Get up. Gwenda.

Gwenda couldn’t get up before a fist struck her jaw squarely, causing her to stagger backward and tilt her head up before falling backward onto the ground. The roar of the crowd drowned out her groan.

She cursed and didn’t wait long to settle on the ground and trip the opponent when he approached, thinking he had won with that blow. Gwenda knew she might lose this damn fight, but she still wanted to try.

The muscle-bound man stumbled to the ground, and Gwenda pulled a throwing dagger from her hip and stood up, ready to throw it at his skull and make a mess. But she threw it besides his head. She regretted it as soon as he stood up and charge at her with a series of punches and kicks. Gwenda didn’t dare to defend against any of the blows; she just kept a safe distance and moved further away as he advanced like a raging animal.

The crowd’s roar seemed to drown out every thought and strategy of the fight that was unfolding right in front of her. Her breathing wasn’t working properly anymore, and she aimed her fist man’s face. Just aimed.

Gwenda was throwing backward with a kick to the stomach, and she felt all the food from yesterday rise back up. She put her hand to her belly and held back the vomit, forcing it back down. She leaned her other hand on her knee and tried to breathe through her mouth.

She realized she shouldn’t have dropped her guard when she saw the sole of a brave foot heading towards her face. She widened her eyes.

Many thoughts raced through her head. They gave her a man twice her size to fight today, as if they believed she could defeat him with just two blows. She had left her firearm in her horse’s stall, and if she had it now, she could end it all, but she knew firearms were prohibited here during this type of competition... he didn’t even know why she had really decided to participate in fight. Aiming and pulling the trigger was enough.

Gwenda dodged at the last moment. She felt the wind as his foot grazed her back. Then she spun in the air and kicked her heel into the face of the brute who had taken all her breath away. Something broke against her foot bone, but she didn’t care as the opponent fell to the ground with a loud scream, and she staggered to the side, doubled over, with one hand pressing her belly.

She refused to straighten up, refused to take a deep breath because she was focusing on something else, concentrating on not throwing everything up like a waterfall. She put the back of her hand to her lips and grimaced before vomiting not the coarse sand beneath her feet. When she saw what came out of her, she couldn’t hold back another wave of nausea. But didn’t’ vomit again. Her eyes rolled on their own, and she closed them tightly.

The roar in the stands was muffled, and all she could detect was the blood rushing in her ears. The song of death that she felt venturing through her body with every fatigue and breathless moment as if it could take her at any moment. Her head hurt with every movement.

A hoarse and thick scream caught her attention in the midst of everyone, coming from the stands behind her. There were always those who went beyond the limit with winners, who gave their all-in support. Gwenda smiled and let out a brief laugh of happiness mixed with irony, still bent over with her hands on her knees. She felt this way every time she came the arena, every competition she won. She couldn’t complete the feeling that emanated from her without a touch of irony, as if she couldn’t believe she was here, dancing on fractions.

But Gwenda knew she only made money and had plenty left because she saved and invested. She still managed fractions at the corner store she bought from a totally unassuming owner. People went there for sex and fun; it was almost like a damn motel, as her friends called it to tease her. But she hadn’t been there for months and had left someone trustworthy to run everything while she was away. Any misbehavior from employees or people who just frequented the place, delays from those she paid to work there, and thefts from both sides, everything. Her cousin would warm her with a nice letter that always ended with: Kisses from Panteneon Taurus, little cousin. Kick them out and come here more often, please.

Panteneon Taurus was the name of the store most resembling a mote. Hat investment saved her in many ways. She could have nothing today and still be spending on nonsense what she earned from spilled blood.

Gwenda shook her head and blinked rapidly once she returned to normal, just to make sure. Then she straightened up and took a deep breath, detecting the metallic smell she knew well. She exhaled.

Everyone still seemed to be celebrating her, for her, since she was feeling particularly bad.

The man on the ground knelt as he spat blood on the sand. Gwenda felt her mouth fill with her own blood but didn’t show or do anything. He stood up, and without even turning to Gwenda, the opponent headed towards the exit where he would be humiliated by those who had bet on the young woman. She couldn’t help but smile.

She picked up the dagger from the ground that had been near the brute’s head and strapped it to her empty hip. Gwenda spat, then, and wiped the back of her hand on the chin where he had hit moments before everything ended.

The Shooter headed towards the short, thin man in the middle of the arena with his hands behind his back. It was he who always delivered each fraction. Then Gwenda reached out, and the man dropped a full pouch. She closed her fingers just in time with a mischievous smile on her face. She didn’t care about the man’s opinion of her lack of trust when she opened the pouch and looked inside. The gold coins were there, all neat.

