The roar of the crowd was deafening, nearly drowning out the clashing steel of obsidian blades. Above her in the night sky, the constellations shimmered, a thousand ancestral gods gazing down upon the crimson sands of the Azcayotl Colosseum. Xianya’s sharp breath cut through the thick desert air, her sandaled feet adjusting as her opponent charged toward her. The duel was life or death, and she wasn’t ready to bleed.
Her obsidian armor, sleek and shaped to her frame, glinted under the glare of ceremonial fires. The black breastplate hugged her torso, painted with intricate glyphs in silver—a homage to the stars they believed had birthed their people. A flowing black textile skirt with silver trim, slit up both sides for movement, whipped around her muscular thighs as she pivoted. Her bronze-colored skin glistened with sweat, and a delicate chain threaded with jade and onyx beads swayed at her neck, the only adornment allowed for a warrior condemned to the sands. It was said the necklace absorbed her final prayers, delivering them to the gods if she failed.
The ground beneath her trembled as her foe—a towering chief covered head-to-toe in jaguar pelts—lunged with a bone-handled macuahuitl. Xianya sidestepped, lowering her weight into a crouch before countering with a slash from her blade. She didn’t make contact, but her weapon’s blackened edge cut the air with a menacing hum, earning gasps from the onlookers. She rose, defiant, her jet-black hair tied high and slicked back to keep it out of the way.
“If your gods are watching, let them turn away,” Xianya hissed. Her voice was steady, unwavering, though her pulse rattled like a war drum. “Mine have no mercy.”
Her opponent grinned, his jaguar mask unable to hide the glint of his golden fillings. When his next attack came, it wasn’t singular but a flurry—precise and relentless as the monsoon winds. It took everything in Xianya’s reflexes to parry, the obsidian blades spitting sparks with every collision. Memories surged like ghosts through her thoughts, forcing her to cling to focus.
She had been just sixteen when the tribunal had named her as a contender for the Colosseum. The daughter of a weaver in the Mexayotl Confederation, her role in life had seemed written: to dye threads black with rare volcanic pigments, to practice patience in silence. But that year, the priests had seen an omen in the smoke signals rising from the hills—a black jaguar shadowed by the constellation Chicomecoatl, the blood-bringer. By decree, she had been taken to the warrior caste. Her mother wept for seven days; her father sharpened her training blade in silence.
“You can live long weaving,” her father had said, his expression unreadable. “Or die fast and remembered. There is no honor in the middle, daughter.”
Her response had been unexpected. “Then I’ll carve my name across history,” she had answered, her young voice already hard with resolve.
The bellow of war horns called her back to the present. Xianya’s chest heaved as she slipped past another blow. The jaguar chief had grown frustrated; his strikes were loosening, his stamina beginning to drain away. Taking her chance, she slid through the sand and delivered the edge of her blade against the taut muscle of his calves. Her blow drew blood, and the crowd erupted into a chorus of chants and screams, their allegiance split. Song and prayer followed—their tongues begging the gods to intervene for their chosen warrior.
Her heart thundered in her ribs, but she did not stop. No, she couldn’t. Not when death offered its cruel hand so close. She pressed forward like the smoke of forgotten sacrifices, dancing around his frenzied attempts to hit her. Another slash—this time she carved across the leather hide of his torso, revealing a streak of crimson. His breath stuttered, and he fell to one knee, his weapon limp by his side.
“Finish it!” the priests bellowed from their pristine dais above the arena. They draped themselves in unnatural whites, their headdresses towering, gold-painted faces aglow under firelight.
Xianya raised her blade, every tendon and muscle screaming in agony. Her opponent coughed, blood flecking his lips. For a moment, their eyes met through the jaguar mask—this man who had raided her village, who had destroyed everything she had ever loved. She saw no gods in his stare, only fear.
“My victory belongs to me,” she whispered, lowering the blade with care. “Not to your gods.”
The priests exploded in fury, damning her to an afterlife of nothingness. But the crowd, many of whom knew loss as she did, roared their approval. They chanted her name as her opponent slumped to the ground, shamed by her mercy.
She walked out of the arena, leaving the blade embedded in the sand, the necklace swaying against her chest. Xianya would wear no chain again—not for gods, not for men. Mercy had made her a victor, but freedom would make her a legend.
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