Sera's Pov
I didn't have time to dwell on what had just happened.
Didn't have time to think about the blood drying in my hair.
Didn't have time to feel the weight of the silence that had settled over the training grounds, or the way eyes still flicked toward the spot where Kael's opponent had been dragged away, tortured and broken.
Because now—it was my turn.
I stepped into the fighting circle, rolling my shoulders as I adjusted my grip on the blade in my hands. A medium-length, double-edged sword—balanced, sharp, familiar.
I had chosen it because it felt right.
Because, in a fight where every move could mean victory or defeat, hesitation wasn't an option.
Across from me, Enzo stepped in.
He looked different than usual.
Normally, there was a certain arrogance to him—a casual, effortless confidence that made it clear he expected to win.
But now?
His jaw was tight. His grip on his weapon—a short spear—was a little too firm.
Like he was still thinking about what Kael had done.
For a brief moment, I wondered if that would work in my favor.
But then his blue eyes locked onto mine, and the hesitation disappeared.
The fight had begun.
I exhaled slowly, steadying my stance.
Enzo made the first move.
He lunged, spear thrusting forward in a sharp, precise strike aimed at my side.
I sidestepped.
The blade of his spear whistled past me.
He spun with it, recovering quickly, swinging the shaft of his weapon in a broad arc meant to catch me off guard.
I ducked.
Blocked.
Stepped back.
His next strike came faster, sharper, a downward slash that would have split my shoulder open if I hadn't twisted out of the way at the last second.
He was strong.
Stronger than me, physically. If he got a solid hit in, it wouldn't just be painful—it would end the fight.
So I didn't let him.
Instead, I moved.
Light, quick, fluid.
I dodged. Parried. Blocked.
Let him tire himself out, let the weight of his weapon slow him down.
His attacks became less aggressive, his footwork less sharp.
I could see it—the moment he realized what I was doing.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
And then, abruptly, he stopped attacking.
Clever.
If he didn't keep striking, I wouldn't be able to keep dodging.
If I wanted to win, I'd have to fight.
Fine.
I shifted my grip, stepping forward and swinging my blade in a sharp, testing strike toward his shoulder.
He blocked easily, spear shifting to intercept the blow, but I was already moving again—stepping to the side, slashing toward his ribs, forcing him to react.
Fast.
That was my advantage.
Speed. Precision.
I danced around him, darting in with quick, sharp strikes before retreating just as fast.
A cut across his bicep.
A nick on his thigh.
Small wounds—nothing serious, but enough to frustrate him.
To make him impatient.
And impatience led to mistakes.
I saw the flicker of it—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his grip on his weapon shifted.
Good.
If I could keep this up, if I could push him just a little further—
Pain exploded in my throat.
I barely processed what had happened before I felt my feet leave the ground.
His hand.
His hand was around my neck.
Lifting me.
Choking me.
The pressure was unbearable, cutting off my air, my vision blurring at the edges.
I clawed at his arm, but his grip was iron.
His golden eyes stared up at me, cold, unreadable, as if he wasn't even trying—as if this fight had been nothing more than a game to him, and he had finally grown tired of playing.
My chest burned.
I needed to breathe.
I needed—
My fingers tightened around the hilt of my blade.
And I swung.
The edge of my sword bit into his forearm, slicing deep.
His grip loosened.
I gasped, dropping to the ground in a painful heap, coughing as air rushed back into my lungs.
No time.
I had to move.
I pushed forward, blade flashing as I went on the offense—
And then—
Pain.
A sharp, searing agony unlike anything I'd ever felt.
I screamed.
My body jerked violently, my knees buckling as a white-hot burning sensation tore through my abdomen.
The world tilted.
For a second, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
I barely registered the collective gasps from the crowd, the tension that settled over the training grounds like a thick, suffocating fog.
My hands trembled as I looked down.
At the gaping wound across my stomach.
At the way my skin sizzled.
The way the wound didn't start closing.
Didn't heal.
Silver.
I didn't need anyone to tell me.
I could feel it.
The sharp, unnatural burn that clung to the edges of the cut, preventing my body from doing what it was meant to do.
I staggered back, my free hand pressing against the wound as if I could somehow stop the pain, stop the way my body was slowly betraying me.
I lifted my gaze to Enzo.
He was watching me carefully.
And in his hands, his spear gleamed.
Because it wasn't normal steel.
Because it had been dipped in silver.
He planned this.