The Coliseum of Champions loomed above the crumbling sprawl of Remit City, an enduring testament to the violence that bound Gandron’s fractured heart. Here, warriors of every stripe converged, drawn by the promise of glory and the slim chance to escape the unforgiving streets. The Coliseum towered over all else, its stone walls scarred and battered, built to intimidate and to forge new warriors who would carry Gandron’s brutal legacy. Around it, the city writhed—a place where survival was a battle, a desolate landscape overrun by crime and governed by the silent law of fear.

  Inside the arena, a single rule stood unchallenged: no projectile weapons. Beyond that, anything was permitted, and bloodshed was as certain as the rising heat from Gandron’s desolate deserts. Men, women, and even children entered the ring, seeking the right to join the feared Gandron Warrior’s Guild. To outsiders, they were known as the Thieves Guild, a scourge unbound by interstellar treaties, despised and exiled by the galaxy. But on Gandron, the Guild was everything—a force of loyalty and terror. Warriors who joined the Guild severed all ties to the lives they once knew, forsaking citizenship, status, and freedom. In its ranks, they found purpose, but only under King Victor’s unyielding rule.

  The Coliseum was not just an arena; it was the seat of Victor’s dominion. The Warrior King resided within its labyrinthine corridors, surrounded by his fiercest fighters. Acceptance into the Guild was a mark of survival, a place within the cold stone walls that promised food, shelter, and a life bound by the king’s law. Those who failed to earn their place were cast back into the streets, a punishment nearly as feared as the fights themselves. Outside the Coliseum’s walls, they would haunt the alleys, enduring the desolation of Remit City until they gathered the strength to try again—or until the city consumed them entirely. Gandron’s traditions were merciless, and for those without the strength to claim a place, survival was a fleeting thing.

  Despite Gandron’s lawless appearance to outsiders, the society held tightly to its own brutal traditions and unspoken codes. These rules were part of Gandron’s very marrow—sometimes followed, sometimes shattered, but always with consequence. To break one was to invite punishment in the arena, a five-day ordeal under the scorching sun and the eyes of the jeering crowd. If a warrior survived this trial, they were granted re-entry into the Guild’s ranks, their transgression paid in blood. Those who did not survive had fulfilled their sentence just the same.

  Not even the daughter of the Warrior King himself was exempt. She had defied one of her father’s most sacred rules, drinking from his ceremonial cup, an act meant to mock his authority. It was a gesture of defiance, as bold as it was reckless. Her father’s fury was matched only by his indifference to her survival; he believed she would perish in her first bout. To him, her sentence was a reminder that no one—even his blood—escaped the consequences of defiance.

  The dawn of her punishment was stark and unforgiving. The sun had only just begun its ascent, casting a harsh light over the Coliseum as heat crept across the desert planet, slow and relentless. Gandron’s arid landscape stretched endlessly, barren of crops, livestock, or anything that might have softened its harsh existence. Instead, Gandron’s people relied on the resources plundered from more prosperous worlds—water, food, metals—wrenched from those who had the fortune of thriving, even as Gandron lay scorched and desolate.

  The man loomed above her, his frame broader than two hover bikes set side by side, his shadow stretching over the sand. Viha had known Hergord for as long as she could remember—a quiet, towering figure with a strength that seemed carved from Gandron’s harsh stone. Rescued from a raid as a boy and brought to Gandron, he had been trained and moulded into a warrior under the king’s brutal hand. Hergord was much older and much stronger, and the king regarded him as the son he had never had. It was a bond that had always fuelled resentment in Viha, a bitter reminder of the father who valued strength over blood.

  “Why don’t you just give up, girl?” His voice rumbled across the arena, reverberating as though it came from deep within the earth itself. “Then, the king might show you mercy.” Hergord’s voice was calm, lacking malice, but there was a finality to his words that stirred Viha’s anger.

  She returned his gaze, an unyielding smile tugging at her lips. “You should drink from the king’s cup yourself, Hergord. Maybe then you’d understand how little you mean to him.” The words were as sharp as her blade, cutting through the thin facade of camaraderie they shared.

  Hergord’s expression darkened as he drew his swords, their edges gleaming under Gandron’s brutal sun. They were massive, each blade almost impractically heavy for most fighters, but Viha knew Hergord wielded them effortlessly. Inscribed along the edges were the names of those who had fallen to his hand—a grim testament to his strength and the countless lives he had taken. There was little room left on the steel for more names, and Viha knew he wore them as both burden and badge. He had faced many sentences before, mostly his own, and now he stood before her on the final day of his latest punishment, resolute and unmoved.

  Viha closed her eyes, inhaling deeply to steady herself, letting the familiar rhythm of battle settle into her muscles. Her sword—a slender, unbreakable blade forged from Diatanium, the rarest and strongest metal in the galaxy—felt like an extension of her own hand, light yet unyielding. With her left hand lifted in a gesture of calm, her right arm held the blade behind her back, ready. She lowered her stance, bracing herself like a coiled spring.

