She knew today would be interesting. Especially with the corpse by her bed.

The would-be assassin lay sprawled, throat cut clean through, blood pooling into a lazy, golden shimmer beneath the morning light. Rank 5 Techiea. Sweet.

B'Raixa exhaled through her nose and stretched, wings of golden light flickering briefly across her back before fading away. She rose carefully, gliding off the mattress so she wouldn't step in the puddle. Someone would come clean it soon enough. That's what servants were for.

She padded toward her wardrobe, the silk of her nightwear dragging behind her across the marble floor. Her chambers were as grand as they were ostentatious—walls paneled with goldleaf and murals. The ceiling arched into a dome of obsidian glass, showing a fractured reflection of the city outside—Daqui's capital glowing with eternal daylight. Her bed sat in the room's center, wide enough to fit ten people, its frame carved from the bones of some sky-beast.

A low hum filled the air—Daqui warding engines cycling energy through the palace. The scent of spice, oil, and faint ozone lingered, clashing with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

She dressed leisurely: a flowing gown of white and gold armor plates that layered seamlessly over soft fabric, every edge traced in glowing veins of light. Jewelry hung from her wrists, moving like living circuitry. She no longer had to deal with things like brushing her teeth or using the bathroom—her Daqui forged body handled all the mortal inconveniences.

This world was… different from Earth. But she liked it better.

Leaving that cave and being chased across the grasslands by a giant bird monster had, somehow, led her here—to the Daqui Empire. Adjusting to their ways had been strange. Learning their language had been worse. But after eleven years with Madam Zola and the Twins—those cryptic, ever-smiling bastards she loved —she'd earned more than just survival. She'd earned recognition.

Now, she was one of Vari's Duchesses.

A title that glittered like a crown and weighed like a curse.

Her footsteps echoed softly as she walked through the palace halls, each corridor a cathedral of gold and glass. Murals of Daqui victories lined the walls, depicting wars fought. Servants bowed as she passed—nervous, careful not to meet her gaze.

Then, somewhere behind her, a scream rang out.

B'Raixa stopped mid-step.

She turned slightly, listening. The sound came from the direction of her room.

A smile crept onto her lips. "Guess they found her."

She kept walking.

With Rank 5 dead, that made three in a week. Rank 3 had choked on poisoned wine. Rank 2 had died convulsing in her sleep.

"Tragic accidents," she murmured, amused.

She "really" should be careful—at least, that's what the other nobles whispered. The idea that she might be behind the string of deaths was, of course, outrageous. Downright unfair.

She smirked.

The gold-veined halls caught the gleam of her eyes as she moved with playful grace, her smile widening just enough to hint at something sharper.

"Oh well."

She went about her usual morning business—inspection reports, energy sigils, a few token smiles at servants and nobles too nervous to meet her gaze. Everything felt normal enough. Except for the silence.

Siumone and Enomuis, the Twins, didn't greet her at breakfast.

That was odd. They lived for routine—synchronized down to their breathing, always first to pour tea, always second to gossip. The absence felt heavy, wrong in the quiet way missing music does. B'Raixa took note of it but didn't show concern.

By the time she was on her way to the training hall, her instincts were already whispering what came next.

"Duchess B'Raixa," came the voice she expected.

She turned to see one of the Watchmen standing in the corridor—one of Vari's personal Watchmen, the silent, gold-masked enforcers assigned to each Duchess. Their armor was sculpted like muscle, their eyes a faint, pulsing red.

"Lady Vari requests your presence."

Of course she does.

The walk to the sanctum felt longer than usual, though that might've been the nerves she refused to admit she had. The Watchman said nothing; they never did. Their steps echoed evenly beside her own.

They stopped before a door that didn't so much stand as exist in motion.

It bent and twisted through shades of gold, scarlet, and white—alive, breathing, and shuddering. As she approached, the door unfolded like origami coming undone. The Watchman bowed low, then stayed behind as she stepped through.

"This should be good," B'Raixa muttered, her smirk creeping back.

Inside wasn't a room. It was a pocket dimension.

She stood—or rather, floated—within what looked like a colossal marble of violet stone suspended in the void. Inside it, a garden spiraled across every possible ecosystem. One side bloomed with jungles of blue fire; another rippled with frozen meadows where ice petals sang when the wind passed. Birds that weren't really birds and butterfly-creatures made of light danced overhead, their songs threading into what sounded like an ancient poem recited by the world itself.

