ready for a tribute.

●

It was said that the festival was to honor the victory in the far north. The Galar had once again pushed their borders into another land and spread far beyond their home. It had become difficult for the common people to comprehend its sheer size, they no longer seemed to appreciate its endless expanse.

To remind them of this and to win back their favour, the emperor made the games last for fourteen days gifting the people of the greatest empire with the greatest of entertainment. It was a spectacle of such size that fighters from all corners of the known world had to be brought in to make it happen.

Daia's name wasn't on the list that day. All she could do was watch the carnage through the iron bars, right next to the lion cage. The iron trembled in her hands as the warriors came and went, some on their feet, others in pieces.

The game was the same for all of them, no matter how hard they tried not to play it. Whether it was animals or humans that made it to the final round, every single breathing creature that entered the arena had only one thought in mind. Survival.

However, there was something that made them predictable, not slow or poorly trained, but simple. They fought with different weapons and came from places where they hunted bears and birds. It didn't matter. There was a common language among the fighters. Slay the prey. Kill it, pierce it. And the end was assured.

It was the crowds that caught her attention. She watched them closely as they spread out in a circle and stamped their feet on the stone with relish. She had never seen such a fascination with the destruction of people, and would never have believed it even existed outside of those who kill for a living. People wanted blood, and the fact that death was happening before their eyes excited them, not out of fear or pity, but simply for the fun of it.

In the brief moments between the bloodshed, she wondered if there were worse fates than dying for someone else's entertainment.

The Filanoir struck from above, with spears or tridents. They used the length of the weapon as a safe distance from the teeth and the blades, giving them enough room to dance around and entertain. The crowd loved them, that was for sure, but their performance rarely deviated, and in the end, they all danced the same dance.

The Ormin knew no mercy. They seldom cared for the niceties of a fight, preferring to strike down the enemy with brute force. They fell upon them with war axes and maces, like berserk or rabid beasts, and mauled them until there was nothing left. The crowds loved them even more.

The Ularians were rare. To find one of them in the arena was a treat for anyone looking for violence. When an Ulrarian fights, they move like the wind, regardless of their size or reputation. They fight with swords longer than the swords of the armies of the Empire, but as light as a feather. Only at close range can one see that their true strength lies in knowing their enemy and his every move.

●

"It's your turn tomorrow.", Neer said at dinner. The night was quiet after the games ended. The commotions were gone and only a quiet chatter among the combatants remained.

"How so?"

"There isn't much time left until the end of the games. And on the last day, they only let the best fight. So, I reckon you are on tomorrow."

She said nothing. She didn't like to think about it. Maybe she had imagined that the day would never come and she could remain a simple observer while the arena bled around her.

"How did you get here?" she asked as the feeling faded. She hadn't dared ask it before, but the question stuck in her mind.

Neer frowned and threw away the chicken leg he had just chewed to the bone. "I was stupid, that's what it was."

"He got drunk and stumbled into the Empire's military camp." said a skinny Filanoir fighter from across the table. "I've heard that story a hundred times now," he laughed. "He defaced two dozen soldiers before they could catch him."

"Why did you do that?" Daia asked.

"They took my horse," Neer replied sourly. "They think everything under the sun is theirs. I happened to disagree."

"A horse?" Dala smirked. "And what happened to it then?"

"They gave it to the emperor, as far as I know. I'll ask for it as a reward when I win." He raised his cup of water, reminding the whole room what their chances were.

"And you, shepherd?" the Filanoir interfered again, "What made you worthy of our company?"

She paused and wiped the edge of her mouth. "I was a fool, too. I thought I could trust people."

"And?"

"I decided to take revenge on the Empire." she whispered. "I decided to take from them the one thing that would hurt them and starve their ambition."

"And what is that?"

"Gold."

"A thief? I didn't think the standards of the arena had sunk so low."

"I set fire to a ship carrying gold from a tyrannical war tax to fund another general's ambition. I'm hardly a thief," she interjected, almost proud of her crime.

"And you hid until they tracked down your collaborators and one of them betrayed you in exchange for his life and a bag of money," the Filanoir returned enthusiastically. "I know this story too. And yes, you're a fool if you think there won't be consequences."

Daia averted her gaze, knowing that all eyes in the room were on her. The story had reached all ears of the realm long before they decided that simple death wasn't enough for criminals like her. They wanted a public execution, and they wanted the people to remember what happens to those who think they can challenge the emperor's rule.

"I was wrong," Neer said, smiling. "You won’t fight tomorrow."

●

It was staged as a battle of seven against seven. They each entered the arena from the opposite side and formed a line awaiting the emperor's command.

In the very center was a pit, just deep enough none could easily escape it, and home to three lions. They did not care that they were part of a show, and they waited patiently for someone to make a wrong move.

Daia stood behind the bars again, watching the fighters, their anger and their fear. She knew that once she was on the other side, she would face the same choices as the opponents who had spent their lives on the edge of the blade. The odds were against her.

