A blood-slick kitchen knife clutched tightly in my trembling hand, I stumbled out of the looming mansion and into the cold, moonlit garden. The pale light painted everything in ghostly shades of silver and blue. A few torches still burned where the gallows had once stood, casting flickering halos over the makeshift arena where Markus and I were fated to clash. My breath came in short, ragged bursts, and the knife—still dripping with fresh blood—swung at my side as I hurried toward the two waiting figures.

  My pace was clumsy, unsteady—sabotaged at every step by the absurd frills of my outfit. Every inch of my body was squeezed, trussed, or tangled in layers of lace and silk that I had never asked for. As I neared them, Markus caught sight of me and instinctively reached for his blade, his stance tense. Arthur, however, stood casually beside him, his smirk carved deep with satisfaction. He knew. He knew exactly what he’d done.

  “This is ridiculous,” I muttered through gritted teeth, stumbling once more. “How the hell am I supposed to fight in these shoes?” I gestured angrily toward my feet, encased in towering white contraptions that teetered with every step. “Sure, it’s nice being taller, but I fail to see how snapping my ankle is going to help me win a fight. Who thought this was a good idea?”

  Arthur’s smirk widened into a full grin, infuriatingly calm. “Those are high heels,” he pointed out the obvious with a chuckle. “Typically used for dancing. You’re not supposed to duel in them. Or, you know, walk across gravel.”

  Without another word, I reached down, yanked the offending shoes from my feet, and flung them with all the grace of a drunken scarecrow several meters away. The sudden contact of cool stone and earth against my sock-covered feet was more liberating than I could have imagined.

  “And this dress,” I continued, my voice sharp with irritation. “Why is it so long? And white? Do I look like I’m on my way to a wedding or a birthday?” I glared down at the monstrosity. White—my least favorite color—clung to me like an accusation. The only redeeming feature of this cursed gown was how well it absorbed blood, as the spreading crimson stain on my chest already proved.

  “I told the maid to bring you traditional White’s attire,” Arthur explained, unbothered. “I meant the color scheme. She... interpreted that rather literally.”

  I didn’t even respond. My dagger sliced through the lower half of the dress with a satisfying rip. The hem, now streaked with blood and dragging no longer, gave my knees the freedom they deserved. A small victory.

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. “If I may ask—what’s with the kitchen knife?”

  “I needed a weapon,” I said flatly. “You didn’t expect me to come empty-handed, did you?”

  “I was referring to the blood.”

  My throat tightened. Of course he noticed. It was′n′t hard. I cast a glance down at the red bloom spreading across my chest. A wound of my own making. Slipping on those cursed heels, tumbling down the staircase like a fool, and stabbing myself in the process—it wasn’t something I was eager to explain.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” I said quickly, coughing into my hand as if that might bury the subject. I shook my head and changed course. “Anyway. What are the rules here? Are we fighting to the death?”

  Markus’s eyes narrowed, but eventually he sheathed his sword, though not without hesitation. Arthur, however, was watching me too closely now, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, as though trying to piece together something just out of reach.

  Then he spoke. “It’ll be a dance battle.”

  My jaw dropped.

  A pause. The garden, the torches, the blood, the pain—none of it prepared me for this.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Yeah. I am,” Arthur said, eyes glinting with amusement. “But you believed me for a second, didn’t you? Where are you even from, that you understand what a challenge is—but not how it’s conducted?”

  The question caught me off guard. It came out of nowhere, unprompted and sharp. Until now, no one had bothered to ask about my origins. I’d assumed that Aska—through that absurd prophecy Arthur had once mentioned—had already handled all of those inconvenient gaps. But the way he was watching me now, head tilted and voice deceptively casual, made me hesitate. For the first time, I considered that telling the truth might not be a mistake. Not necessarily.

  “I’m from Purgatory,” I said at last, voice even.

  They both laughed. Instantly. A full-bellied, mocking burst of laughter as though I’d just recited the punchline to the greatest joke ever told. I shrugged, unbothered. If they didn’t believe me, that was their problem.

  “That was a good one,” Arthur said between chuckles. I didn’t respond. Why was it funny? Was it the name? The idea? The concept that someone like me could crawl out of that liminal nowhere place and end up here, with a bloody kitchen knife and a ragged dress stained red at the chest?

  I considered asking, but curiosity could easily be mistaken for weakness—or worse, for an invitation. I could read about it later, in silence, and without their stupid grins. For now, I let it go.

  Arthur straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “I won’t complain if you want to keep your past buried,” he said. “As long as you serve me well, the details are irrelevant. With that in mind—shall we begin?”

  Markus wordlessly walked over to a bench and retrieved two wooden swords. He tossed one toward me with a flick of his wrist. I caught it midair in my left hand, rotating it in my grip as I took in its shape and weight. Slightly longer than I was used to. Standard training weapon. Dull edges, rounded tip, lightweight. Serviceable.

