My next fight was against a fellow with a tongue forked like a serpent’s. The moment I saw him step into the combat field, tongue darting in and out, I nearly laughed.
He was lanky, his head shaped like an oval ball, bald and shining under the sun as though freshly polished. A curtain of beards and a drooping moustache hung on his face, the kind I had only seen in illustrations of old British monarchs. It was so out of place here that I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips.
The man didn’t prance about like my first opponent. He simply stood, stopping his tongue motions–probably because he could see that it didn’t scare me–staring at me.
His stare was cold, probing, as if trying to crawl inside my head and twist something there. That was when I knew. Our gazes locked, and the certainty washed over me like a tide—I had found the one behind the handkerchief from earlier, the one laced with dark magic meant to knock me out. He was no ordinary fighter. He was a mage. A dark mage.
I slipped my hands into the pockets of my combat pants, leaning slightly on one leg, as if this was all a boring exercise.
Magicks facing themselves? I was sure they had just made the change after my first fight. Let’s see how it goes then, or rather how I would make this cheater eat dust then.
"You’re the clever one who sent that cursed handkerchief, aren’t you?" I called across the field, my voice clear enough for the first rows of spectators to hear.
"You really want to knock me out that bad?"
His moustache twitched. For the briefest second, there was a flicker in his eyes—confirmation enough.
"Scared I’ll finish you the same way I did your male counterpart?" I added, tilting my head.
The murmur in the stands swelled. The man’s lips curled back in a smile that showed teeth stained with something darker than wine.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his fingers twitched, and at once thin black threads of magic shot toward me—so fast that a normal fighter would never have seen them.
But I wasn’t normal.
I shifted, body dipping low, rolling across the sand, narrowly avoiding the lashing cords. One caught me, just barely. A sting flared across my cheek. Warmth spread as blood trickled down, sliding to my jawline before dripping onto the earth.
The crowd roared. They were happy for him, even though they had clearly heard that he had cheated.
The goons. Surely, I would add these to their piling offences.
I touched my cheek with two fingers, lifted them, and saw red. The brides sitting beside their Lycan husbands leaned forward, eyes bright with amusement. I could see Claire’s grin even from here, smug and mocking.
Anger coiled in my belly, sharp but controlled. I straightened, licked the metallic taste of blood off my lip, and smiled. A cold, daring smile.
"Is that all?" I asked, lifting a hand and beckoning to him. "Try again."
The cheers from the stadium grew louder, a mix of excitement and jeers. They loved it. They wanted more blood, more spectacle.
The bell rang, marking the official start.
He lunged first. His speed was surprising for his thin frame. I dodged the initial strike, twisting sideways and shoving my elbow into his ribs.
He grunted but didn’t falter. Instead, he slashed at me with a dagger that had appeared out of nowhere, hidden beneath his tunic. I blocked with my forearm, pain vibrating through the bone, but kept my stance firm.
We pranced the more, the shield around me not giving him much success with his magic tricks.
He was skilled. I would give him that.
His kicks were sharp, his punches calculated. His threads of magic which kept trying to sneak past me, lashing at my legs, my arms, were good too, but I always moved swiftly, faster, weaving between them.
But I got tired of the dance, of the cheers drumming my ears.
So, I landed a sharp magic infested punch across his jaw that sent him staggering, however he recovered quicker than expected, retaliating with a blade that grazed my shoulder.
The murmurs grew feverish.
"Did you see that dodge?"
"She’ll fall soon—he’s stronger."
"I hope so." "I think she might win though... she might be holding back."
Whoever had spoken that wasn’t wrong. I was holding back. I had to. My time had not come yet.
Still... I let a trickle of magic surge through me—not enough to give my immense power away, just enough to sharpen my movements, quicken my reflexes, harden my strikes, lighten them even. The energy sizzled in my veins like fire under my skin.
We clashed again. He drove me backward with a flurry of kicks, but I ducked, swept his legs, and he crashed into the sand. The stadium erupted.
Before he could recover, I pinned him with my knee, gripping his wrist until the dagger clattered to the ground.
"Let me go, you witch."
Gladly. I muttered, singing his face with flames. Just a little. Enough to leave scars around his lips and forehead. His shout was music to my soul.
That’s for trying to sabotage me, loser.
That was retribution well served.
Shaking off sandy particles, I got to my feet, smirked at the crowd and raised my two hands. Cheers and Boos greeted me in equal amounts, but I wasn’t bothered. I had climbed another rung in the ladder.
I smiled, watching the announcer, or was it the referee, approach me. He looked bothered, like my victory was a sour one, and I almost slashed magic across his too-wide lips.
"Sage! Watch out!"
Isla shouted, quenching those mean thoughts of mine instantly, alerting me to my environment. What now?
But it was too late. A second too late.
For as I turned, the dark fellow, who had been lying defeated on the floor, his face disfigured with scars I gave him moments ago, was crouching on his knees, his hands in the air, toward me, even as I became aware of the strands of darkness wounding themselves around me.