Zephyrion staggered to his feet, blinking away the haze from the blow to his head. Pain throbbed at his temple, a dull pulse that sharpened his focus. He locked eyes with the man approaching him, each step deliberate, as if time itself bent to his will. The man's hulking frame loomed, his shadow swallowing the dim light of The Pit. Zephyrion's heart pounded, urging him to run, but a quick glance at the man's long, powerful strides crushed that hope. *He'd catch me in seconds,* Zephyrion thought, his mind racing. *His reach is double mine. I have to find an opening, and stay sharp.*
He planted his feet, the gritty dirt beneath him biting into his soles. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ground together. The man's fist swung from the left, a blur of knuckles aimed to crush. Zephyrion leaped back, the air whistling where his head had been. *I'm faster,* he told himself, clinging to that sliver of advantage. *Use it. Get close.* His opponent's reach was a deadly barrier, but Zephyrion's speed could be his edge.
Another fist came, faster this time, but still a fraction too slow. Zephyrion darted to the side, his muscles screaming as he slashed his blade across the man's forearm. A thin line of crimson bloomed, and the man's face twisted, rage flaring in his eyes—hot enough, Zephyrion thought, to ignite a drenched forest. The man roared, throwing a wild punch followed by a brutal kick. Zephyrion dodged, his body moving on instinct, and countered with another slash, this time across the man's calf. Blood seeped through torn fabric, and the man's next punch came harder, fueled by pain and fury.
*There!* Zephyrion's mind screamed as he spotted the opening. The man's left hook arced toward him, predictable after Zephyrion's repeated backward dodges. This time, he didn't retreat. He ducked forward, slipping under the swing, his heart hammering against his ribs. In one fluid motion, he drove his sword between the man's ribs, angling upward with every ounce of strength he could summon. The blade sank deep, steel grinding against bone until it hilted. The man's breath hitched, a guttural choke escaping his lips.
Zephyrion rolled backward, leaving his sword in its improvised scabbard. The impact jarred his skull, a fresh wave of dizziness clouding his vision. He stumbled to his feet, shaking off the fog, and drew his dagger, still cool in his grip. His opponent collapsed to one knee, clutching the gushing wound at his side, his face a mask of shock and pain. Zephyrion didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward, fueled by survival's desperate pull, and leaped. With a final, precise thrust, he plunged the dagger upward through the soft flesh beneath the man's chin, the blade piercing deep into his skull.
The man's body went slack, crumpling to the blood-slicked dirt. Zephyrion stood over him, chest heaving, the metallic tang of blood and sweat thick in the air. His hands trembled.
He stared at the lifeless body sprawled before him, blood pooling in the dust like spilled ink. His stomach churned violently, a sickening lurch that sent a hot, acidic surge of bile clawing up his throat. He bit it back, the bitter taste coating his tongue, and staggered forward, legs trembling from exhaustion and the weight of what he'd done. The once-giant man, a towering figure of muscle and menace, had now deflated, his frame shrunken to a frail, ordinary size, skin pale and clammy in death.
Zephyrion nudged the body with his boot, rolling the man onto his back with a dull thud, the sound muffled by the earth. Gripping the hilt of his sword, still lodged between the man's ribs, he yanked it free—a wet, sucking noise accompanying the motion as blood dribbled from the wound, staining the blade in thick, scarlet streaks. His hands shook as he dragged the flat of the sword across the man's torn shirt, the fabric rasping against the steel, wiping away the gore in uneven smears. With a final, unceremonious flick, he shook off the last drops and sheathed the blade, the metal clinking softly against the scabbard over his shoulder.
He turned to walk away, boots crunching on the gritty ground. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, halting him mid-step. A thin, black line peeked just above the man's collar, stark against the pallor of his skin. Frowning, Zephyrion crouched, the joints in his knees popping from the strain. Hooking a finger under the blood-stiffened collar he tugged it down. A simple tattoo of almost spider creature with eight long swirling legs.