  Markus mirrored me on the other side, calmly rinsing his hands with water from a nearby bucket. I realized again how little I truly knew about this world—about the little rituals soldiers engaged in, about the habits of nobles who treated battle like theatre. Sure, I’d read plenty. But books didn’t teach you how people moved. They didn’t teach you why they moved.

  Arthur stepped between us, his tone shifting to that of a neutral announcer. “You’ll fight a best of three. Anything goes—so long as it’s non-lethal. Step outside the ring, and you lose. Tap the ground three times to forfeit. I’ll be acting as referee.”

  A smile tugged at my lips. The rules were perfect—open enough to give me room, structured enough to keep the theatrics contained. I didn’t need to destroy Markus. In fact, I couldn’t. Not entirely. A clean, overwhelming win would make him hate me. But I also couldn’t afford to play too meek, or Arthur might start asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

  So I stepped into the ring with my plan half-formed and my grip steady. The wooden sword rested easily in my left hand. Markus followed, wordless and focused. We faced each other beneath the shifting light of the torches, two silhouettes in a circle of fire and moonlight.

  We circled each other cautiously, two predators searching for an opening. Feints came and went—quick, shallow tests of reflex—but neither of us committed. Markus was annoyingly disciplined. Every time I tried to bait him, he adjusted his stance perfectly, sword angled to intercept mine. I didn’t just see a warrior—I saw training, control, restraint.

  He tried the same with me, and I responded by slipping out of reach entirely. My footwork kept me moving, always just one breath beyond his range. I could feel it already: I had the stamina advantage. If this became a battle of attrition, I could outlast him.

  “Are you afraid of hitting a girl, or are you just slow?” I asked, the words smooth and barbed. A deliberate provocation. His expression didn’t shift.

  He remained locked in, a different man entirely from the wine-obsessed man I’d seen before. The lazy grin was gone, replaced by the mask of a focused, silent warrior.

  Still, I pressed on. “Chall—”

  The word was cut short by a sudden strike from the right, sharp and fast, aiming straight for my abdomen.

  Clever bastard.

  He’d used the lull in my concentration to launch a surprise attack. I twisted my body, intercepting the strike with a narrow deflection. It was impressive—not just the precision, but the timing. He had read me well. But I wasn’t surprised.

  Because I always fought dirty. And I had a lot more than swordsmanship in my arsenal.

  Just barely, I stepped back—my body brushing the edge of the circle—as Markus’s blade sliced through the air in front of my abdomen. I felt the displacement of air against my skin, a cold whisper of what might’ve been. The instant his sword passed its target, I lunged forward again.

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  My strike didn’t aim for him directly, not yet. Instead, I angled my blade toward his, pushing his further towards him. It was a move that only worked because I held my sword in the opposite hand—my left against his right. The maneuver was nearly impossible to execute in a mirrored stance, and clearly, he hadn’t anticipated it.

  For a brief moment, Markus was trapped in the momentum of his own motion. He’d committed to the strike, and now the force of his swing—combined with mine pushing his weapon even further to his left—left him wide open. Dodging was a terrible option; he’d lose balance. Parrying was impossible. That left him with two options: either take the hit or counter with a bare-handed strike—something most swordsmen avoided when fighting close-quarters with a live blade.

  I knew exactly how cautious he was. Too cautious, in fact. Markus stepped back—exactly as I’d expected.

  And just like that, I was already in too close for him to recover his stance.

  As his feet shifted and his sword floundered in the wrong direction, I adjusted my aim. I redirected the blade mid-motion, slicing it toward his center rather than continuing to strike at his weapon. Markus moved to block, but his arms were off balance, his posture compromised. The block was weak—only enough to slow my attack, not stop it.

  I didn’t push. I didn’t need to.

  Instead, I released the handle mid-motion, letting the sword spin for a fraction of a second through open air. His eyes widened—just a flicker—as he tried to react, but he was too slow. Only a millisecond too slow.

  My left hand curled into a tight fist and drove upward, straight toward his chin—a punishing, perfect uppercut that stopped just before contact.

  Close enough for him to smell the blood on my knuckles.

  I held the pose for a beat, my eyes shifting toward Arthur.

  “Win for Lucinda,” he called with the barest nod.

  I lowered my hand and turned away without a word, stepping back toward my corner of the ring. My mind was already spinning, not with triumph, but with calculations. That was one round. A clean, efficient victory. But Markus had seen through the disguise now. He wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

  He was capable. No doubt. And if he had any pride, he’d be planning how to return the favor in round two.

  As he rinsed his hands again—another splash of water, part of whatever odd ritual he’d adopted—I called out over my shoulder with a smirk, “Try to win next time.”

  No response. Just the sound of water dripping from his fingertips and the soft crunch of gravel as he stepped back into the ring.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  Neither was I.

  This was about to get serious.

