The horn's echo was still rolling across the Bloodpits when Nermin struck first.
Wind screamed around her, whipping sand into the air. She came in low, fast — a streak of motion, blade catching the light as she drove for Mazen's ribs.
He was already moving.
A burst of fire roared from his palm, forcing her to vault back. Heat singed the edge of her cloak as she landed light on her feet.
"Took you long enough," Mazen muttered, rolling his shoulders.
Nermin's lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"I wasn't sure you had the nerve to face me."
The crowd roared, sensing the blood in the air.
Mazen struck, fire crackling along his arm, a whip of heat arcing toward her. Nermin's wind coiled in tight, deflecting it with a sharp burst that scattered flame across the sand.
They closed again, blades and elements clashing.
A wind-blown slice across Mazen's shoulder.
A searing flame that singed the tips of Nermin's hair.
Neither spoke. No taunts now — just instinct, violence, and something deeper neither could name.
For a breathless moment, they broke apart, circling.
The Fire Serpent's mark on Mazen's skin glowed hot. The Wind Wyrm's scale at Nermin's throat shimmered with pale blue light.
And then—
"Enough!"
A voice like rolling thunder cut through the roar of the crowd.
All eyes turned.
And from the stands, a figure dropped into the arena.
Prince Rhys IV.
Clad in storm-grey leathers, twin wind-forged blades in his hands, his presence split the sand like a blade through silk.
"I'll be damned if anyone else tests a wind wielder before me."
He pointed a blade at Nermin, eyes sharp, no mockery in them.
"You. Fight me."
The crowd exploded.
Mazen's fire guttered low as his eyes narrowed.
And Nermin, teeth clenched, raised her blade.
"Fine. Let's see what a prince is made of."
The Bloodpits held its breath.
The Bloodpits crowd thundered.
"Rhys! Rhys! Rhys!"
Prince Rhys IV stepped onto the sand like he owned it. Twin curved blades gleamed at his sides, storm-grey cloak swirling around him.
His gaze locked onto Nermin.
"You've got fight in you, Ember girl," he called.
"But wind answers me too."
Nermin's wind snapped at her cloak.
"Then come prove it, prince."
The bell sounded.
Rhys moved with a burst of air, faster than her eye could track — a sharp, clean strike aimed for her throat.
Nermin countered, wind gusting, steel meeting steel. Sparks flew. The crowd howled.
It was a clash of speed and technique, wind against wind, precision against wild instinct. Blades sang. Dust rose.
A sharp feint — and suddenly Nermin stumbled.
Rhys's blade snapped toward her exposed throat.
The crowd's roar blurred into silence.
And then a wall of heat.
A flare of fire burst between them as Mazen surged in, catching Rhys's blade with his own, stopping the kill-strike cold.
The clash of steel rang out.
Mazen's eyes burned.
"You'll touch her over my ashes."
The arena held its breath.
Rhys didn't flinch. A flicker of surprise, then a sharp grin.
He stepped back, lowering his blade.
"Easy, Arkios."
He gestured between them.
"We're opponents. Not enemies."
A beat.
"I didn't come here to butcher anyone who fights with honor. I'd expect the same from you."
The tension bled from Mazen's stance — just a fraction.
His fire hissed down.
He met Rhys's gaze and gave a tight, short nod.
"Then finish this in the pit, prince."
Rhys grinned wider.
"Gladly."
And the Bloodpits roared anew.
The crowd hadn't even finished cheering when Rhys turned, twin blades flashing in the light.
"Mark Arkios," he called, a grin sharpening the edge of his words, "let's see what your fire's worth."
Mazen stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, heat curling around his fingers like liquid flame.
"Been waiting for you to stop showing off, prince."
The Bloodpits bell rang.
Rhys struck first — a burst of wind propelling him forward, blades slashing in a cross-cut. Mazen ducked low, fire coiling around his fist as he drove it up in a punch of heat.
The prince spun away, using the air to lift himself into a tight backflip, landing light as a cat.
"Not bad," Rhys quipped.
Mazen grinned, fire licking around his hands.
"Try harder."
They collided again.
Fire burst against wind, blades clashed. Every strike shook the arena floor. Spectators leaned forward, breathless as two of the Bloodpits' deadliest fought with everything they had.
Mazen's flames bit deep.
Rhys's wind deflected and redirected, sharp as razors.
For minutes, neither gave ground.
Until Mazen feinted — a low sweep of fire forcing Rhys to leap, only for Mazen to pivot, blade to the prince's throat before he landed.
The world stilled.
The crowd held its breath.
Mazen's fire hummed at his fingertips.
Rhys looked him dead in the eye… and then smiled.
"Do it. Or prove you're the better man."
A long, charged beat.
Then Mazen lowered his blade.
"I kill those who deserve it. You aren't on that list."
Rhys gave a sharp, approving nod and clasped Mazen's wrist in a warrior's grip.
"Then consider this your victory. And my respect."
The Bloodpits erupted in thunderous cheers.
Two killers. No longer enemies.
The roar from the Bloodpits shook the stone walls, the dust curling in thick, restless clouds.
Mazen kept his blade lowered, fire flickering down to a steady glow at his fingertips. Across from him, Rhys sheathed his twin swords with a fluid, practiced motion.
They stood there a moment — the crowd's screams washing over them like a tide neither one acknowledged.
Then Rhys stepped closer, offering his forearm.
"I don't kneel to rebels," he said, voice low.
"But to men who earn their name in battle? That's different."
Mazen eyed him, the flicker of heat in his blood calming.
He gripped Rhys's forearm, the clasp of warriors.
A quiet pulse of mutual respect passed between them.
"This fight's not the one that matters, prince," Mazen said.
"The next one will."
Rhys's grin returned, sharp and sure.
"Good. Because the throne won't be my father's much longer."
The unspoken truth between them cracked the air like a fresh storm.
The crowd kept cheering. The other fighters kept bleeding.
But for a breath of time, two men on opposite sides of a war stood together.
Not as enemies.
But as warriors.
And somewhere on the edge of the arena, Nermin watched them both — her wind still stirring, her pulse louder than the crowd.
Not sure who she hated more in that moment… or why she felt that way at all.
The Bloodpits floor was a battlefield of spent warriors, scattered blades, and blood-darkened sand.
Mazen stood at the center, the Fire Serpent's mark still smoldering faintly beneath his skin.
The crowd's cheers rolled on, but the fight was over.
Prince Rhys IV gave one last nod before turning toward the royal box. A storm was brewing behind those stone walls, and he knew it.
As the arena began to empty, Shadow of the North appeared at Mazen's side, moving like a ghost through the haze.
"You should've killed him."
Mazen didn't look away from the Bloodpits gates.
"I'll kill who needs it."
A beat.
"He wasn't one of them."
Shadow grunted, almost a sound of approval.
A few paces away, Nermin knelt in the dust, gathering her weapons. Her hands trembled just slightly — not from fear.
From something else.
She glanced up, catching Mazen's gaze across the fading arena.
Neither spoke.
But for a flicker, neither saw an opponent.
Only someone they didn't quite know how to forget.
Wind stirred.
Fire smoldered.
The Bloodpits would remember this day.
And so would they.