Page 57 of Nansar
There was nothing playful about the tension crackling through the arena like lightning before a storm, nothing entertaining about the way the larger males were already eyeing Nansar's team like wolves circling wounded prey. This wasn't sport. This wasn't even war.
This was survival dressed up in ceremony and spectacle.
And Nansar—the man whose touch still lingered on my skin, whose heartbeat I could still feel echoing in my chest—was right in the middle of it.
A horn blared, deep and resonant, and the crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers. Two teams were brought forward—Nansar's group and another team of imposing warriors. They faced each other across the sandy arena floor, weapons raised, bodies coiled and ready.
My breath caught in my throat, trapped there by fear and something else I didn't want to name.
The horn sounded again, sharper this time, and the world exploded into violence.
The teams collided with brutal force. Metal screamed against metal, the clash of blades echoing through the trees and reverberating in my chest. Nansar moved like poetry written in steel and shadow, his sword a silver blur as he parried a vicious strike aimed at his ribs. He spun, using his momentum to drive his shield into another warrior's chest, sending the male staggering backward with a grunt of pain.
My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a desperate plea.Stay safe. Stay whole. Come back to me.
But he didn't fall. That was the rule, I realized after a few agonizing minutes with a wave of relief that left me dizzy. A warrior only had to be knocked off their feet to be eliminated.
Blood appeared almost immediately. A warrior on Nansar's team took a blade across his shoulder, crimsonblooming against his skin like some terrible flower. He didn't even flinch, just roared and drove forward with renewed fury. Another male went down hard, his legs swept out from under him, and was immediately dragged from the arena floor.
"Stay on your feet," I whispered, my fingers white-knuckled on the railing, my eyes locked on Nansar. "Please, just stay on your feet."
He took a hit to his side, the blade slicing through skin, and I felt it like a cut to my own body. I saw Nansar grimace, saw the blood darken his pale skin, and something primal clawed its way up my throat—a scream, a sob, I couldn't tell which. But he didn't slow. He couldn't afford to. A massive warrior twice his size was bearing down on him, sword raised for a devastating overhead strike that would surely end him.
Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat an eternity.
Nansar dropped low at the last possible second, rolling beneath the blow and coming up behind his opponent in one seamless motion. His blade flashed in the sunlight, catching the warrior across the back of his thighs. The male's legs buckled, and he crashed face-first into the sand with a thunderous impact.
The crowd roared in approval, their voices a wave of sound that washed over me.
My stomach churned even as relief flooded through my veins. This was entertainment to them. Blood and pain and the very real possibility of losing someone—of losinghim—all for their amusement.
A horn blasted across the arena, its sharp cry cutting through the chaos. The warriors immediately disengaged, stepping back from one another, chests heaving and sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the merciless sun. Younger males rushed onto the field, guiding both teams—what remained of them—toward opposite sides of the arena.
My eyes never left Nansar. He limped slightly, favoring his injured side, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest. Water was thrust into his hands, and he drank deeply, his throat working in a way that made me ache to be beside him, to touch him, to assure myself he was still whole. Another young male pressed a cloth to the wound on his ribs, but there was no time for proper treatment, no time for the care he deserved. This was just a brief respite before the violence began anew.
Already, two fresh teams were entering the arena from gates I hadn't noticed before. The warriors looked eager, hungry for their chance at glory, their eyes bright with the promise of bloodshed. The crowd's energy shifted, refocusing on the new combatants as they took their positions, and I felt a surge of irrational anger at their fickleness.
The horn sounded again, and the violence resumed with renewed ferocity.
I couldn't look away. God help me, I tried, but my gaze was drawn back to the arena again and again, searching for him among the chaos. Round after round, the pattern repeated in an endless cycle of brutality. Teams fought until the horn called them off, participants given mere minutes to catch their breath and gulp down water before either returning to the fray or being replaced by fresh warriors eager to prove themselves.
The sand grew darker, stained with blood and sweat. The crowd never tired of cheering, their bloodlust insatiable, their voices rising and falling like a tide of madness.
Nansar's team was called back twice more. Each time, there were fewer of them, their numbers whittled down by blade and fist. Each time, he bore new cuts, new bruises that would purple and bloom across his pale skin. But he stayed on his feet. Always.
The sun climbed higher, heat beating down mercilessly on the arena until the air itself seemed to shimmer with it. Mythroat was dry, hands aching from how tightly I'd been clenching them, nails digging crescents into my palms.
Finally, after what felt like hours—or perhaps lifetimes—another horn sounded. This one was different, longer, more ceremonial, the final note hanging in the air like a promise or a threat. The remaining warriors on the field stopped, and the crowd's roar intensified to a deafening pitch that made my bones vibrate.
Only six males remained standing.
Nansar was one of them.
His chest heaved with exhaustion, blood streaking his torso from multiple wounds—each one testament to his refusal to fall, to surrender. But his eyes were sharp, alert, burning with determination as he surveyed the five other warriors who had survived. They began to spread out, circling one another like wolves scenting blood on the wind.
This was the final round.
And there would be only one victor.