  Before she could complete her position, Hergord clashed his swords together with a deafening clang, a sound that rippled through the silent arena and sent a jolt of tension through the onlookers. Without hesitation, he lunged at her, his enormous frame barrelling forward with the force of a charging beast. Viha, however, did not waver. She remained rooted, her stance firm, eyes fixed on his movement, her focus unbroken.

  As Hergord closed in, she timed her response with practised precision, her blade flicking forward and angling upward just as he bore down on her. His own momentum betrayed him. He collided with her weapon; the blade piercing his chest armour and slicing through the flesh just below his shoulder. He staggered, gasping as a crimson stain spread across the flawless white sand beneath him. His face twisted in pain, yet he struggled to stay upright, refusing to let his knees meet the ground.

  The crowd murmured in shock at the sight of blood spilling from the king’s favoured warrior, staining the arena with the vivid reminder of his vulnerability. Viha, unwavering, held her stance, her gaze locked on Hergord, her victory marked not by celebration but by the silent triumph of a warrior’s skill over brute force.

  On most days, only a few spectators lingered in the grandstands of the Coliseum, half-heartedly cheering on warriors locked in mortal combat. But today, the stands were full, a sea of faces eager to witness the king’s daughter, Viha, brought low in the sand. No voices rallied behind her; instead, a quiet thrill pulsed through the crowd, each spectator waiting for her inevitable defeat. Yet, when her first strike landed, silencing the arena with its precision, the crowd was left in stunned disbelief. They hadn’t anticipated how outmatched Hergord, the larger, seasoned warrior, would appear before her.

  Viha moved with swift, lethal grace, eyes tracking Hergord as he struggled to steady himself after her blow. But he wasn’t done. Slowly, he raised his twin swords once more, his lips twisting into a grin that was anything but friendly. Viha’s body tensed, repelled by the grin’s dark promise.

  “You got lucky,” he growled, his voice booming through the arena like distant thunder. He seemed barely slowed by the wound; if anything, the gruelling four days of combat had only hardened him, deepening his resolve. With every hour of battle, his strength seemed to swell, and his endurance intensified as if pain itself fuelled him. Yet, as Viha held her blade steady, a spark of confidence flickered within her. She had faced countless challenges under her father’s brutal command, sparring against the Guild’s finest warriors; each match halted before she could push too far, lest she face true danger. But not today. Today, her father would not intervene; this was her trial to complete.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Hergord was the king’s most formidable warrior, his chosen “son”—a role that had always rankled Viha, as if her father’s approval could be granted to anyone so easily. Here was her chance to prove herself once and for all, not only as a warrior but as a true daughter of Gandron. Slaying him would end her sentence with a victory etched into the minds of everyone present, sealing her respect and honour in a society where survival was the only proof of worth.

  Hergord charged, fury blazing in his eyes, a searing intensity like the harsh desert sun piercing through the towering pillars of the grandstands. Viha met his approach with unwavering focus, her left hand poised before her, the slender blade angled with deadly intent. This time, her aim was clear: the heart. She would see this trial through, not just today but each day of her sentence until the entire arena recognised her as the true champion of Gandron.

  A part of her had longed for this—to enter the arena not as a mere participant but as one of the condemned, bound to fight Gandron’s fiercest. Only those on trial faced the most relentless opponents, and she relished the challenge, the honour it promised.

  As Hergord’s swords came down, she allowed them to clash with her blade, absorbing the brutal force of his strike. With practised ease, she twisted her weapon to deflect his, her movements fluid and controlled, her body agile as she guided his blades harmlessly to the side. She caught the flash of rage in his eyes as he realised her intent, his restraint slipping in the face of her skill. With a guttural roar, he lifted his heavy swords high and slammed them into the ground with all his might, the impact splintering the stone beneath the thin layer of white sand.

  Viha laughed, her voice ringing out over the arena. She recognised the truth her father’s warriors had taught her: never strike in anger, for in that moment, one’s strength becomes scattered, unguarded, exposed to the will of another. Here, before the gathering crowd, Hergord’s fury became her advantage. His raw power misdirected, his strength unfocused. Watching him struggle, she understood, with a spark of grim satisfaction, why that unspoken rule existed.

  His guard had weakened considerably, his swords growing heavier with each reckless swing. Blinded by rage, Hergord’s strikes grew wild and imprecise, each one missing its mark as Viha shifted gracefully, stepping back just enough to evade his blows. She ducked under his vicious swings and danced forward to avoid his lunges, her movements deft and calculated. The arena was hers, and she knew it.

  The grandstands had filled, the noise of the crowd swelling with every moment of her dominance, each cheer and gasp goading Hergord further into frustration. The sound seemed to cloud his mind, adding to his fury, while Viha remained sharp and unyielding. Young as she was, she faced him with her single, thin blade in hand—a stark contrast to his massive weapons. In every sense, it was a fight for survival.

  Hergord charged one last time, his face twisted in unrestrained anger, abandoning any semblance of technique. Viha waited, her patience rewarding her in the final moment as she sidestepped smoothly, watching as his momentum betrayed him. The brute stumbled forward, crashing face-first into the sand. She smirked, her breath ragged, the weight of the blade finally sinking into her tired arm. It was time to end this.

