It was that time of year once again. The time of year where warriors were chosen by the powers that be to fight against each other in skirmishes designed and chosen by The Blood Furnaces benefactors to test the fighters that had been cultivated over years and years. Some were there willingly, most were there against their own volition. One of those people was Nyssa Nightingale, a healer. Bacta was expensive, she was free. This was her third Bloodletting, as she had come to know it.
Her first had been her worst. When she was first brought to The Blood Furnace, she had seen many gruesome wounds, but usually things were within her power to heal. Barely. But the Bloodletting was a whole different beast. The bodies, hot, warm, and cold, piled up before her. The people she came to recognize, some of them nice, came to her disfigured or dead. Nobody held back. They all wanted their shot at freedom. At least back then she had Elara. The woman had taught Nyssa how to heal, how to keep her life force steady, how to not kill herself in the process of it all.
But Elara was gone. Nyssa was alone.
The morning was busier than normal. Preparations were in full swing, which meant Nyssa’s home, the medical ward, was more fully stocked than ever before. When she first came she wondered why there was such a low priority for healers, but soon she realized why. They picked and chose who they wanted healed, who they wanted to keep around. The undesirables, she never saw them outside of that one week a year. There were no undesirables when the best were pit against the best.
“Nightingale!” A voice boomed down the hall, heavy footfalls approaching closer. The woman in question nearly dropped the pile of towels she had been holding. What now?
The door to the ward was torn open and in stormed Lore, one of the pitmasters. Nyssa’s heart began to race. What had she done? She could’ve sworn she had behaved. But he always seemed to find something wrong with her.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your stunt the other day,” he grumbled, his pale muscles flexing, a vein on his bald head throbbed. When Nyssa didn’t say anything, when she looked confused, his blood only boiled further. He approached her and grabbed the woman by the arm. Silence was the norm when it came to addressing the healer, to discourage her, convince her that she hadn’t a single ally. She didn’t struggle as Lore removed her from the medical ward and brought her down the halls. The direction was familiar, memorized since the first day she was brought there. The source of all her scars. It was the first day of the Bloodletting, she wasn’t supposed to be there, she thought.
Wordlessly, she was tossed into a dark room, the door closed behind her. Small spears of light stabbed through the wall on the other side, waiting to be opened, waiting to allow her onto the colosseum floor. Tears already welling, she scrambled for a weapon. Did she have a chance? Was this their way of getting rid of her? Or maybe this was a scare tactic. She was too valuable to kill. At least she hoped.
The wall began to open and the cheering began. Peeking through, she saw three other doors opening to reveal a woman and two men. She recognized them all, of course. Zhaolin, Meile, and Zhenya.
He woke, as he always did on testing days, with a startled gasp for breath. It felt like the weight of the entire armory was sat on his chest. Beside him, Zhenya stirred. His arm draped across Zhaolin’s midriff flexing and pulling their bodies closer.
“Another dream?” Zhenya’s voice was deep with sleep and a small twinge of something else.
“Another nightmare.” Zhaolin responded, rolling over to put his back to the man he was entangled with.
From across the room he could see Meili quietly shift on her cot, the dim morning light enough to see the golden shine of her eyes as she stared back at him. They had been inseparable from the day they’d met, both seven years of age and standing before their very first Battle Mistress for squabbling over a sweet. The dull sounds of the preparations of The Blood Furnace filled the silence. Zhaolin moved again, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling and let his mind drift.
They all remained like that until one of the pitmasters - Apo by the sound of it - came down the hall, clanging his metal electro-rod on the durasteel doorframes to rouse them. Zhaolin disentangled from Zhenya, unbothered by their near nakedness as he began the familiar steps of the ritualistic morning pattern. The duo joined him, falling into sync with such unerring precision they seemed to all share the same breath. Flowing through each stretch and pose until their lean-muscled bodies were primed for the fight to come, silence lay over them comfortably.
For eighteen years he’d done drills, hunted, and sparred alongside Meili. It was as if the very cells that made up his existence were in tune with hers. There was not a soul alive that knew him better; every scar, every story, every move he would make. Zhenya came after their first Testing Day. At nine years of age they were grouped together in a party of five and sent into the wilderness with nothing but a spear and the clothes on their backs. Only the three of them returned.
