The blood hadn't even dried on the arena boards.
It clung in black ropes to the cracked wood, soaking the dirt and stone below.
The sun was high now, burning down without mercy, but the Crucible's muster ground still stank of iron and broken pride.
The crowd was larger, louder, more vicious.
The stakes were sharper.
Of the hundreds who had entered that morning, fewer than a dozen remained.
And every eye in the arena was hungry for more blood.
---
The herald's voice rasped over the din, parchment in one hand, his free fingers trembling slightly.
---
"Next match!
Number **802**, Serenya of House Velinthra!
Versus Number **749**, Garrick of Stonehall!"
---
The noise swelled.
Betting shouts, jeers, curses.
Silver Crests clinked and changed hands in a blur.
---
I moved to the edge of the arena, finding a place near a broken pillar.
Watched.
Waited.
Breath slow.
Heart steady.
---
Serenya stepped into the ring like a shard of winter itself.
No heavy armor.
No gaudy banners.
Just a simple steel-gray tunic over fitted leathers, her hair braided back tight against the nape of her neck.
In her hand, a longsword of pale steel, gleaming like a sliver of frozen moonlight.
---
Across from her, Garrick of Stonehall stomped in — a massive man, face twisted into a permanent sneer, thick plate armor hanging from his frame like a blacksmith's apron.
He swung a brutal cleaver-sword, testing its weight, laughing loudly enough for the whole muster to hear.
---
"Come, little snowflake!" he bellowed. "Let's see if you melt easy!"
---
Serenya said nothing.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
---
The herald dropped his hand.
The bell tolled once.
---
Garrick charged.
A bull.
A hammer.
A thunderclap.
---
Serenya moved.
---
One step sideways.
One smooth, whispering breath.
The cold grace of falling snow.
---
Garrick's strike slammed into empty air, carving a deep gouge in the boards.
Before he could recover, Serenya flowed in — not a wild rush, not a panicked scramble.
A simple, clean motion.
One cut.
---
Her blade kissed the joint of Garrick's armor at the armpit.
A thin red line bloomed.
Blood hissed into the air.
---
Garrick roared, swinging wildly.
Serenya pivoted, weight on her back foot, letting the blade pass within a hair's breadth of her ribs.
---
Another step.
Another breath.
Another cut.
---
This time across his thigh, just above the greave.
Tendons parted like silk.
---
Garrick stumbled.
Snarled.
Tried to bullrush her.
---
Serenya slid aside like a dancer across black ice.
No anger.
No fear.
Just the cold inevitability of winter.
---
Her final stroke was almost merciful.
A flick of her wrist.
A single straight thrust under the gorget, slipping between the plates and into the hollow of Garrick's throat.
---
He dropped to his knees.
Gurgling.
Clutching at the blade that wasn't there anymore.
---
Serenya stepped back.
Lowered her sword.
---
The herald hesitated — then shouted.
"Victor — Serenya Velinthra!"
---
The crowd roared.
Not with joy.
With awe.
And fear.
---
Serenya didn't bow.
Didn't smile.
She simply turned and walked off the field, her blade flashing once in the sun, scattering a few drops of blood like red snowflakes.
---
I watched her disappear into the misted edges of the arena.
No wasted movements.
No wasted mercy.
---
She was perfect.
Cold.
Sharp.
Beautiful.
Deadly.
---
The perfect sword made flesh.
---
And then they called my name.
---
"Number **877**, Atlas Westenra of House Westenra!"
---
The crowd shifted.
Excitement crackled.
Silver Crests rained down on betting tables.
---
"And his opponent — Number **743**, Leonhardt Ivelas, Firstborn of the Eastern Dukedom of Velran!"
---
A murmur ran through the ranks.
Leonhardt.
A name known even here.
---
I stepped onto the boards.
The world narrowed.
The crowd blurred.
Only the ring remained.
Only the enemy.
---
Leonhardt was already waiting.
Tall.
Broad.
Wearing battered duelist's plate over black silk.