  The second round began just like the first—measured, cautious, a dance of glances and feints. Neither of us seemed eager to draw first blood, metaphorical or not. For several long, quiet minutes, we simply circled each other again, probing the air with subtle gestures, searching for tells in posture or breath. This wasn’t fencing. This was psychological warfare.

  This time, I held the sword in my right hand. It was a deliberate choice, meant to throw him off. A subtle change, but in a fight like this, the smallest shift could cascade into confusion. Maybe he’d hesitate. Maybe he'd read my angles wrong. Maybe it would buy me one, precious half-second.

  I struck first.

  A swift diagonal arc from right to left, aiming upward toward his chest. Predictable—on purpose. A bait. Naturally, Markus blocked it cleanly. But what followed wasn’t predictable at all.

  In a blur, he released his own sword and grabbed my blade with a bare hand.

  I blinked. This wasn’t a sword fight anymore.

  Before I could fully register what he was doing, his grip tightened on my weapon, and I made the same mistake he had in the previous round—I forgot what I was holding. This wasn’t a forged steel blade; it was a practice stick in the shape of a sword. I could’ve let go immediately. Should have. But for one precious second to see where this would end, I held on.

  And he used that second to yank me toward him.

  I smiled inwardly. The momentum was his now. His fist was already rising to meet my gut, fast and brutal. I couldn’t block without revealing how fast I truly was—or worse, what I truly was.

  So I improvised.

  I used the pull to close the gap further, twisting my torso just enough to soften the incoming blow while letting go of the training sword. His fist slammed into the side of my ribs with a punishing thud that stole the breath from my lungs, while my shoulder barreled into his midsection. I hit him hard, but his hit had intent. Mine had urgency.

  We broke apart instantly, both of us breathing heavier now, one for show, one for air.

  Markus stepped back, raising his fists in front of his face with smooth, practised ease. His eyes were sharp. Calculating. He didn’t want me close. Not anymore.

  I matched his movement, circling, but I wasn’t ready to switch styles just yet. I wasn’t a brawler. Not now. Not here. My eyes flicked down to the training sword that lay a few feet away—his sword. If I was going to lose this round, I’d do it in a way that didn’t draw suspicion. If I picked up the weapon and retreated to recover, it would give him the window he needed, and it wouldn’t look like I threw the fight.

  That was the plan.

  I darted forward, hand dropping toward the sword while my gaze remained locked on Markus. He moved too—half a second behind me, just close enough that if I turned my back to run, he could catch me.

  But I didn’t run.

  The instant my fingers wrapped around the handle, agony exploded through my hand.

  It was like plunging my flesh into acid.

  A searing, white-hot pain shot up my arm, deeper than skin, deeper than muscle—into my soul. I cried out involuntarily, dropping the weapon as though it had burned me—and in a way, it had. But the pain didn’t stop. It clung, like something alive had burrowed into my bones and was tearing its way out from the inside.

  The world tilted. My knees buckled.

  And that’s when Markus struck.

  I never saw the fist, only felt the impact—a savage blow to my jaw that snapped my teeth together and made my head lurch sideways. Dazed, I stumbled back. My ears rang. The torches blurred into streaks of fire as my body hit the ground hard, sending dust flying up around me in a pale cloud.

  I lay there for a moment, trying to breathe. Trying to think. My hand still throbbed with a supernatural ache, as if the sword had cursed me just for touching it.

  What was that weapon?

  I wasn’t sure yet. But one thing was certain—this fight had taken on a different tone. And I was no longer in control.

  “Win for Markus.” I was kind of thankful for Arthur. He could have just said nothing and let Markus hit me further, but he didn’t do so. I couldn’t form any coherent thought right then, most notably because this kind of pain was new to me. My core burned, and I could do nothing against it. A few seconds later, the pain that plagued my soul disappeared as fast as it came, leaving me with a hurting tongue and a painful hand. It looked like third-degree burns and blisters were still being created as I looked at my hand.

  “What the hell?” I asked out loud as my skin didn’t heal right away as I was used to. Whatever it was, something about this sword was cursed.

  With a massive grin on his face, Markus gave me an answer as I spewed blood out of my mouth. At least my tongue was healing as fast as I expected. “Holy water. You aren’t as different to the other vampires as you claimed to be.”

  Only after he said that did my hand finally start to heal slowly. It was quite an eye-opener. Water was even eviler than I assumed it was and could be used in ways against me I never thought of. Aska never told me how different I was from a typical vampire, but it appeared as if there were still many similarities between me and them. I could endure the sun, but I would get exhausted when directly hit by it. And holy water was a weakness of mine. So what was I?

  A special Vampire?

  Something else entirely?

  Or a mixture of both?

  I didn’t know. And I couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not now. The final round hadn’t started, and Markus was already watching me, lips curled in satisfaction, eyes alive with interest.

  But the fight wasn’t over yet.

  I swallowed the taste of blood, flexed my cracked hand, and forced my thoughts back into the present. The circle was still there. So was the sword. And so was my will to win.

  I wouldn’t let this second round define me.

  The third would.