At the garden's heart sat a throne made of dragon teeth dipped in gold and wrapped in veins of glowing purple chains. The light from it seemed to breathe with the being seated there.

Vari.

B'Raixa smiled, masking the flicker of adrenaline under her ribs.

At least they didn't look mad.

She smoothed her gown and walked forward through the garden, every step a calculated mix of grace and irreverence.

"Morning, my Lady," she said lightly.

Vari's gaze slid toward her, the motion slow and unhurried—as if even the act of noticing someone required consideration.

Her eyes were a storm of molten gold and deep violet, swirling like galaxies trapped in glass. Her hair spilled in rivers of gold over the throne's edge, the strands shimmering faintly with the light of her own aura. She wore a gown of crimson and gold that clung to her like a second skin, and the veins that pulsed faintly beneath her grey skin glowed the same hue as her eyes—shot through with tiny constellations of violet specks that drifted beneath the surface.

When Vari finally spoke, her lips never moved. The world spoke for her. The air rippled, the marble beneath B'Raixa's feet hummed in resonance, and her words arrived fully formed in the ear and the mind both—music and command all at once.

"You have been busy."

B'Raixa bowed just enough to be polite. "I have acted within the bounds of your guidelines, my Lady. I would never presume otherwise."

"And yet," Vari's voice drifted through the air like perfume, "three of my strongest candidates are dead."

"They were unfit," B'Raixa replied smoothly, tone calm, eyes lowered but unyielding. "If a Duchess is to represent the Daqui, she must not be weighed down by weak ranks. I was pruning, not breaking rule."

"A pruning," Vari mused. "How very… agricultural."

B'Raixa's lips curved faintly. "The garden flourishes under careful tending."

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the soft, melodic sound of Vari's amusement vibrated through the air.

"You always did have a way with words, little Duchess."

"Only when cornered," B'Raixa said evenly.

"And yet your corner," Vari replied, her tone sharpening, "was of your own design. Cutting flowers that weren't wilting."

B'Raixa froze for the briefest moment. The single phrase she'd used—the garden flourishes—echoed back to her, reframed by Vari's words, twisted just enough to expose the loophole she had tried to hide behind. Vari's gaze made the point plain.

"I like you, B'Raixa. You are clever. Dangerous, even. It is why I permit your breath to continue." The air shimmered with every syllable. "But generosity has its limits. You have had more than enough leeway—more than most."

B'Raixa's smile faltered. "…My Lady?"

"You will enter the arena."

Her head snapped up. "The arena? That's for the lower classes—warriors proving their worth, not for your Duchesses!"

Vari's eyes glowed brighter, the gold overtaking the violet for an instant.

"And yet you have failed to prove yours. You have lost three of my strongest candidates in less than a cycle. Rank Five dead by your bed, Rank Three and Rank Two by poison. I see much ambition, B'Raixa. Perhaps too much."

The pressure in the air increased. Every word Vari spoke made the space itself bend.

"Rank Four has risen to Rank Two in their absence," she continued. "I would see whether that elevation is deserved—or whether you simply hollow your court from the inside out."

B'Raixa's voice dropped, steady but tight. "You would have me fight? Against who?"

"You will fight whoever the arena gives you," Vari said simply. "If you triumph, your ambitions are justified. If not…"

The air chilled. The birds and spectral butterflies went silent.

"Then the beasts and prisoners will finish what punishment need not begin."

Vari leaned back slightly, the faintest curve of a smile touching her lips.

"And consider, Duchess—those I send to the arena rarely return unchanged. Survival, after all, is the purest form of proof."

B'Raixa bowed low enough to hide the flash of fury in her eyes.

"As you command, my Lady."

"Good," Vari whispered through the world. "Let us see if you bloom, or if you break."

And just like that, the garden hummed again—the world resuming its poem as if nothing at all had happened.

And that was how she found herself charging at the man who not only spoke English but had the audacity to call her a bitch.

She was already in a foul mood—her morning had been a parade of irritation and now, she had been fighting all day. He was the last match and she would make a show out of this mutt.

Her spear gleamed as she moved, gold tip cutting through the air. The arena roared around her, the world narrowing to the pulse of her heartbeat and the target standing before her. In one quick motion she disarmed his sword, before following up with a powerful thrust.

Jafar smiled. She really thought she'd end it in one strike.

He twisted aside—and… oh wow. Half the arena behind him detonated in a golden blast, sand and obsidian fragments raining like shrapnel. The shockwave rippled through the stands, shaking the crowd into ecstatic hysteria.