His sword was a monster — a heavy, curved blade built for crushing strikes.
The emblem of his house — a black sun over crossed towers — gleamed on his breastplate.
---
His eyes were cold.
Calculating.
No jeering.
No arrogance.
Just simple, heavy confidence.
---
Good.
This would not be easy.
Not a gift fight.
Not a sacrifice.
---
The herald dropped his hand.
The bell tolled.
---
Leonhardt moved like an avalanche.
No flourish.
No hesitation.
One step forward, two hands on the hilt, blade coming down like a god's hammer.
---
I sidestepped —
— almost.
The air screamed past my face as the blade smashed into the ground, sending a spray of shattered boards into the air.
---
Even missing, the strike jarred the earth under my boots.
---
I exhaled.
Focused.
Weight on the balls of my feet.
Sword low.
Breath measured.
---
Leonhardt pressed in.
Not blindly.
Not wildly.
Every step controlled.
Every swing planned.
Heavy arcs designed to corral me, drive me into a mistake.
---
I danced on the edge of his reach, parrying with glancing blows, shifting, sliding.
Breath burning in my chest.
Muscles straining.
---
The crowd shouted.
Silver clattered.
The bookmakers screamed odds.
---
I blocked a high slash, felt my wrists jolt.
Leonhardt followed immediately with a crushing shoulder charge.
---
The impact hit like a falling wall.
I staggered, boots skidding across the blood-slick boards.
---
Pain flared along my ribs — the same old wound, screaming.
---
I gritted my teeth.
Held my ground.
Breathed.
Focused.
---
Leonhardt smirked.
Came again.
---
I saw the next strike coming before it began — a high feint, baiting me into a low counter.
---
Instead of biting, I stepped into it.
Slid under his guard.
---
And drove my elbow into the exposed hinge of his armor just below the shoulder.
---
He grunted.
Staggered.
---
Small damage.
A chip in the mountain.
But a mountain could fall if you found the right fault line.
---
Leonhardt reset his stance.
Wiped blood from his mouth.
His aura flared — deep gold, heavy, oppressive.
---
If I didn't push harder now, I'd lose.
Slowly.
Surely.
---
I reached inside.
Pulled deep.
Past pain.
Past pride.
Past fear.
---
And let the **Fourth Fang** out.
---
Breath.
Anchor.
Pulse.
Release.
---
My aura exploded around me — silver-gold, flickering with sharp edges.
The boards beneath my boots cracked.
The air trembled.
The crowd gasped.
A few staggered back instinctively.
---
Leonhardt's eyes widened slightly.
No fear.
But... calculation.
---
Good.
---
I moved.
---
One step.
Two.
Three.
A burst of speed and pressure, compressing all my strength into a single killing rhythm.
---
Leonhardt raised his blade to meet me—
—but I wasn't there.
---
I slipped to the side at the last heartbeat.
The Fourth Fang pulsing through my veins like molten silver.
---
My sword carved upward, catching the gap under his breastplate at the ribs.
---
A deep, savage cut.
Not mortal.
Not instant.
But enough.
---
Leonhardt dropped to one knee, gasping.
Blood blooming dark and wet across the silk.
---
I stood over him, blade raised.
---
The crowd held its breath.
---
Leonhardt met my eyes.
No begging.
No fear.
Just the simple, exhausted acceptance of a warrior who had been broken but not yet ended.
---
I lowered my sword.
Stepped back.
---
The herald's voice cracked through the silence.
---
"Victor — Atlas Westenra!"
---
I sheathed my blade with a slow rasp.
Turned.
Walked off the field without looking back.
---
Behind me, the roar of the Crucible rose like a beast waking from a long, hungry sleep.
Not cheers.
Not yet.
---
Whispers.
Frightened, awed whispers.
---
**Westenra.**
**Fangs.**
**Gold light.**
**Danger.**
---
I didn't smile.
Didn't breathe easier.
This was only the beginning.
---
The blood was still fresh on the boards.
The wolves were still watching.
The fangs were only beginning to grow.