Now once again it would be the three of them facing incomprehensible odds. If they succeeded not only would they bare the prestigious Bloodright mark, but they would be permitted to leave Rattatak as proven warriors. Meili had oft spoken of her desire to see what lay beyond the high walls of The Blood Furnace. Zhaolin had listened many nights to her describing things she’d hoped to find - fame and fortune mostly, but also somewhere new to call home. He’d never understood her distaste for The Furnace; it was their home. Everything they’d ever known had been here in the crimson-stained sand of the arena. Where Meili loathed the fight, Zhenya lived for it. His bloodthirst was second to none and had often been the deciding factor in sparring sessions and war games.
They stood together now, armed with their matching spears and short blades. Their blackened leather vambraces and striped down durasteel greaves were the minimal offerings of protection provided by the quartermaster. As some of the best fighters of their year they were afforded the miniscule luxury of battered, worthless gear tossed aside by those too old or dead to use them any longer.
No words of comfort passed between them, no soft or gentle glances. Only cold confidence and determination permeated the air around them. The battle trance had already begun to weave its way around their minds, steeling them for the explosive violence that was a Bloodletting. When it was time, each stepped into a small chamber slotted around the curved edge of the arena without a word.
A raucous cheering went up, the roar of the crowd outside a palpable living thing that rumbled above their heads. Pulse quickening as the inevitable opening of the doors drew near, Zhaolin steadied his mind and checked his grip on his battered spear. Weight shifting in readiness to spring from the enclosed space at the first available moment, he caught sight of her from the corner of his eye. She was so out of place in that dark cell that it felt like he’d been caught in the chin with one of Meili’s right hooks.
The wet tracks rolling down her cheeks told him she was scared and he saw no weapon in her hand. Zhaolin recalled immediately that she was no warrior. Healer. She’d mended his wounds numerous times, neither saying a word to the other. Had he ever thought to ask her name? Why was she even there? A great horn sounded, low and deep as if the earth itself were bellowing. The thick chains on the cell doors leading out into the arena dropped away, the mechanism snapping sharp and metallic over the den.
He had only a moment, a split second to decide. The hand on the hilt of his short sword moved in time with his steps. The corded muscles of his legs carried him instinctively out into the arena even as he flung the sword. It spun rapidly, the angle imprecise and a heavy clang followed Zhaolin from the barred chamber as warriors spilled into the Pit. The blade embedded itself in the grit floor of the cell, the hilt jutting between the bars in offering. He could not keep her out of the Pit, but he could give her something to stab her would-be killers with.
The sound of metal slicing through grit pulled Nyssa’s eyes from the floor beneath her, seemingly drowning out the sound of the only door keeping her safe dropping to the ground. She blinked once, she blinked twice. The sword didn’t disappear. She looked up to try and see just who had given her the gift, but nobody was there. But she recognized it nonetheless.
Despite not having done much that day, Nyssa’s legs ached as she brought herself towards the hilt. The feeling of dread threatened to pull her to Rattatak’s molten core. She reached out and wrapped her hand around its hilt, her eyes widening the moment she made contact. Feelings, thoughts, memories. They flooded her senses for moments she didn’t have. She felt pride, she felt care, she felt death. Each difficult trial Zhaolin had ever faced, this sword had accompanied him to it. Until today. Now it was in her hands, entrusted to her for a reason Nyssa was dead set on discovering.
With less effort than it took to walk over to the sword, the woman pulled it from the ground and inspected the blade, seeing minor details of her surroundings in the slim, razor sharp edge. She felt… reassured. Her pale, lifeless eyes drifted to the exit. She knew from experience that if she didn’t go out there, someone would come in for her. And out there, she had more space to run.
The scene that met her outside the cell was, sadly, a familiar one. The sands of the Pit were already stained red in places from fresh blood. There wasn’t just blood, though. There were also bodies. Already combatants had fallen to one another’s blades, their blood seeping deep into the sand, becoming a permanent fixture of The Blood Furnace, a reminder that some left their mark as legends whilst others became part of the warning to those who tread inside.