At moments, she hoped they would all fall prey to the lions, secretly rooting for the beasts that did not belong in the pit.

The fourteen were soon reduced to ten, each seeking out the weakest link. The Filanoir fighter was one of them, keeping away from the center of the battle, shield in hand. He hopped around in circles, chased by a Jadaer huntress who did not waver in her pursuit.

He kept to the walls, bowing low and shielding himself from anything that might hurt him. "Coward," the crowd shouted after him.

When she finally caught up with him, she pinned him to the ground with his own shield and poked his eyes out with the tip of her sword. She did not kill him but left him wandering around the arena in excruciating pain with no way out. There was no one to take pity on him, so he walked in circles until he fell into the lion's den.

There were only three survivors that day.

●

The last day was destined for glory, or so the arena master said. He himself was granted a chance at redemption long ago, and he took it. After a while he returned to the sands, leading the next generation down the same path. "It is my duty to prepare you for when your time comes," were his last words to them before the gates opened.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The arena was alive, packed to the point of overflowing. Everyone was on their feet, holding their hands in the air, shouting and cheering in unison. Kareeth, Kareeth, they repeated over and over, and it echoed in her chest as she touched the sand beneath her. Blood was what they meant.

It was soft, the smoothest sand she had ever seen, brought from the distant seas for the footing of legends. The sun warmed it, and she could swear she saw it move beneath her.

Six of them would face each other, and only one would win their freedom. Only one of them would be forgiven for the sins they had committed, and in the eyes of the Empire, they would live forever.

Daia kept her sword close to her. This time they had no choice in their weapons. It was all part of the show.

They bowed before the golden throne in absolute silence. They were not allowed to look him in the eye unless they were worthy.

With a wave of the emperor's hand, the trumpets gave the signal to begin.

The first blow came from the fighter from Jadaer, who did not wait a single second with her attack. She managed to cut Daia's arm, and at the first sight of blood, the crowd went up in flames.

There was no rest after that. Each attack was matched with twice the effort, and each advance was accompanied by a loss of ground. Soon there were three fighters seeking Daia’s death. As hard as she tried, she could not hold them back. They came at her from all sides, pushing her back toward the fire pits.

The sun burned her eyes, forcing her to defend herself against blades she did not know really existed. She swung the sword aimlessly back and forth as the heat burned her back. At the edge of the fire, the sword was knocked from her hands, and all it took was a single step.

It was not the end she had wanted. It was not fair. They had come for her thinking she was easy prey, and they would not let her live a second longer.

And then a whistling sound came from behind her and a spear pulled the Isadan contestant far to the side and anchored him to the wall. He did not stand a chance.

She turned to see Neer behind the fire, having finally killed his own opponent and craving more blood.

The crowd was again pleased with the performance. Neer was their new god, and they began chanting his name. He came with force and chose his new victim. The Ormin fighter rushed away, desperately trying to buy more time.

Daia was left alone with her first enemy. The Jadaer fighter was still raging, pushing Daia into a new corner.

The people from above shouted at them threw flowers and poured wine over the wall. Their voices were so strong that the whole arena vibrated around them.

"You will not escape," growled Hasia, a Jaedar huntress whose skin bore the teeth marks of southern beasts. There was nothing but pure rage in her eyes. Her blows were strong and fast, and without a weapon, Daia was as good as dead.

The only hope she saw was in the spear sticking out of the wall next to her. Without caring about the consequences, she pulled on it with all her might until the fallen warrior's body dropped down to the sand.

As Hasia prepared to launch a final attack on her opponent, Daia waited patiently, knowing that she now had the upper hand. She wielded her new weapon with such precision that there was no room for attack.

Every time Hasia struck, Daia turned her power against her and gave her a cut. The Jaedar fighter lunged at her with all her might, swinging the sword up and down, looking for an opening that she just could not find.

As time passed, she slowed down, as her body bled from a hundred wounds small enough not to stop her, but deadly once put together. When the huntress stopped, she was already dead.

There was only one enemy left.

Neer was on the other side, wiping the blood of another from his sword. Daia knew that her chances were no longer based on skill or endurance but on luck and cleverness. Fighting an Ullarian was the one thing she was taught never to do.

The first sword blow came with such force that she hardly had enough strength to stand up. The second came from above, and she rolled in the sand to avoid it. She would tire him out if she was not already exhausted herself. There was no time to land an attack. The best she could do was graze his armor and make shallow cuts that did no damage.

The people chanted his name again in a single beat. None of them believed she had a chance to win. Survival seemed a distant dream. The only thing that was certain was that they both wanted it to be over as soon as possible.

Her breath was broken into short gasps as she struggled for air under the scorching sun. The strength had left her, the will was broken into pieces finer than the sand, and she was ready to accept what awaited her. The heavy footsteps of the Ularian warrior circled her, shielding her from the sun for a few seconds until all she could see were the mountains of Korian Neir and the peaceful life she longed to return to. They called to her, beckoning her to come home.

