[Something about fighting]

Hope crumbles, flaking down to its last piece as the sun bleeds behind the rooftops. You've wasted the day chasing signs, omens, whispers and what-ifs... But none led anywhere. You can't see yourself doing anything other than swinging a sword.

The morning's calm is long gone. Evening arrived with ravenous screams, devout believers who once knelt in prayer now turned to beasts, howling for blood inside the colosseum. And it quickens your heartbeat, all of it. First silence... Then a thunderous roar. It's calling for you, to lay your life down for their thrill like a whore discarded by fate.

Above the colosseum, dust rises and glistens like magic in the bleeding sun, blinding the Lord's eyes to the horrors below. His beloved children weigh flesh in coin and throw themselves to beast and man alike. And the thought of being next in line draws you to the slaughter. Fills your chest with hope. With purpose. Anticipation.

You wonder... Are you afraid of ****? Back when your parents still lived, the battlefield was thrilling, a place where blood and victory still meant something.

You draw a deep breath to clear your head. This is it... A tug at your belt sets your sword in place and you step toward the tall gates of the colosseum...

...

You pay what little remains in your purse for a seat in the lowest spectator row. To your left and right, people foam and bellow, fists waving for the two fighters kicking in the blood-soaked sand. One is a tribeswoman wielding a flail and strapped with a shoulder pad to her off-arm to deflect strikes to the neck, while her opponent is a muscular man, equipped to cripple rather than to kill. His weapon looks like a plain iron rod with a rounded end, heavy enough to shatter bone with gentle taps.

They're in a lock, staring at each other, reading breath, muscle, the smallest twitch that will betray the next move. The arena boils like a furnace. Sweat pours down backs and brows. Not just the fighters', but the entire crowd.

The woman shifts her stance and grins. A slow, sly expression, full of fire. She runs the back of her hand along her jaw, trails it down her throat, and tilts her head just enough for the crowd to gasp. The man's gaze stands firm and doesn't chase with his eyes. But the crowd follows every moment of it. A few whistles. A few hoots. Still, the man doesn't bite.

Instead, he moves. An overhead strike. He raises the iron rod high and steps into the flail's reach. The woman flinches, caught between commitment and defense. She pulls her arm back to counter, but too late. It was a feint. He was never attacking. The rod never comes down. As the flail swings and misses, the woman's balance falters. The man steps in again, closing the distance with the real blow coming. His muscles swell, iron raised high. A brutal strike without a shred of mercy.

There's no escaping this one.

"I yield!" the woman shouts, stumbling backwards while shielding her head with the wooden handle.

The man freezes, his weapon suspended in the air and ready for attack. He turns to the crowd, clashes of cheers and boos making him unsure how to proceed as neither come on top. Then, he pauses on the seat of honor. There, guarded by two fully-armored men, a noble sits in silence.