MOVE
Nyssa’s body shifted like a leaf, a movement entirely out of place compared to her previous hesitance. She turned to her attacker, raising her sword. Unlike the man in front of her, who had the boon of pauldrons and bracers, she was wearing nothing but her usual robe. But unlike the man who had only a dagger, she had Zhaolin’s sword. She had range, something she usually lacked given her stature.
Any advantage Kiffar thought she had, she was sorely mistaken. Every time she tried to block, her weapon was nearly batted from her hands. Her hands were sweaty, her grip was loose, but Nyssa was determined to keep the blade in hand, to keep it safe. She had to return it, after all. She kept the game up for as long as she could, circling the outskirts of the arena for what felt like a lifetime, dodging, blocking, and being easily parried.
If it wasn’t for the sudden intervention of another gladiator, who easily killed the man she was fighting. Without a beat, the moment the man was on the ground, she ran her savior through. She hadn’t even realized what she had done until she pulled Zhaolin’s sword back and watched the man she had killed fall to the ground. She took someone’s life.
Sweat beaded between Meili’s shoulders. Her whip of mousy brown hair spun out behind her as she pivoted, bringing her boot up to meet an attacker’s gut. The short sword in her hand was coated in layers of drying blood. With a heavy grunt she twisted, using momentum and the butt of the spear in her other hand to complete the circular motion and send the man flying. Zhenya fell on him like a ravenous dog, slicing through sinew and bone with an ease that made Meili’s stomach turn.
The moment of distraction cost her. She saw the hatchet swinging her way too late to bring her sword arm up to parry. Bracing for the pain of the impending strike, she caught the lightning fast metallic flash just before she heard the telltale squelch of impalement. Yet there was no pain. Instead of being cut down she found herself momentarily within a canopy of shelter. Zhaolin’s larger shape framed hers, the longer reach of his spear jutting out past her hip and seated firmly in the chest of her attacker.
“Focus.”
Reprimand. Encouragement. Concern. She could hear the tones of emotion in a single word, understanding intuitively what Zhaolin meant. They’d stopped needing so many words between them many years ago. Stepping from the oasis of protection that was her best friend, Meili regained the momentum of war and resumed carving a path through the killing field. She moved with the grace of a dancer and the precision of an adder, striking and twirling amongst men twice her size.
Whether by fate or happenstance, she found herself across from a familiar pair of pale eyes. She recognized the healer, had felt the soothing brought on by those hands herself. And because of that gentleness, that kindness - Meili hesitated in lifting her weapon, pausing long enough to recognize the sword in the other’s hand. She’s seen the sword enough times to know it matched her own. Zhaolin.
It was enough to turn Meili’s killing instinct elsewhere, focusing instead on a slender man with greasy blonde hair and a rusted shiv. Placing herself between the healer and her prey, Meili’s full attention honed in on the way his pulse throbbed in his neck. Fear, pungent and overpowering hung like a cloud around him. Stalking forward, she lifted the spear in her grip and easily sidestepped his hasty lunge. Kicking a foot out to catch his ankle, she brought him to the ground and leveled the spear at his face. She took no joy in the act of sinking the flat, triangular tip into his yielding flesh when he flung his blade at her in a last act of desperation.
“Don’t just stand there and wait to die.” Her voice was controlled, the veil of the battle trance still an icy mantle, “Stay with me, little healer. I’ll do my best to keep you alive.”
Every sound surrounding Nyssa came to her muted and murky, her vision doubling as she considered just what she had done. Previously, she was able to escape her punishments by outlasting her opponents, but never were they so skilled. Never did she have to take a life. A familiar voice, one she had heard through the halls of the Blood Furnace, one she had heard in her medical ward, called out to her. It pulled her from her daze, forcing her to look over. There Meili was, ready with her sword and spear.
Of all the people in the arena with her, Zhaolin, Meili, and Zhenya were the ones she feared and respected most. Their skill, their teamwork, it astounded her. From the outside looking in, it almost felt like they were one cohesive person at times.
