The smoke of burning cedar curled into the air as the heavy iron gates slammed shut behind her. Red dust swirled at her feet, clinging to the hem of her tunic. Her heart pounded in rhythm with the crowd’s chants, which reverberated through the sprawling arena—a barbaric temple built from sandstone and sweat. She did not look back at the cages lining the walls; she knew the beast inside would soon be loosed.
Her reflection flashed in the mirrored blade she carried at her side. Gone were the muted gray t-shirt and comfortable shorts of her quiet past. In their place, she now wore a high-collared crimson tunic, cinched tightly at the waist with a bronze belt carved with intricate sigils. The fabric shimmered faintly in the amber light, as if embroidered with threads of sunlight. Over her legs, she wore dark, leather-wrapped greaves, ending in knee-high boots crafted of supple black hide. A muted golden trim ran along the bands, stark against the surrounding soot and haze. Her arms were bare but for leather straps coiled tightly around her forearms, a quiet promise of defense in a world that offered none.
The arena roared, a tidal wave of bloodlust as the handlers unleashed the beast. Seven feet tall at the shoulders, the creature emerged, a nightmare clothed in sinew and scales. Its head resembled a wolf but bore a ghastly mark of intelligence in its unblinking amber eyes. It sniffed the air once, then dashed forward on clawed feet toward her. Each bound left deep grooves in the sand beneath it.
She didn’t flinch. Her muscles tensed as she calculated the perfect angle of attack. The gladius in her hand—an heirloom from an empire long turned to dust—seemed to sing in anticipation. Its blade, polished to a mirror sheen, caught and scattered the sunlight like fragments of shattered glass.
Her opponent lunged. She sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a swipe from its talons that would have torn through bone like brittle parchment. Pivoting gracefully, her tunic swirled her like a phoenix’s plumage, contrasting sharply with the scorched arena floor. The beast snarled, enraged at losing its prey so easily. The crowd gasped as the two circled each other, predator and adversary measuring their distance.
Remember, child, her father’s voice whispered to her from the shadows of memory. Power is not enough. It’s the mind that survives.
Her fingers brushed the hilt of her gladius, tracing the engraved phrases she had memorized during quiet nights at the citadel—a mark of wisdom passed down by warriors far greater than she. Her mind sharpened as she stepped back, drawing the beast toward the center of the arena, where the light was harshest and its movement could be more easily tracked.
With the crack of splintering rock, the creature leapt again. This time she didn’t move aside. Her blade flashed upward, slashing through sinewy muscle and fur. A crimson spray painted the air. The beast landed behind her, screeching in pain, its hind leg dragging uselessly on the ground.
The crowd roared again, jeering and hollering as the beast staggered, but she didn’t celebrate. There was no room for arrogance. She turned slowly, her shoulders taut, eyes locked on her adversary. It still had enough strength to kill her if she faltered.
Then came the fatal error. One step too close. The beast, in a final unheard lament, lunged once more, its amber eyes wild with pain—but she was ready this time. Her blade moved like liquid fire, piercing its heart with an unerring thrust. The beast collapsed, its massive body heaving once before going limp.
Silence filled the arena. And then, a crescendo of applause. She stood over the slain creature, heaving breaths racking her chest. Blood coated the blade of her gladius, shimmering under the sunlight, while streaks of red marred the vibrant fabric of her tunic.
“Enough!” A voice boomed from above, commanding and sharp, silencing the crowd. She looked up at the obsidian throne on the northern dais, where the Warlord sat cloaked in shadows. Two guards flanked him, their armor gleaming beneath the brazier light.
The Warlord leaned forward, his expression unreadable beneath the polished bone mask he wore. “You’ve passed the trial,” he declared, his tone laced with reluctant respect. “But bloodshed alone proves nothing. Tomorrow, you’ll face your true test.”
A lump rose in her throat. The trial wasn’t over. She gritted her teeth, refusing to let the weight of his words crush her resolve. Instead, she raised the gladius high, letting the dying light catch its edge.
“Then let tomorrow come,” she said, her voice ringing clear through the suffocating silence. The crowd erupted once more, her defiance kindling their fervor into another maelstrom of voices.
As she turned and walked past the beast’s lifeless body, the light caught on the loose folds of her crimson tunic and her bronze belt, their colors still vivid and unyielding amid the sea of ash and dust. For now, her victory was a fleeting whisper in a world that demanded ever more blood and bone. Her fight was far from over, but neither was her resolve.
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic Historical Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Muted Gray T-Shirt, Retro High-Waisted Shorts, and Sporty Knee-High Socks: Casual Chic with Vintage Vibes
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