  “I have you now!” she shouted, her voice ringing out with the confidence of a victor. She surged forward, closing the distance in an instant. Hergord, equally exhausted, struggled to even lift his head. Just as she raised her sword to deliver the final blow, a voice, booming and unmistakable, sliced through the air.

  “Halt!”

  Viha faltered, the command hitting her like a wall, her feet skidding to a stop. She recognised the voice—sharp, absolute, and laden with authority. It was her father. For a brief second, her hand tightened on the hilt, every instinct urging her to finish the fight. But she held back, her gaze narrowing as she looked toward the edge of the arena where he stood. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had intended to let her win—or if he feared what her victory might mean.

  “You have done well. It is time to rest.” Victor’s voice boomed across the arena, forcing a halt as the tension in Viha’s body snapped taut.

  A pulse of anger burned through her veins. She’d been moments from victory, a victory earned through her own strength and skill, a statement to everyone in the stands that she was more than her father’s daughter, more than the heir of his legacy. She was someone who could forge her own path. And now he had stripped that from her.

  When she saw Hergord being carried off by six men, her fists clenched tighter, the blade pressing into her palm. She didn’t need anyone to escort her from the arena—she hadn’t fallen. She walked with steady defiance toward the gate, where Victor awaited, his gaze assessing as if she were a pawn in one of his endless games.

  “We are going to need all the strong men we have; you can’t go slaughtering everyone,” he chuckled, bringing his hand down on her shoulder in what might have looked like a show of fatherly pride. His grip was iron, his fingers digging into her skin.

  But she didn’t flinch. Instead, she lifted her chin, her eyes defiant as she spat out, “Afraid I’d finish what you never could?”

  Victor’s chuckle faded, his gaze sharpening. “Watch your tongue, Viha,” he warned, his grip tightening. “Your place here, your life. They are by my hand alone. Remember that.”

  She jerked her shoulder back, breaking free of his hold. “My place?” she shot back, voice low but burning. “Or yours? You only stopped the fight because you couldn’t stand seeing me finish something you couldn’t control.” Her words hung in the air, a challenge she knew few would dare throw at the Warrior King.

  Victor’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped closer, looming over her. “You think you’re ready to rule this Guild?” His voice was barely more than a growl. “Strength without wisdom is nothing but recklessness. You will learn that.”

  She met his glare head-on, her anger undiminished. “Maybe it’s time someone led with strength instead of fear.”

  Victor’s expression flickered, but his gaze stayed steely. The barest hint of something like pride flickered in his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appeared. With a sigh, he stepped back, his face hardening again, though she could sense the restrained fury beneath his calm facade.

  “I have something I need to tell you,” he said at last, his voice icy. He held her gaze, making it clear he expected silence, obedience. But Viha stayed rigid, the tension between them thick, unbroken as she refused to avert her eyes.

  For a moment, there was only silence—a silent contest of will between father and daughter, a stand-off neither would yield.

  “It is time for you to move on to something more challenging,” Victor said, his tone devoid of the usual authority but laced with a strange detachment. “This Guild cannot teach you anything anymore. You are the strongest warrior to have ever walked the coliseums of Gandron, but your time here has come to an end.”

  Viha, exhausted and parched, barely processed his words. Her focus was on the pressing need to recover, to escape the heat suffusing her every muscle. She swayed slightly, catching her breath, but her eyes flickered toward a shadowed figure approaching—a man cloaked in black robes, his presence cold and unfamiliar.

  “Is he here to take me away?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper but with a sudden clarity of understanding.

  Victor’s face remained impassive, though a faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “He is,” he replied, his voice tinged with a note of indifference. “It’s a fitting fate, I suppose. After all, you’ve always had more of blood in you than mine,” he said, his voice a sliver of disdain.

  Viha’s gaze sharpened. She knew, of course, of the man he spoke of—her true father, the one her mother had loved before Victor claimed her. The revelation hung in the air, more of an insult than a truth revealed, yet it struck her in a way Victor likely didn’t intend.

  Victor’s expression hardened. “Your mother was a fool for choosing him, for defying Gandron’s ways. But look at you now—ready to leave all this as she left it. It seems her spirit lingers in you more than I’d hoped.”

  Viha felt a surge of strange relief, almost gratitude. Her departure from Gandron no longer felt like exile, but liberation. She smiled faintly, closed her eyes, and let the weight of her long-held defiance settle within her.

  Then, looking back at him with a cold, resolute glare, she said, “Don’t expect me to miss you.”

  Victor’s eyes narrowed, but he did not flinch. “Never expect to return,” he replied, his voice edged with finality.

  She turned toward the robed man, her pulse steady, her expression unreadable. “If I do, I will be coming back to destroy Gandron.” Her voice was low yet filled with a deadly promise that lingered as she walked toward the hooded figure, a man whose intentions remained as shadowed as his form.