Nyssa hurried over to Meili, sword lowered, her guard down, trying to express trust. If the warrior wanted the healer dead, she already would be. “Thank you… Are you hurt?” Was her first question, immediately jumping into her own protector mindset. She wasn’t strong, but she could always help the strong who protected her. Her eyes once again drifted to Zhaolin, the man who had effectively saved her by borrowing her his blade. Compassion wasn’t a norm in the Pits. She cherished it.
Meili moving once again pulled Nyssa from her stupor. She followed along, taking care to stay as close as she could without getting in the way. She’d survive. She had to.
The hollow clang of metal meeting metal filled Zhaolin’s ears. It was a steady, familiar sound that grounded him in the moment. He circled his opponent, but the grip on his spear didn’t feel right. Just past the man’s shoulder he could see Meili pressing the tip of her spear into a man’s throat. Not far from her was the healer he’d tossed his sword to. Still alive. He shifted his center of gravity as the man raised a blunted kukri and drew Zhaolin’s attention back to the fight at hand. Loss of focus was dangerous, fatal even.
Gathering himself into the moment, he left the fate of the healer in Meili’s hands and let his lungs fill with a deep, steady breath. They entered into an exchange of blows that moved them slowly across the reddened sands. Orbiting his target, Zhaolin was not struggling to best him but rather with the seed of thought that had begun to blossom in his mind. He’d never paid any mind to Meili’s veiled tangents whispered in the dark of their shared chamber. He’d never thought about the life behind the throat he slashed or the gut he opened. He was born into violence and had grown accustomed to it.
And with each life he ended as the Bloodletting roared to life, he saw her face. Eyes wide and tears tracking down her cheeks as he caught sight of her through the bars. Zhaolin didn’t know what had possessed him to throw his blade to her. In all his years training, fighting…he had not let that sword slip from his grip after the first time it had at eight years old. Now it flashed in the sunlight, held tightly in the healer’s grip as she did her best to stay close to Meili. A whir of the kukri passing just shy of his cheek brought him up short.
Backstepping into a pivot, he brought the butt of his spear up and around to snap suddenly, roughly against the back of his opponent’s head. The maneuver was so abrupt that the momentum imbued the strike with more force than Zhaolin had intended. A sickly crack followed the strike, the blunt end of the spear piercing through the base of the man’s skull. The death sank like a stone in his gut, leaden and cold. It settled in him in a way that no other life taken had and felt like a mark on him.
“Zhaolin!”
Meili’s clear voice sliced through the strange grip of Zhaolin’s emotions, loosening their hold on his mind. Blinking once against the bright sun, he quickly scanned the Pit and found the quickest route to her. Surging forward he moved hastily to join the pair of them. They were not too far from him, with only two fighting men between them. Zhaolin opted to skirt them and kept his spear at the ready. The action did not go unnoticed by a pair of cobalt eyes set in a face splattered in blood. Zhenya watched from across the arena before returning to cutting down the person in front of him. Meili reached out the hand holding her sword and Zhaolin grasped it in greeting, stepping in to stand at her shoulder.
“You didn’t kill them.”
She stated it without judgement. Instead the words were tinged with a sort of hope. The tone piqued Zhaolin’s curiosity but they didn’t have time to explore it. Shaking his head, the long strands of his hair coming loose from the slipping band, he spoke a single word.
“No.”
Silver-blue eyes drifted to the healer on the other side of Meili. His gaze dropped to his sword in her grip, but he did not ask for it back. Along the periphery several fighters were encroaching on the trio. Zhaolin motioned to the sword before turning to face the largest of the group approaching.
“Do not lose it. Stick the pointy end in anyone that gets close to you. No hesitation.”
The shouting of Zhaolin’s name prompted Nyssa to look in the direction Meili was, her eyes once again laying upon her savior. She watched as he made his way towards them, evading any fights to close the distance as quickly as possible. Before the Kiffar knew it, Zhaolin was there, towering over her as he and Meili spoke.
Nyssa almost thought Meili was speaking to her at first, wondering why she would say such a thing, but it became evident that she was talking to Zhaolin, noticing something that Nyssa couldn’t yet recognize in him. Without warning, his eyes were now trained on Nyssa. Her nerves spiked as she slightly shrunk under his gaze. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her but that didn’t stop him from being very large and very intimidating. But the words he said were nothing of the sort.