Gwenda raised an eyebrow and took two coins before grabbing them by the cord and closing the pouch. She handed the two coins to him and winked, letting him see the message in her kind smile.

The man frowned, and the Shooter just moved on out of that place. She had to go to the stable to get her weapon for the next competition, but she was afraid that today wouldn’t be good at all. She wouldn’t be shooting objects, but living things.

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Someone fired. The crowd turned into a hellish frenzy with screams and shoving. Out of the corner of her eye, Gwenda saw his blood trickling down his thin belly, his ribs seeming to protrude. His groan reached Gwenda’s ears, and her chest shattered into pieces.

— He goes with me, you idiot. — Gwenda spoke angrily as calmness filled the place. —From now on, this elf is under the jurisdiction of sector 3! I don’t want a finger laid on him. If any other mystics are here, — She raised her voice for everyone around to hear. — Make you reports to sector 3. If I find out they’re imprisoning one of them, they’ll have to deal with the consequences!

The man released the mystic, and he staggered forward before falling to his knees. Gwenda approached calmly, asking her heart to calm down.

When she bent down and pushed the creature’s shoulder back, she could see his eyes filled with pure terror, so turned away and plunged her hand into the wound in search of the bullet. The elf leaned forward, groaning in pain.

Gwenda pulled, and the elf seemed to breath again. Some elves regenerate, though not as quickly as the fey. But she had to remove the bullet for this healing to take effect, without any obstacles.

Now Carsany had a hole in its wall, why wouldn’t magic enter?

Gwenda stoop up and ignored the grateful look from the male as she addressed no one in particular.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

— Just tie his hands and leave him in my stall.

They knew her well enough to know se had the right to give orders. The Servant of Raux, as many addressed her. She wasn’t exactly a servant, but something close to it.

Leaving him to suffer with a bullet inside his body, struggling to stand while someone held him, wasn’t something Gwenda could tolerate. But she felt it. She felt every instinct in her screaming to turn to the man who fired and shove the bullet into his head. Even though he was a mystic, and her job was to eliminate mystics in Carsany...

Her eyes roamed over the elf’s skinny body still on the ground.

Gwenda tilted her head. Her job in the sector consisted of that, hunting lost mystics around Carsany and resolving bargains like the last two explosions. It wasn’t much different from what she was paid to do.

Her legs weakened, and she swallowed hard.

He was just a creature in the wrong kingdom.

When someone finally grabbed him unceremoniously and dragged him away, that was when she looked at the pool of blood.

— Where are the real targets. — Bitterness was the only thing in her voice.

Gwenda heard laughter behind her and didn’t turn to see who had the courage.

A dozen guards brought the targets. Chickens tied by their thin legs. The man who had been holding the elf removed him from the center of the arena and took him to the stable under the bleachers.

Gwenda took a deep breath. That place was getting worse every day, creating endless whirlpools. She didn’t agree with that kind of cruelty. To anyone. But she didn’t agree with many things, and that didn’t matter anymore.

They had a chicken in each hand. The men working here tied one leg to the rope hanging from a wooden beam suspended to another, leaving them upside down. The chickens didn’t even move as they should. Some glanced quickly to the sides, and others flapped their wings randomly with short periods of rest. Almost dead, Gwenda noticed, they were exhausted. And she wondered how long they had been like this to have such a slow reaction.

Those who brought the targets stepped back, their steps heavy as they moved away, and Gwenda tilted her head slightly with doubt if they weren’t already dead from the lack of movement they normally had when caught by their thin, ugly legs.

A shot next to her snapped her out of her trance, and she saw the bullet miss the chicken. The shooter missed badly, but Gwenda didn’t have the strength to laugh at the disaster. They were far enough away from missing to be normal, anyway. The nearby chickens startled and flapped their wings more intensely. Gwenda blinked slowly, being just the Shooter calculating such a mockery.

They would roast animals later. Because they knew they couldn’t waste them like this. This was just another way to prepare someone’s dinner. A bizarre way.

The arena was basically the graveyard of mystics.

Gwenda aimed and fired twice in a row. The fist bullet made a hole in the front chicken, and she could see the blood from afar, the second bullet passed through the hole the first one had made hit the back chicken.

The Shooter lowered her arm and let out a long sigh, studying the third chicken she was about to hit, a red one that flapped its wings relentlessly, trying to break free, writhing in all directions.

Gwenda prayed that it would kill itself before pulling the trigger.

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Another gold fraction hung from her hip along with the firearm and the dagger. And now she made her way to the stable. He felt filthy, but there wasn’t much she could do about it at the moment.

