What Was Taken

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The chain was heavier today. Not by weight. The metal links were the same. Iron crusted with sand, oil-wrapped in the old sailor’s fashion, looped three times and tied loose around her waist.

No, the heaviness came from meaning. From what she decided the chain was today.

Bernadette Leveler of the Rune Raiders stood in the cool stone of the gate tunnel, her bare shoulder pressed to the wall, her breath even, her feet planted wide. One boot heel rested against the floor’s groove where the gate would rise. Her body was motionless, but her jaw ached from the pressure she kept behind her teeth.

She hadn’t spoken in hours. Hadn’t needed to.

The attendants who tried to check her armor had left her alone after a single glance. They always did. She wore no crest. No paint. No ribbons for the crowd. Only scars.

The ones on her back itched beneath the leather. Not from pain. From memory.

The gate hadn’t opened yet, but she could smell the sun past the cracks. And beyond that, the scent of incense.

She rolled her neck once. Muscles crackled. The scent irritated her.

Too clean. Too controlled. Too much like forgiveness.

A voice from the pit guards: “You’re up next. Be quick about it.”

She didn’t answer. They knew better than to repeat themselves.

Her hand fell to the chain. She lifted it slowly from her hip and let the end drag across the stone behind her. The scraping sound made one of the guards flinch.

Good.

There was no crowd in the tunnel. No cheers. No gods to pray to. Just the weight of decision. And what had been taken.

The Pearl. White silk walls. Chains on the wrists. Music that drowned screams. Her master’s voice like sugar in rotten meat.

She’d cut him with a broken plate. Not enough to kill him, but enough that he’d remember.

That was years ago.

Now, she fought for the coin.

But after the coin? She’d find him again. And this time, she wouldn’t break the plate. She’d make him eat it.

The horn sounded. The gate began to rise.

Bernadette didn’t adjust her stance. She didn’t blink.

She just stepped forward into the light, dragging the chain behind her like a leash from the past. Each link clattered like a countdown.

Every step forward rang like a promise: You will not own me again.

The sun hit like a slap.

Bernadette stepped into the arena without adjusting to the light, her boots crunching black sand, chain dragging behind her in slow metallic rhythms.

The cheers of the crowd rose around her like fire licking dry walls. She didn’t look at them.

She only looked forward.

There he was. Matthew Dismantler of the Realm.

Green armor, polished like a cathedral gate. Staff in hand. Tall, straight-backed. Helmet narrow and lean. He didn’t strut. He didn’t puff up his chest.

He moved with intention. Every step measured, light, precise.

Like someone accustomed to sparring partners and long practice halls. Like someone who’d been taught to fight by teachers instead of by pain.

And he smelled like...

Gods. That scent.

It hit her before he even reached the center. Incense. Not the arena’s smoke, something natural. Crafted. Pine and clove, maybe.

A scent designed to soothe. Soften. Fool.

The smell made her stomach turn.

Calm was for people who’d never been chained.

She stopped at center. Let the chain pool beside her like a sleeping dog. Loose, inviting. She curled her fingers around the links and felt the old comfort of iron against skin.

Her bare shoulders twitched in the heat, and the scarred muscle along her back itched beneath the tension.

He wasn’t attacking yet. He was circling. Watching.

There was a bird with him. A falcon, perched high on his harness. It cawed something she didn’t understand.

He glanced up at it and smiled.

Smiled.

He brought softness into this place. And dared to wear it like armor.

That’s when she decided. She wouldn’t kill him quickly.

He moved first. Feints, quick steps, probing jabs with the long staff. He kept distance well. Smart. A tactician.

She let him.

The first strike came. A clean upward arc aimed at her shoulder. She stepped into it. Not to block. To absorb. The wood cracked across the leather over her deltoid. A flash of pain. She was already driving her knee into his thigh.

He rolled with it. Good reaction. Agile.

The chain was heavy in her grip, but it moved like a limb. She spun it once low, testing him.

He vaulted over the strike, graceful as a dancer.

She hated dancers.

He flicked the staff again. A fast strike to the ribs. Glancing hit. Cut through her sleeve and drew a small line of blood.

Not deep. But enough to trigger the memory.

Whip strikes. Bare skin. Music too loud to scream over.

She growled and came forward. Swung high, then low, then spun the chain into a whipcrack strike that rattled against his staff.

Sparks flew.

He backpedaled. Not afraid. Calculating.

But every time she moved forward, he gave ground.

That was his weakness.

He played for control, not dominance.

They circled now, two animals testing the edge of a cliff.

His staff snapped low, then high, then again. Not with the force to finish.

He was looking for a pattern in her defense.

She gave it to him.

Dropped her guard a hair too low.

He took the bait.

She swung wide on purpose. Let the chain drag.

He rushed in, behind her now. A sweep at the back of her knee. She collapsed into the sand.

He moved fast. Pinned her down with the bo across her collar.

The staff trembled slightly. Not from strength. From restraint.

“Yield,” he said. His voice was calm. Not mocking. Not angry.

It made her want to rip his throat out.

“You don’t have to die,” he added.

She looked up at him.

The green armor. The clean scent. The careful hands.

He didn’t belong here.

But he walked in anyway. Smiling. Calm. Brave.

And she would show him what calm cost.

Her fingers twitched.

The chain was half-buried beneath the sand. Just close enough.

He looked down, not seeing it. Or maybe seeing it, and thinking she wouldn’t dare.

She dared.

The chain snapped up like a snake. Caught his ankle. Yanked.

He toppled sideways. Sand erupted.

She rolled with the movement, kicked upward, scrambled to her feet with a grunt, and pulled the chain tight.

His staff was loose now. Tossed aside.

He was still reaching for it.

No. No reaching.

She swung once. Missed.

Again. Struck the sand beside his ribs.

He got one knee under him. One breath. One heartbeat.

Then she wrapped the chain around her arm and struck downward.

Crack.

The helm split along the side. Not enough. Not yet.

He fell again, twitching. Chest rising, barely.

The bird screamed from above.

She stood over him now.

His eyes fluttered open. One side of his mouth bled.

“You’re better than this,” he said.

Her lip twitched. Maybe. Once.

He offered mercy. She remembered what mercy had cost her.

She wasn’t better.

Crack.

The skull gave way. Blood spilled onto the black sand.

Sucked into the earth like wine into cloth.

He didn’t cry out. Didn’t flinch. Just stopped.

The arena roared.

She didn’t hear them. She didn’t hear anything.

She turned. Dragging the chain behind her again. Letting it draw a line through the wet sand.

Her shoulder ached. Her lip stung. Her knees throbbed.

None of it mattered.

She walked toward the gate.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t see the bird land. Didn’t hear its voice.

“You could’ve let him finish the shoppe,” it said.

She didn’t even know what a shoppe was. And she didn’t care.

Entered by: 0xB9D1…4eA5