“I won’t,” the woman promised, tightening her grip. The fighters approaching made Nyssa want to run, but with Meili and Zhaolin with her, she felt confident enough to at the very least stand behind them, her sword at the ready.
The moments it took for the fighters to reach them felt both like millenia and only milliseconds. Fear and anxiety shifted Nyssa’s perception of time and surroundings to the point that she was purely reacting to her surroundings.
The pair of warriors protecting her couldn’t keep everyone at bay, meaning Nyssa was left to deal with at least one of the other warriors. Once again she found herself blocking and parrying to the best of her ability, constantly on the backfoot. That is until she took a deep breath and went on the offensive, bolstered by her allies, and thanks to the assistance of Meili putting the man off balance so she could run him through with her sword. Once again, she had taken a life.
Zhenya was a black stain moving across the sands. He rippled and flowed among the Pit fighters. The keen edge of his blade endlessly found kidney, femoral artery, jugular. He knew instinctively where to position his strikes to maximize blood loss and minimize survival chance. The peaking sun burned over head, a haze of heat dancing above the arena floor and obscuring peripheral vision.
His long mane of dark hair stuck to his neck and the backs of his arms. Sweat slicked his brow and threatened to slip into cobalt colored eyes. Zhenya did not stop moving. In this meat grinder stillness was death. Like an oil spill, he flowed from behind a heavy set man holding a rusted mace. A thick squelch sounded as his sword slipped from the man’s lower back. Stunned, the man hit his knees, dead weight sending a vibration through the ground. An answering ripple moved through the Force and Zhenya’s bored gaze flicked to his next target.
Gore was as ordinary to him as a soldier’s rations; a bland sustenance that left him wanting something more. Unlike Zhaolin, as beautiful as he was gullible, Zhenya knew what this place was. A breeding pit of vipers and murderers, all being prepared to subject the enemies of the highest bidder to absolute, peerless carnage. And it was his ticket to the more he’d been craving so deeply. Cold rage in his gaze, his eyes snapped to the shape of his lover across the sands.
His sword hand was empty. Empty. For years he’d prided himself on never once losing the blade after he’d been disarmed in a sparring match. Now he stood amongst the churning screams of the dying, watching a pale haired woman’s untrained hands hold the hilt of that sword. He could see the approving way Meili was looking at Zhaolin. Just as he’d seen his lover forego the killing of warriors to reunite with the pair. Frigid blood ignited into a fury, black and thick in his veins.
Enough. It was too far now. He’d heard Meili’s whining about slaying the skill-less meat sacks they tossed into the training rings. It was unbearable to listen to. Self flagellation and weak morals, that’s all the bitch was. A pitfall on the path to crimson glory, dragging Zhaolin into the depths of guilt to wallow with her. Mind made up, he stalked forward and crossed the distance without falter. Zhenya’s steps were perfect, carrying him like a languid arrow across the pit.
This was where he would end it, where he would free the little bird of its need for a moral cage. With a firm grip on the hilt he took a stance and felt the dark caress of the Force running through him. One inhale. He lifted the blade with ease, not hesitating for a second. With amplified strength he swung in a pristine arch, cutting through sinew and bone almost perfectly. One exhale. Meili’s body did a strange jerk and fell, neck flayed open like a gutted fish. With a flourish of steel, he sent wet globules of blood splattering into the waiting sand. As she fell, their eyes clashed.
The sweetest silver-blue smashing into the darkest, unfeeling cobalt. And he smiled at long last. Finally free. Yet that freedom took flight not as a songbird, but a screaming eagle. Zhaolin’s spear came lancing forward with a precision that made Zhenya’s blood sing. Just as they’d fought hundreds of days before, he knew every step his lover would take in this dance. They feel into it as if choreographed. Yet Zhaolin was controlled by his rage, unbalanced in his emotions and unable to control the Force within him. Zhenya had no problem sidestepping a sloppy thrust of his spear and slipping the wicked tip of his blade deep into Zhaolin’s side.
It wouldn’t kill him. Zhenya didn’t want to extinguish his lover, merely to clip those wings of rage into something more malleable.