The older man with graying hair who tended to the horses looked at Gwenda with disgust, and she didn’t take long to understand it was because of the mystic in her stall. She grimaced back at him and opened the place where her horse was.

Behind, sprawled on the ground with his back against the wall, with hay and horse dung scattered on the floor nary, was the pointed-eared elf with full of earrings. His blond hair fell over his closed eyes, and one of his hands lay on his belly, inert just below the wound, which thankfully was healing slowly.

Gwenda took advantage of his resting state and continued to observe him. The beige pants were dirty, and she didn’t even want to think about the bare and filthy feet. She wondered where he had come from to be so dirty and so thin. The outlines of his muscles were still there, but they would soon disappear completely if he didn’t receive the necessary care and training.

The binding on his wrists seemed to have been forced, and she knew the elf tried to free himself in vain. Escape was out of the question, he knew it. Everyone knew it. Or else he would have shackles on his ankles even if he could undo them.

Twilight turned his head in Gwenda’s direction and breathed out towards her, causing the loose strands of her braid to dance in a way that would be difficult to undo later. The horse knew to behave when someone was sent to his stall. He wouldn’t attack even if Gwenda ordered him to.

A necklace was fastened around the elf’s neck on the ground, and Gwenda frowned it before approaching and squatting in front of the mystic, between his legs spread to the sides. The pendant was what caught her attention the most, and she reached out to touch it. It was a simple transparent gemstone attached to a thin gold chain. Gwenda rolled the little stone through her fingers and then let it fall back onto the practically lifeless elf’s neck. But he was already looking at Gwenda when she thought about moving away, yet she didn’t, and felt the movement of Twilight behind her. The Shooter just studied those beautiful celestial blue eyes with white pupils.

The two stared at each other, both with impartial expressions. Gwenda didn’t know if she should ask questions now or just take him to the sector.

— Why. — Gwenda stood still. It wasn’t a question; it was almost an order. His voice came out hoarse, like that of a boy just entered the puberty.

She raised her eyebrows and gave a smirky.

— Because you’re useful to me.

The elf did nothing but blink. It wasn’t a surprise to him that Gwenda just wanted to use him to get answers. Maybe she did make him a servant in exchange for saving his life. But the truth was that she didn’t know if he was southern ou northern elf. She would find out in the meantime spent with him asking questions and discovering things. They way the elf answered would give away where he came from.

Gwenda tilted her head.

— Of course, you know you would have died if I hadn’t been taking advantage of the fact that no one had good aim today.

— It seemed to me that the man who shot had excellent aim. — The elf flared his nostrils as if irritated.

She let out a brief laugh and picked up the pendant between her fingers.

— No, he didn’t. — She briefly raised her eyebrows, amused — He didn’t hit your heart.

The Shooter stoop up. End of discussion. The elf owed her, and the mystic was fully aware of it. Gwenda couldn’t help but smile as she adjusted Twilight’s saddle better; she had to stay firm so that she could take the still wounded elf with her.

She took a deep breath and turned to him before approaching and reaching out her hand. The elf shifts his eyes between her hand and her face. His skin was practically pale, as if he never showed himself to the sun. His shoulders seemed burned, and that made Gwenda’s throat waver.

The mystic grimaced discreetly when he grabbed her hand with the strength he still had and struggled to get up. Gwenda didn’t bother to help him before taking a step back and resting a hand on Twilight’ neck. He was still securely tied, giving her a sense of security that he wouldn’t try to escape anytime soon. He was in Carsany, witnessed Gwenda’s power, and wouldn’t try to flee even if he wanted to.

The young woman’s back felt sore, and she tried to show it as she moved to the other side of the horse, opening the stall door on the way. She climbed up quickly and didn’t take her eyes off the elf for just a second.

The creature just looked towards the exit, towards the man outside the stall who as sitting on a stool smoking something, a firearm in his other hand, which he didn’t have before. Gwenda cleared her throat, but the elf continued to stare at the exit. He blinked and seemed to realize he had no chance of anything. Not when Gwenda leaned down towards him and grabbed his arm tightly, pulling him up onto the horse.

— I don’t have much time — She spoke with disgust.

The elf didn’t even grunt before trying to get onto Twilight as best as he could.

Gwenda took handcuffs from the bag she always carried at the back of her horse and wasted no time locking them on the mystic’s wrists. She held the rope that was hanging and wrapped it around her own hand before lightly tapping Twilight’s sides with her feet.

The elf seemed not to dare to breath, and his body behind Gwenda made her lose some senses. She cursed herself and blinked several times even before Twilight trotted out of the stable. In a few maters, the horse would be galloping away from the nightmare that Gwenda, shamelessly, called a bank.