Old Blood, New Game

Against All Odds

The arena was overflowing with spectators. Those who hadn't arrived early enough gathered outside, cheering with the audience within.

Elina stood patiently in the shadows of the holding room that would soon open up into the arena. She was alone. Feyd had come and gone early that morning after the servants had dressed her in her combat gear. He was required to watch her with his brother and uncle in the golden viewing box high up in the stands. He hadn't wished her good luck or made her promise to be careful. Instead, he did something rather shocking.

He'd gifted her one of his favorite knives. A piece of him. A way to be in the fight with her. Elina had nearly wept. It was his very first pair of blades, a twin set. Elina was honored to uphold its legacy.

She stood in total darkness, caressing the hilt of her husband's blade. Behind her, a door quietly hissed as it slid open. Heavy footsteps came towards her at a swift pace.

"Forgive me, Na-Baroness," said an unfamiliar male voice, "there's been a change to- "

Elina slammed Feyd's knife into the man's throat.

He was sloppy. His footsteps came too quickly, his heartbeat racing too loudly, and the tip of his dagger had knocked against the edge of the door frame as he'd hurried in. If you've been assigned to stab someone, the one thing you cannot do is be late.

It would appear the baron had not underestimated her. He's sent this poor man to harm her, not to kill her, but to slow her down. This was his way of making her death a better show.

She kneeled down beside him in that darkness and reached out her hand to close his unseeing eyes. She ran her fingers across his cheek and jaw, trying to remember a face she hadn't seen. Moving her hand lower, her palm was covered in a warm liquid. His blood.

I did promise him a good show, she mused as she wiped the blood from Feyd's blade with the ruffled hem of the corpse's shirt.

She cut a small hole in the thick armored fabric protecting her abdomen and coated the hole with her attacker's blood. She pressed her hand firmly against the wound again and then smeared the blood over her exposed shoulder. The moment she stepped into the light, everyone would see that she was already at a disadvantage.

She pursed her lips and quickened her breathing to appear labored. The doors to the arena swung open, and the deafening roar of the crowd filled her ears. She stayed put. The cheers continued, but still she remained in the darkness. Finally, she stepped into the light. The roar of the crowd was snuffed out in utter shock as she hobbled into the arena, her hand pressed tightly to her side above the bloody hole.

This wouldn't be a show or a tournament. It would be murder, or perhaps mercy.

Up above the stands, Feyd's heart had been thrown into his throat. His proud smile twisted into a furious scowl. He had been expecting his wife to walk into the arena, carrying herself with the reverence of a queen. Instead, she limped slowly, occasionally flinching at the pain in her side.

"She's been stabbed!" Feyd roared as he swiftly stood from his chair, nearly sending it toppling over.

"Surely it will make her survival all the more entertaining," the Baron chuckled, "or her failure even more enjoyable."

Feyd turned to face his uncle with murder burning in his eyes. For a brief moment, he wished he had both blades to make his uncle's suffering more severe, but one would be enough. One would be slow—painfully slow.

"You have so little faith in her?" the Mentat asked. "When she lives, you will have taken that sweet satisfaction from her. The satisfaction of the Baron's surprise and respect for her remarkable survival. If you kill him now, you would take revenge on her behalf, robbing your wife of the opportunity to relish in her earned victory."