“She always was such a wasted talent…”
The words were tossed over his shoulder, as if to comfort Zhaolin as he sank to his knees in the sand. Zhenya could feel those eyes on his body as he felled those remaining in the Bloodletting.
The three had managed to win their little skirmish, they’d managed to survive. Nyssa could barely believe it. She’d heard about Zhaolin and Meili’s skill, but rarely did she get to see an example of just how impressive they were. Even without his sword, Zhaolin was fighting like a machine. The weight of danger lifted from the woman’s chest, a sense of safety falling over her beside the two. A safety that was destroyed by the sudden flash of black blurring past her.
Nyssa watched as Meili fell to the ground, her eyes glued to the woman’s lifeless orbs. The sight of her neck split open seared into her mind. It was the sound of metal clashing that brought her attention away from the warm corpse as the man who saved her fought against Meili’s killer. She recognized him as Zhenya, the man she thought Zhaolin had been dating. Surprise crossed her features, barely disguising the nausea she felt seeing someone die. Corpses she’d seen plenty of, but never did she have to witness something so terribly brutal.
Next came a cry of pain from the man who had saved her. Her eyes darted to Zhenya and she wondered if she was next, though she hadn’t seemed to have drawn any of his attention. The moment he turned away, she dropped the sword she was holding and dashed to Zhaolin, falling to her knees beside him. There was no saving Meili, she knew that. But maybe she could repay her savior in kind. “D-don’t move,” she commanded as gently pushed him onto his back. Tears welled in her eyes as she listened to Zhaolin’s protests, her hands already atop his wound. She focused her power into him, encouraging his body to knit itself back together. The pain he felt, both emotional and physical, were more than she’d ever be able to bear.
“Help her,” Zhaolin pleaded, ordered even.
“She’s gone, Zhaolin. I’m sorry but just sit still. There’s no reason for you to die, too.” Nyssa focused, trying to control her breaths. She couldn’t focus, she couldn’t put what she had learned into practice, so she leaned into old habits. She put all she could into the man, refusing to let him die, pouring her own life into his wound. “Please don’t die…” she mumbled under her breath.
It felt like there would never be enough air to fill his lungs. Hands were moving over him, but he felt nothing. Heard nothing. Every fiber of his being was balking at the impossible notion that Meili was gone. Years they’d been together, side by side through thick and thin. Every training session, every trial - they were supposed to leave this planet together as blooded warriors. Now her blood mottled the sand and he would never again listen to her wish for a life that was more in the quiet of the night.
The healer was leaning over him, mumbling and threading her own life force into him. It was a sensation so familiar and yet Zhaolin felt like he would never heal. Lungs unfurling in a greedy bid for air, he gasped through another rising wave of emotion. Rolling to his side, the sand coating his damp flesh, Zhaolin took hold of her arm. Finding it in himself to struggle to his feet, he cast about for Zhenya even as he drug the young woman to her feet.
“Where-” his voice was hollow, wild eyes frantically scanning the Pit for that specific shade of cobalt that would surely haunt him, “Where is Zhenya?”
His question was drowned out by a booming voice that rumbled over the arena like distant rolling thunder. It proclaimed Zhenya the victor. Zhaolin’s eyes snapped to the raised dais above the very cells they’d emerged from earlier. There he found those deep blue-black eyes staring back at him. Merciless, cold. His own silver eyes flashed, hard fury etching the lines of his face.
There was no love blossoming in his chest now. It was only the deep, constricting grip of thorns wrapped around his heart. Vengeance was the only thing that mattered now. Still tightly gripping the healer’s arm he automatically took several steps toward the dais, dragging her in his wake. Beside Zhenya was a distinct looking Falleen and a grizzled Cathar in worn armor.
The Falleen said something to the Grand Pitmaster, then motioned for the Cathar and Zhenya to follow. As he departed the dais they fell into step behind him. Right then and there Zhaolin swore that he would repay the debt of bones left behind on the sands. He would cut down the man he had called lover. A cold clarity settled like a mantle over his shoulders, clearing the dull roar in his mind.
“If you want to live…you should probably find a way out.”