She was already in front of him again, spear flashing forward. Jafar grinned wider, teeth gleaming as he brought his arm up.

A wall of red-black lightning surged into existence before him, crackling and shrieking as her spear struck it. Sparks cascaded off the barrier like burning petals, each one biting into the air before vanishing.

He didn't hesitate. With his free hand, he dragged his nails across his opposite wrist. Blood hissed out—not dripping, but searing, vaporizing as it hit the air. Then it thickened, hardened, and twisted.

From the wound unfurled whips.

Long, jagged cords of congealed blood, each one laced with lightning. They writhed like living things, the air sizzling around them. Faces—screaming, half-formed—flashed within the red veins as if the blood itself remembered agony. When Jafar snapped them forward, they cracked with a thunderclap that made the very arena quake.

B'Raixa barely dodged—teleporting in bursts of gold light, then reappearing an instant later, her movements so sharp they bent the eye's perception. Every dodge left golden afterimages smearing the battlefield, each one sliced apart by a whip a breath too late.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The whips gouged trenches in the arena floor and ceiling, tearing up black-gold stone like paper. The air reeked of ozone and iron.

Above, the crowd was losing its mind—Daquian voices chanting, screaming, howling.

And Jafar was loving every second of it.

"Not bad!" she shouted over the chaos, her voice ringing clear through the noise. Her armor flared brighter, the aura along her spear pulsing. "Now I don't feel bad about getting serious!"

A sound tore through the air—varoom!—as she launched forward. She became an arrowhead of pure light, a blazing streak that shredded his blood-whips as she drove straight for him. The impact of her passage split the air, a thunderclap echoing through the stands.

Jafar twisted, narrowly dodging the main strike, his grin feral. But she wasn't done. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled the spear. It spun end over end, a comet of gold and black, while her free hand flared with radiant energy. Dozens of orbs formed around her, humming with violent luminescence, then shot outward like homing meteors.

He reacted instantly.

The blood-whips coiled back, weaving into a dome around him—living cords hissing and striking even as they sealed together. A few remained loose, thrashing outward to intercept the oncoming attack.

Jafar inhaled, eyes burning. The sigils within them rotated in unison as he pulled his energy inward.

Then—he detonated.

A flash of red-black lightning erupted from within the dome, shattering the air itself. The spear collided mid-explosion, amplifying the blast into a storm that tore across the arena, swallowing everything in dust and light.

"Darvroom!" she cried, her voice cutting through the roar.

Three golden gates flared into existence before her, massive and ornate, radiant shields of divine architecture. They stood between her and the explosion.

The first gate shattered instantly, fragments dispersing like molten glass. The second held for half a heartbeat before rupturing down the middle. The third trembled, groaning under the force, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface before it finally split open—just enough for the shockwave to slam into her.

She staggered, sliding backward, boots carving trenches in the scorched goldstone.

The arena was a ruin of dust, sparks, and molten streaks of energy. The crowd howled, stamping their feet in wild rhythm.

And through the haze, Jafar stepped forward—steam rising from his shoulders, eyes burning brighter, grin unfazed.

"Serious, huh?" he said, voice rough but amused. "Then don't hold back."

Her cracked gate flared once more before collapsing into light.

"Oh, I won't."

———

Vari watched them collide again and again—light against lightning, gold clashing with blood-red fury. Each impact sent ripples through the air, tearing at the boundaries of the arena itself. The audience's cheers were distant noise compared to the precision in her focus.

Impressive, she thought, the faintest smile curving her lips.

It confirmed her gamble—the decision to let an outsider like B'Raixa live among the Daqui.

For three centuries, Vari had ruled as the founder and sovereign of this empire. She had built the Daqui from blood, vision, and will, and in all that time none of her subjects had come close to earning her seat. Many had tried; countless had died in the attempt. The succession trials were meant to find her equal. Instead, they had only proven her irreplaceable.

Until B'Raixa.

The girl had the spark—that rare, volatile blend of brilliance and cruelty, grace and defiance. She reminded Vari of herself, though less refined and far more reckless. That recklessness had to be tempered, of course. Punishment was part of the shaping. But watching her now—her strength, her creativity, the fluid violence of her movements—Vari found herself almost satisfied.

Almost.

