Tempest Rising

Chapter 3

The air was thick with the smell of excitement fused with dust, a scent I've come to know too well—the musk of the Titus Grand Arena. My pulse hammered in my ears, a drumline accelerating as I stepped into the circle of combat. A loose-fitting grey singlet and sweatpants rippled across my skin as the crowd's roar rose like a tumultuous wave, crashing over me in a rush of sound that filled the underground space. Faces blur into a sea of anticipation and scepticism, all eyes riveted on me. Their disdain was palpable, a shared certainty that I was outmatched and outclassed. My eyes glazed over the hundreds situated within the arena, looking out for a flash of blonde curls, but I couldn't find it.

My head fell light with uncertainty, and my breaths grew heavier with each looming second. The fight had not even begun, yet dread overwhelmed any aspect of confidence I might have had.

The spotlight overhead bathed us in an unforgiving glow, magnifying the tension that hangs in the air. 

I blocked out the jeers and laughter of the audience, as well as the arrogant sneers coming from the militia veteran who called the referee three separate times, asking if my presence was some sort of prank. Instead, I focused on the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat.

The referee, whose name I came to learn was Remus, approached, a cascade of dark hair tied at the nape and wearing a uniform that stated REF. AUTHORISED PERSONNEL.

"Alright, you both know the rules. No weapons, no killing, no eye gouging, no groin attacks, no hair pulling, no fish hooking, no biting," he began after confirming our identification cards, swapping gazes between us both. His eyes lingered on mine for a second longer before facing me.

"You can forfeit early if you want, lady. I don't know if you're doing this to spite your boyfriend or something, but this is not the place for it."

"I don't want to forfeit. Just start the match." I held his gaze, my patience running thin and posture unwavering. But my heart beat faster, convinced it was going to beat right out of my chest.

Remus nodded, his face displaying confusion and pity, before signalling to the steward's counter with an open-palmed gesture.

My feet shifted on the rubber floor, and my hands, wrapped in silk bandages, curled into fists, creasing softly—prayers to the gods emanating as silent whispers on my breath. Zane also assumed his stance on his end of the ring after deliberating for a few seconds with someone behind the ropes, likely his sponsor.

As the bell tolled its sonorous chime, the world contracted to this: the arena, my opponent, and the fight.

The bout unfolded in a storm of motion; I dodged and weaved his sudden incoming strike and reactively sent a clean kick to the side of his head before opening my palm and using the side of it to strike his neck, something I'd seen Apollo do countless times. It sent my opponent staggering.

The audience shifted to a stunned silence as I took my stance back in position, waiting for him to recover.

But he never did. My heart soared in complete shock and disarray as Zane Kross crumpled to the mat, my first fight concluding in the blink of an eye.

Remus comes forward and takes a knee to check on Zane before getting up slowly, awe echoing on his face.

I took a deep breath as the dust settled, and he strode towards me, raising my arm a little too roughly, signalling my victory to the commentator.

The onlookers made no move to cheer, not as they did when any other man had won such a short-lived fight. But I heard a faint, high-pitched scream from one corner of the stand, breaking the silence of the arena as cheers began to pour in. My eyes fell upon Mika, who celebrated my victory. I gave her a cheerful smile before heading back into the fighters' quadrant, victory a newfound sweet sensation on my lips.