Chapter 15 #4
Nansar and Kragath circled each other in the center of the arena, both breathing hard, both covered in blood—some their own, some not. The other warriors lay scattered around them like fallen monuments to violence and glory.
The crowd's roar somehow grew even louder, a living thing that wrapped around my throat.
Kragath's lips pulled back in a feral grin, his eyes flicking briefly to where I stood, finding me in the crowd with unerring accuracy. The message was clear, written in the cruel curve of his smile: When I win, you're mine.
My stomach twisted with dread so sharp it tasted like copper on my tongue.
The two males clashed with the force of a thunderstorm, and I felt the impact in my very bones.
Kragath was all raw power and brutal strength, a mountain given flesh and fury. Each blow he landed against Nansar's shield sounded like a clap of thunder, and I saw Nansar stagger under the impact, saw the way his body absorbed punishment that would have shattered lesser men. But Nansar...
Nansar was something else entirely.
Where Kragath was power, Nansar was precision.
Where Kragath bulldozed forward like an avalanche, Nansar flowed like water over stone, redirecting momentum, finding openings that shouldn't exist in the spaces between heartbeats.
He was faster, his movements economical and devastatingly efficient, every strike calculated and purposeful, a deadly dance I couldn't look away from.
But Kragath was bigger. Stronger. A massive fist caught Nansar in the ribs with a sickening crack, and I heard myself cry out, my voice lost in the roar of the crowd as he stumbled, pain flashing across his features.
No. No, no, no.
Kragath pressed his advantage, driving forward with a combination of strikes that would have felled a lesser warrior, each blow meant to maim, to break, to destroy.
This wasn't just about winning anymore. I could see it in the savage gleam of Kragath's eyes, in the vicious intent behind every blow that made my blood run cold.
He was trying to kill Nansar.
Terror clawed at my throat with razor-sharp talons, but I couldn't look away, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but watch as the male I cared for fought for his life.
Nansar blocked, dodged, gave ground—but he was still on his feet. Still moving. Still fighting with everything he had.
Then something shifted in the air, electric and dangerous.
Nansar's eyes sharpened, his stance changing almost imperceptibly, like a cat tiring of playing with a mouse. He'd been studying Kragath, I realized with a jolt of understanding. Learning his patterns, his tells. Waiting for the right moment to strike.
It came when Kragath overextended on a powerful haymaker, his confidence making him sloppy.
Nansar moved like lightning. He slipped inside Kragath's guard with impossible speed, landing a precise strike to the larger male's solar plexus that drove the air from his lungs in an audible whoosh.
Before Kragath could recover, before he could even process what had happened, Nansar swept his legs, using the bigger warrior's own momentum against him.
But Kragath didn't go down—not yet. He caught himself with a snarl of pure rage and came at Nansar again, seething with fury and wounded pride, more dangerous now than ever.
The next few minutes were the longest of my life.
They traded blows with savage violence, neither giving quarter, neither willing to yield.
Nansar took hits that would have dropped most males—hits that made me flinch and gasp—but he kept moving, kept fighting, his technique flawless even through exhaustion and pain that must have been excruciating.
He was a master at work, violence transformed into art, and even through my terror, I couldn't help but be awed by him, by his strength and skill and sheer stubborn refusal to fall.
Kragath was slowing. His strikes, while still powerful enough to kill, were becoming predictable. Sloppy. Desperation crept into his movements.
Nansar saw it too—I watched recognition flash in his eyes.
He feinted left, and when Kragath committed to the block, Nansar pivoted right in a blur of motion, his leg sweeping up in a devastating kick that connected with Kragath's jaw. The crack echoed across the arena, sharp and final.
Kragath's eyes rolled back, consciousness fleeing.
Nansar followed through with a spinning strike that caught the larger male in the gut with pinpoint accuracy, and finally—finally—Kragath went down.
He hit the sand hard, flat on his back, and didn't get up. Didn't even twitch.
The arena fell silent.
Completely, utterly, impossibly silent.
Nansar stood over Kragath's fallen form, chest heaving, blood dripping from a dozen wounds that painted his skin in shades of crimson and sacrifice.
He swayed slightly, exhaustion threatening to claim him, but remained on his feet through sheer force of will, his eyes scanning the arena as if daring anyone—anyone—to challenge the outcome.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, the village holding its breath.
Then I was screaming.
I didn't care about decorum, didn't care about the stares or what anyone thought. I yelled his name until my voice cracked, whooped and hollered like I'd lost my mind. My voice was raw and wild with relief and pride and something else, something that burned in my chest like wildfire.
For a heartbeat, the crowd remained frozen, stunned.
Then they erupted like a volcano.
The roar that followed was deafening, a tsunami of sound that shook the very air.
Warriors pounded their fists against their chests in thunderous approval.
The crowd stamped their feet, the rhythm primeval.
They chanted Nansar's name, over and over, until it became a prayer, a battle cry, a celebration of strength and victory and the warrior who had claimed both.
And through it all, across the bloodied sand and the fallen warriors, across the distance between us, Nansar's eyes found mine.
He smiled—and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.