Her gaze shifted to the man she fought. The outsider. His presence was something entirely different—alien, raw, and utterly fascinating. She had never seen a being like him: red-black lightning writhing across his body, blood transforming into weapons and wards alike. His power resonated on a frequency even her Daqui senses couldn't fully read.

He resisted her people's divine arts. More than that—he countered them.

That was not normal. That was exceptional.

The corner of her mouth lifted. Perhaps her other decision had been just as wise as the first.

She turned slightly toward the boy seated beside her—a young man in a deep blue robe, scribbling furiously into a notebook. His pen scratched across the page with manic precision, diagrams and notes stacking faster than a mortal hand should allow.

He was the other outsider.

The one who had defeated one of her arena champions in less than a moment. The one who had spoken to her directly, fluently, in her own tongue and another she had never heard before. The one who had looked into her eyes without fear.

He called himself an Outlander.

The word intrigued her. A simple label, but one that implied there were others. Meaning her hunch of B'Raixa not being from this plane was correct. And the lands Vari herself ruled might not be the only ones in existence.

She opened her mouth to question him—

Then an explosion tore her attention back to the arena.

A shockwave of crimson lightning and gold light rolled across the field, scattering debris like burning rain. Vari's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as she watched the dust settle. The fight was escalating, and for the first time in years, she felt something close to excitement.

Her questions could wait.

For now, there was a spectacle to enjoy.

————

Jafar fought like a demon set loose—his every motion raw, unrestrained, but calculated in the way only someone who'd lived through hell could be. Blood and lightning moved as one around him, weaving in a pattern that was half ritual, half instinct. Every swing of his limbs tore trenches through the arena floor; every impact hissed with steam and iron.

B'Raixa met him blow for blow, tearing off his limbs as he annoyingly grew them back, her aura flaring gold and white, the ground beneath her feet transmuting with each step but also being coated in his blood. She conjured spears from light itself, sending volleys that detonated on contact, then followed up with arcs of fire that turned the air molten. Their clash became a blur—flashes of red and gold, thunder and flame cracking the ceiling above the arena.

Energy blasts collided midair, shaking the stands. The crowd roared as shockwaves rolled outward, the Daquians chanting, driven by sheer awe.

Then Jafar's grin widened. Time to test that one ability out.

He pressed his palm to the ground. Blood spilled outward like ink dropped in water, spreading in spiraling sigils that crawled across the arena floor. Lightning fused with the liquid, sealing the mark into the stone. The moment the blood finished its pattern, the arena changed.

The air thickened. The light dimmed.

The effect was immediate. Golden flames flickered and died as they touched the crimson boundary. The energy of her spears dimmed, warping, her aura struggling to assert dominance.

B'Raixa staggered for half a heartbeat—then smiled.

"Clever," she said under her breath. "But reality warping at this level isn't that impressive."

Her aura exploded outward in response—gold light turning blinding, heat rushing through the arena like the breath of a sun. The ground fractured, runes etched into her armor igniting as she raised her spear high.

"Lys-Varran!"

The name tore from her throat like a command.

Three concentric halos of golden energy spun outward from her, each one erupting into a barrage of spears and flame. The explosion shook the entire coliseum.

But through it all, Jafar's laughter rang out—low, wild, joyous.

Red and black lightning devoured the barrage, his aura thickening into something almost tangible: a curtain of eyes—red, blinking, shifting, watching everything. Veins of molten crimson snaked through his skin, pulsing in rhythm with the storm of energy gathering around him.

He crossed his arms making a X. The blood solidified into what looked like demonic armor, rough and jagged, while lightning curled around his fists like hungry serpents. The sigils within his eyes spun faster and faster, while blood ran from his sockets, symbols began overlapping until they were unreadable.

B'Raixa watched him, chest rising, pulse hammering.

A beast. That's what he was. He fought like a beast, carried the aura of something not bound by divine or mortal law. Yet the thrill in her chest—the sharp, intoxicating rush of facing him—was undeniable.

"Fine," she muttered, voice almost a growl. "Let's see how far this monster can go."

She thrust her spear into the air and chanted, her voice echoing through every plane of the arena.

"Orren Valkyra! Rise and bear witness!"

A rift split open above her, golden chains unraveling from the void, twisted around her. Wings unfurled— luminous and flame—and her aura radiant and terrible.

Her Valkyrie form.

Jafar's grin didn't falter.

"Finally you're serious , though you don't look that different. " he said, lightning crawling up his throat like laughter.

————

"Oh wow," C exclaimed, eyes widening as another shockwave rolled through the arena below. "And you're saying that's a fragment of you? Or… your teachings?"