The Emperor rose to the ovations of the spectators and stepped onto the balcony above the main gate, raising his hands to the sun and silencing the crowd.

"In moments such as these, legends are created," he said, "and you, the great people of Galor, have the honor of witnessing such a legend being forged. The people of Ularia have fascinated me from the moment I entered their lands, and today we see one of their own rise to eternal glory in our great city." he looked at Neer and made a gesture, dragging his finger over his neck before sitting down again.

She was circled again, tracking with the corner of her eye the shadow of a warrior imbued with the power of the crowd. She recognized those moments when victory was safely in her arms and everyone around her cheered her on, making her a goddess for that one fleeting moment. But most of all, she knew that it was in such moments that one is most vulnerable.

If she could, she'd spring from the sand like a serpent and sow poison in her executioner. She'd be quick and it would be glorious. But pride and ambition made her forget that there were people smarter than she, and those who were fighting not only for their freedom but for their lives. She couldn't see Neer's face, but she knew what it was made of, and she knew it made no difference.

She felt the tug on her armor, and her head suddenly jerked upward, directly into the sun, above which loomed the shadow of a helmet and a sword.

"Find peace," Neer said softly.

The crowd was restless, thirsty for blood like hungry dogs, but when the sword came from above, there was only one thing to do. She reached for her boot and pulled out a thin blade she had taken from Hasia's broken armor, perfectly polished and incredibly sharp. She knew that stabbing him would only delay the inevitable, so she did something much worse. She grabbed the back of his leg and tore the muscle open, from the ankle to the knee.

The executioner cried out in terrible agony and fell to the side, only to be silenced by a sharp edge at his throat. That could have been the end of her, she could have been the one to turn the sand red, but she dared not think of it, only rejoicing that the breath in her lungs was still there. She bowed to the roaring crowd, raised her sword and knelt before the emperor.

"A battle worthy of the gods themselves," he said. "And today we have pleased them more than we could have hoped. Today is the day for Daia, the huntress, the slayer, the free woman of Galor." He approached the balcony and threw a wreath of fresh flowers at her feet. "Take it. Accept it. It's yours."

She looked at it for a moment, all the lilies and dandelions intertwined in an endless loop, twisting and turning with the leaves and branches down to the golden core. It was simple, it meant everything she had wanted, the world itself. She grasped it, yet in her bloody hand, it weighed so much more, for its true price had been paid moments ago with the blood of a friend.

●

The closer she got to the twin hills, the heavier she felt. Her boots dug deeper into the soft ground than the horse's hooves. A year wasn't a long time to be gone, but not all years lasted the same.

At the top of the hill, she stopped and took a deep breath before mounting her horse again and riding down into the valley. She could hardly see the stone village hidden behind the trees. Her heart raced for a moment, but instead of dwelling on that thought, she did as she had been taught and faced the fear before it spoiled her heart with worry.

As the trees opened up, the stone fences and chimneys started popping up from the green, one by one. But it wasn't the village she knew, just a cold structure of rocks and boulders, cinders and ashes. The walls were blackened, the trees scarred, and a black ring surrounded the small temple in the center. Dozens of spears protruded from the charred earth, leaning and pointing at the temple walls. There were no birds, no flies, not even rats. The temple swallowed all sounds.

Only a faint smell was in the air, and it grew stronger the closer she got to the door. She knew it very well. It was the smell of burnt flesh that she had felt so many times and in so many different places. It seemed to her that people loved fire not for its ability to bring light into the dark night, but for its ability to kill in the most painful way.

She hesitated at the door, knowing full well what awaited her on the other side, but as her house stood empty in the corner of her eye, it was no longer a choice, but an inevitability. The door was heavy, iron and bronze, untouched by the flames, and it squeaked as she pushed it open.

The temple was the largest building in the village, both the oldest and the most profound, as it was the way, but what stood inside now made it seem so small and beyond anything twisted.

Those who could escape either made it to the river or were caught and killed on the spot, but those who couldn't were now inside the temple, scattered and piled up like sacks of grain rotting in the barn. It pierced her stomach and climbed up to her throat to tear her apart. She let out a half-scream and vomited onto the blood-stained stone.

Her legs felt nimble, like thin green branches trying to keep a tree from falling over, and she struggled to get back up, but all she could do was squirm back toward the door and away from the tortured faces of all those she had known since birth.

The mare was restless, and more so with each passing moment. She moved and kicked her hind legs to ward off something she sensed in the air but couldn't see.

The mare was restless, even more so with each passing moment. She moved and kicked her hind legs to ward off something she sensed in the air but couldn't see.

There was no longer a smile on Daia’s face, not even a frown or a hint of sadness. There was nothing she could say to the wilderness, and nothing it could tell her back. It was as silent as ever, and the darker it got, the more her defences wavered and crumbled until all she could feel was the overflowing ocean of sorrow coming to drown her.

The empire didn't forgive.