Combat circles, a clan custom to settle feuds, often ended in blood. The three warriors facing me moved with lethal precision. This fight was to the death.

“King Gurtive,” Rina called, “this wasn’t our deal. My man’s a decorated warrior. Harm him, and my father will be furious.”
Gurtive’s silence was deafening, his weathered face blank as the crowd’s cheers swelled. I was alone.

A blade hissed past my cheek, grazing stubble. An axe swung, clashing against my Kris, jarring my arm. I raised my shield, but a kick to my groin dropped me—my fourth stumble. The crowd roared, their faces alight with glee, Darka’s men grinning with smug anticipation. These warriors were fluid, but I’d spotted a flaw.

Their pattern emerged: two flankers striking to distract, the center man waiting for a killing blow. They charged again. I lunged at the middle warrior, his axe rising too late. My Kris slashed twice upward, then struck his knee. He crumpled, shrieking.

Pivoting, I ducked a flanker’s swing, my blade slicing his armpit. His weapon clinked on the sand, and my boot sent him down. The last man’s axe whirled, its blow rattling my Kris. I drew my poniard, bracing. He smirked, advancing. I hurled the poniard; he swatted it aside, but it gave me ground.

I rushed, slashing twice, then thrusting. His axe slowed him, and I seized his wrist, stabbing his arm, then his thigh. He fell, wailing.
“No need for death,” I said to the crowd, their cheers fading to stunned murmurs. Darka’s face twisted in bitter disappointment, his men’s eyes narrowing. “It’s too fine a day.” I yanked my Kris free, the warrior’s cry piercing the air.

Gurtive rose, shame in his eyes. “The fight’s over. The gods shamed our unfairness, sparing us through his mercy.” I smirked inwardly—skill, not gods, won this.
“Who are you?” Gurtive asked, approaching through the dispersing crowd, their murmurs trailing like dust.
“Dorack, son of Dun,” I said, chest heaving.
“Your grace is unforgettable,” he said, clasping my forearm. Darka and his men bowed stiffly, their faces sour. I nodded back.
“Come,” Gurtive said. “A tent and meal await.”

We trudged through Anthera’s dusty paths, past cookfires and curious onlookers, to a modest tent. Its animal skin mat smelled of musk, the stove’s warmth battling the evening chill. Dull lamplight cast flickering shadows, and distant clan songs drifted through the canvas.

I collapsed onto the soft bed, exhausted. Rina joined me, her silence heavy, her eyes tracing my frame. I met her gaze, pulling her close. Her chest pressed against mine, her heartbeat wild. “Relax,” I said. She exhaled, softening.
“I feared you’d die,” she whispered.
“You underestimate me, little wolf,” I grinned. She smiled back.
Maids brought a feast—roasted meat, bread, wine—its aroma rich. I tore into the food, savage, while Rina ate with care. Her restraint amused me, but survival demanded hunger.
“You haven’t answered,” she said, breaking the quiet. “What do you want?”
The question pierced me. “To be happy,” I said, meeting her eyes.
“Then join me,” she urged.
“I can’t,” I said, sighing. “Not while Dakor lives. It’s my oath to Keiya.”
“Princess Keiya?” Her eyes widened. I nodded, sipping the wine—strange, bitter, heavy on my tongue. Something was off, a faint haze creeping into my mind.
“Dakor took everything—fame, peace, my family,” I said, frowning. “His death won’t restore them, but it’ll end this torment.”

A tear fell from her eye. She wrapped her arms around me, her warmth easing my pain. My vision blurred, the wine’s strange bite deepening. Her fingers brushed my hair, soothing, but my strength ebbed. “Rina,” I whispered. She hushed me, her touch a physician’s cure. The tent’s songs faded, my sight dimming like a petal falling, the wine’s shadow swallowing me into darkness.