Vari's golden-violet gaze slid toward him. Her mouth never moved; the words simply arrived.

"Not a fragment. A communication. A channel. I only explained how power is drawn and shaped."

"You mean like a conversation?" C asked, his pen already scratching at his notebook.

"Yes," Vari said. "To speak with power is to know it. To listen is to draw it in. It is a dialogue, not a transaction."

C nodded slowly. "That's… actually similar to how I use my ability."

He refused to call it magic—a very brief but educational conversation with an old man with blue eyes in the ruins had cured him of that. "I can see why they think you're a god, though."

Vari tilted her head.

"And what is a god?"

C looked up from his notes, eyes flicking between the fight below and her. "In a dictionary sense? A supreme being. In a religious sense? A focus of worship. In a practical sense…" he hesitated, "someone who shapes the world as they please."

"Then I must be a god."

"You're not," C said immediately, smiling faintly. "You're just a very powerful mortal being."

Vari's aura pulsed once, like a ripple of heat.

"How would you know? Your strength is far below mine."

"Because I've met real gods," C said. He smiled wider, bold in a way that would have gotten anyone else erased from existence. "And the fact that you've never met one, and or don't know if you are one, kind of proves my point." He tapped his notebook. "I'm actually planning to make a ranking system to help with these mishaps. Terms, categories, tiers, so people know who and what they're dealing with."

Vari's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but amusement.

"And where," she asked, "would you place me in this… system?"

C smirked, thinking for a moment. "Haven't broken it down yet. But you'd definitely be a high ranker."

Vari stared at him, the faintest flicker of laughter crossing her lips. These Outlanders—arrogant, clever, infuriating. Part of her wanted to smite the young fool just to see if he'd still talk on the way down. But his knowledge was… commendable. And his associate—the one called Jafar—whose abilities made even her skin crawl, was showing a side of B'Raixa she had never seen. And the crowd was loving it.

She looked at C, still scribbling, and smiled.

"Let us have a wager."

C glanced up. "A wager?"

"Yes. You are an intelligent one, and I want to see more of it. But let us make it… entertaining. You must decide who will win this fight. If you are right, I will grant you any request within my power. If you are wrong, you will become my servant of knowledge."

C could tell he wasn't being asked. But he didn't care. He loved a good wager. And this was literal gold—learning how the Daqui operated, how their ruler Vari, one of the strongest mortal beings he'd ever met, had built an empire and why she'd chosen a Roman model. So many questions. His life was only worth the knowledge he could obtain.

"Fine," he said, turning to a new page. "Just be ready for long questions and very in-depth answers, Lady Vari."

She smiled—slow, dangerous.

C smirked back, turning his eyes to the fight below. "Obviously," he said, "the winner will be—"

—————

Jafar bit down on his tongue, tasting copper and sweat. He spat the blood out—not as liquid, but as a beam.

A searing blast of red and black lightning erupted from his mouth, twisting into a spear of raw energy that tore through the arena, chasing B'Raixa like a predator. The air split with the sound of thunder trapped in metal.

B'Raixa flew across the fractured arena, twisting and dodging. She flicked her wrist, conjuring three discs of light that spun from her hands like halos. They detonated midair, each one bursting into a miniature sun. The flash burned so bright it turned the shadows white.

But Jafar's sigil-marked, blood-glowing eyes—didn't even blink. He saw through the glare as easily as breathing.

When she reappeared through the light, spear raised for a counterstrike, he was already there.

Their auras collided like storms slamming together—his crimson lightning against her golden fire. The force rippled outward, tearing through stone and breaking down the protective wards. The air warped, color bending under the strain.

Jafar's grin widened. He twisted, letting the blood whips at his back coil into his arms, lightning wrapping them tight. For an instant, his veins burned so bright they looked carved into his skin.

He drove his fist forward.

The impact detonated.

Blood and lightning merged in a single, concussive blast that cracked the air open. The sound wasn't a boom—it was a scream of energy, a shattering note that made the entire arena convulse.

B'Raixa went flying, a golden blur smashing through the air. She twisted midair, spear jamming into the ground to stop her slide. Sparks exploded where it struck, sending up a wave of molten debris.

Both warriors stood amid the ruin, chests heaving, smoke curling off their skin.

The arena was gone. The Daquian wards that had protected the coliseum for centuries were flickering. The audience had fallen into reverent silence, the weight of the fight pressing down on every soul.

