Page 59 of Nansar
They traded blows with savage violence, neither giving quarter, neither willing to yield. Nansar took hits that would have dropped most males—hits that made me flinch and gasp—but he kept moving, kept fighting, his technique flawless even through exhaustion and pain that must have been excruciating. He was a master at work, violence transformed into art, and even through my terror, I couldn't help but be awed by him, by his strength and skill and sheer stubborn refusal to fall.
Kragath was slowing. His strikes, while still powerful enough to kill, were becoming predictable. Sloppy. Desperation crept into his movements.
Nansar saw it too—I watched recognition flash in his eyes.
He feinted left, and when Kragath committed to the block, Nansar pivoted right in a blur of motion, his leg sweeping up in a devastating kick that connected with Kragath's jaw. The crack echoed across the arena, sharp and final.
Kragath's eyes rolled back, consciousness fleeing.
Nansar followed through with a spinning strike that caught the larger male in the gut with pinpoint accuracy, and finally—finally—Kragath went down.
He hit the sand hard, flat on his back, and didn't get up. Didn't even twitch.
The arena fell silent.
Completely, utterly, impossibly silent.
Nansar stood over Kragath's fallen form, chest heaving, blood dripping from a dozen wounds that painted his skin in shades of crimson and sacrifice. He swayed slightly, exhaustion threatening to claim him, but remained on his feet through sheer force of will, his eyes scanning the arena as if daring anyone—anyone—to challenge the outcome.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, the village holding its breath.
Then I was screaming.
I didn't care about decorum, didn't care about the stares or what anyone thought. I yelled his name until my voice cracked, whooped and hollered like I'd lost my mind. My voice was raw and wild with relief and pride and something else, something that burned in my chest like wildfire.
For a heartbeat, the crowd remained frozen, stunned.
Then they erupted like a volcano.
The roar that followed was deafening, a tsunami of sound that shook the very air. Warriors pounded their fists against their chests in thunderous approval. The crowd stamped their feet, the rhythm primeval. They chanted Nansar's name, over and over, until it became a prayer, a battle cry, a celebration of strength and victory and the warrior who had claimed both.
And through it all, across the bloodied sand and the fallen warriors, across the distance between us, Nansar's eyes found mine.
He smiled—and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Chapter 16
Chloe
The walk back to the cottage felt different. I noticed it immediately—the way the Welati stepped aside as we passed, the subtle nods of acknowledgment, the eyes that followed Nansar with something that looked almost like respect.
I kept my hand on his arm, steadying him as he limped along the dirt path. His breathing was labored, and I felt the fever radiating from his body like a furnace, seeping through the thin barrier of his skin into my palm.
Every step cost him. The cuts across his chest had stopped bleeding, but they looked angry and raw, the edges still weeping. A particularly nasty bruise was already darkening along his jaw, spreading like spilled ink across his pale skin. His left eye was swelling shut, and there was a deep gash above his eyebrow that probably needed stitches—if the Welati even had such things.
Blood trickled from the split in his lip, and I watched him wince with each shallow breath. Broken rib, maybe? Or just badly bruised? I had no way of knowing, no medical training beyond basic first aid. The helplessness gnawed at me, a living thing clawing at my insides.
"We need to clean those cuts," I said quietly, my fingers tightening protectively on his arm. "Before they get infected."
He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head that made him grimace, his jaw clenching against the pain.
"They're looking at you differently," I murmured, glancing at a group of Welati females who watched us from beside a crackling cooking fire. One of them actually dipped her head in what could only be described as deference.
Nansar grunted, his jaw tight. "Victory earns respect among the Welati. Even for outsiders."
"Does that mean..." I hesitated, helping him navigate around a cluster of children who scattered like startled birds at our approach. "Does your winning reduce our chances of being killed?" Well, Nansar killed and me handed off to God knows who. A fate, in my opinion, worse than death.
He was quiet for a long moment, and when I looked up at his battered face, I saw the uncertainty there—a crack in the armor he usually wore so well. "I don't know," he admitted finally, his voice rough. "Their customs are... complex."