Across the field, B'Raixa lifted her gaze, sweat streaking her temple, eyes blazing gold.

Jafar smirked through the haze, blood dripping down his chin, lightning still crawling across his arms.

For a moment, neither spoke—just two monsters catching their breath in the aftermath of destruction.

Then, slowly, they both smiled.

Jafar laughed—a low, feral sound that vibrated through the ruin of the arena.

"Time to end this," he said, spreading his arms wide. His blood now covered every part of the arena. Time to test another ability.

Also seeing her hair spill from the cracks in her helmet made his grin widen further. "It's been fun, blondie!"

He brought his hands together, fingers interlocking like a prayer. His vision pulsed at the edges. He was bleeding out anyway. Fine. One final bet.

The blood pooled across the shattered floor and walls began to hum. It wasn't just vibration—it was sound, harmony. A chorus of whispers layered into a haunting melody. Then the hum turned to song. The puddles rippled, rose, and twisted upward, shaping themselves into jagged teeth that lined the inside of the dome his Dominion had formed.

The air thickened. Light died. The inside of the arena turned black—like the throat of some vast, ancient beast. No one but Vari could see inside.

B'Raixa froze, as the darkness pressure and blood teeth bore down on her. The darkness crushed her as the teeth slid closer. For the first time, she wasn't sure what to do. Her instincts screamed to flee, but she forced her breathing steady, eyes narrowing behind her cracked visor.

"No," she whispered to herself. "I'm greater than this."

Her aura flared gold, then white, heat bleeding into the darkness. She forcefully spread her arms and wings, drawing energy inward, gathering not just her power but something deeper—her soul. It would hurt and empty her, but empty and alive beat full and dead. The light inside her chest burned brighter and brighter until it outshone the void of teeth.

She slammed her spear into the ground and chanted. A blinding surge erupted from her—a fusion of soul and fire, power and rage.

The explosion tore through everything.

The arena wards shattered like glass. The crowd screamed as shockwaves burst outward battering them, toppling stands and ripping the roof apart. A beam of gold and red light split the sky, scattering the clouds and blowing the ceiling open to the heavens above.

Vari's gaze trembled.

C smiled, turning toward Vari with that smug I told you so expression that said everything before he even opened his mouth.

Vari met his look with a quiet, knowing smile. Her golden-violet eyes shimmered with amusement. Interesting, she thought. So very interesting. Her original choice—her decision to let that troublesome Duchess live—had borne fruit in ways even she hadn't foreseen.

"It wasn't hard to gather who would win," he murmured. "I told you it would be—"

Vari's gaze narrowed as the dust began to settle.

Down in the crater, B'Raixa stood—or rather, swayed—her body trembling, armor shattered, aura dimming. Every breath burned. Every movement felt like dragging her soul. Yet she refused to fall.

Her spear hovered inches from Jafar's throat. He lay on his back in the ruin of the arena, surrounded by steam and cracks that glowed faintly with red lightning.

His grin was still there. That same insufferable, ridiculous grin.

B'Raixa exhaled, chest heaving, and shook her head. Idiot. She couldn't help but feel… lucky. Relieved. Maybe even a little thrilled. The man had no formal training—no discipline, no refinement—just raw, unfiltered talent and a streak of lunacy that bordered on madness.

He'd kept up with her—barely—by letting her tear him apart again and again, only to heal faster than she could recover. And somehow, through that chaos, he'd forced her to fight harder than she had in years.

"Wow," he muttered, his voice rough but lazy. He stared at her face now that her helmet was blown off. "You're actually pretty."

She blinked. "What—?"

"Woah, princess, you zoned out for a sec—"

"Shut up." She pressed the spear tighter to his throat, her glare sharp enough to cut through his smirk.

He laughed weakly. "Getting killed by a hot girl… isn't the worst way to—go…"

His words faded, and his eyes fluttered shut. The grin lingered a moment longer before his head fell to the side, still half-smiling.

B'Raixa sighed and stepped back, lowering her weapon. The arena fell into stunned silence for a moment—then erupted.

The crowd screamed, cried, cheered. Thousands of voices blended into a single, overwhelming roar.

B'Raixa straightened, blood dripping down her arm, golden light flickering weakly around her frame. She had proven her worth—before Vari, her people, and whoever this strange man was.

And as she looked down at Jafar's unconscious form, a faint smile ghosted across her lips.

Maybe, just maybe… she'd found someone worth her time.

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