The remark was almost devoid of emotion, silver-blue eyes pinpointing a cell door damaged during the fighting. Soon large, ravenous beasts would be released into the Pit to devour the wounded and dying. Escaping was the final phase of the Bloodletting. Those of value - like Zhenya - had already been bought and paid for. All that remained were those who had been bested. If they managed to exit the arena then they could live to try again. But Zhaolin had other plans.
He would live and he would leave this planet. Releasing the healer, he headed toward the broken cell door. He would live and he would hunt. First he needed to find a way off the planet, then he would worry about finding Zhenya. Slipping into the chamber embedded in the wall of the arena, his mind was wholly focused on his unfolding plan. Vaguely he felt a twinge in his chest as he realized he held only his spear, his sword left with the healer.
“Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die…” Nyssa chanted her small prayer to the universe, fear and grief filling her heart. The pain that Zhaolin felt over losing his friend, over the betrayal of his lover, coursed through Nyssa as she healed the man. She tried not to take as she gave, but sometimes she couldn’t help it. She began to cry with him, focusing until his wound was mostly healed. Her concentration was broken when the man grabbed her arm and began to stand. Nyssa wasn’t a fool, she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep the man down, not with how he was feeling. So instead, she assisted him in standing, helping keep him level as her legs threatened to give out from under her. The strength of the hand around her arm would surely leave bruises, but she didn’t care. If it wasn’t for Zhaolin’s healing factor, she’d have passed out from the effort.
Nyssa opened her mouth to respond to the man but was cut off, the answer to his question was being played over the loudspeakers. She traced his gaze to the dais and immediately felt fear, a sharp contrast to the burning anger beside her. Zhenya had bested two of the best fighters Nyssa had ever seen, and there he was, the winner, looking down at her companion. Part of the woman wanted to distance herself from Zhaolin all to get away from Zhenya’s gaze, but she had felt more safe beside him than she had in years. She wouldn’t let him get away that easily.
And it seemed he wouldn’t let her go either as he dragged her along, getting closer to the dais and the killer that stood upon it. She thought maybe that meant he would be keeping her around, but her hopes were dashed when Zhaolin spoke to her with little emotion, his grip releasing. She knew what would happen soon, and she knew she could never survive. Nyssa watched in stunned silence, paralyzed by fear as Zhaolin walked away from her and towards escape, towards freedom. Her best way out was him, but she had no idea if she would be allowed to join. The healer didn’t have time to choose, she simply had to act. With fear gripping her heart, she began to follow Zhaolin, his sword in her hand. Even if all he did was clear a path for her, she would be grateful and better off for it.
Upon entering the chamber, Nyssa had a thought. Did Zhenya even know where he was going? The fighters were allowed less privileges than her, privileges that had been taken from her as she tried to escape over the years. But she still remembered where exits were, where hallways led to. Maybe she could be of help.
“I think I know how to get out of here,” she said to the man, hoping he’d hear her. “I could lead you?”
Zhaolin hesitated for a moment. Indecision wore on his face as he stared at the healer. What he was doing—escaping—was forbidden by the Pitmasters. The only way out was to become a blooded warrior in a Bloodletting. The same way Zhenya had earned his release from the gore covered sands. A Rattataki curse spilled from his lips as Zhaolin paced, thoughts tumultuous in his mind.
If they were caught before they made it off planet they’d be killed. Of that he was certain. She had no business fighting, she was a healer. Surely, an insidious thought came to him, she would slow him down. Better to leave her, right? Meili’s face flashed in front of him; a raw wound already festering. No. He couldn’t. Not again. Making up his mind in that moment, Zhaolin snatched the healer by the arm and brought her close.
“If I say hide, you hide. If I say run, you—”
“Run, yes I know. I can do that.” She cut him off, agreeing quickly.
This was his—their only chance. With a curt nod, he released her and allowed Nyssa to explain the network of tunnels used by the healers to move throughout the fighters’ chambers. Carefully they made their way through the empty stone halls to the port. This was the only time of year that it was filled down to the last bay. Ships of all shapes and sizes awaited cargo and passengers alike.
Silver-blue eyes roved over them until Zhaolin spotted a smaller freighter, tucked into an out of the way bay and he felt in his gut that they had to make it on that ship. Half dragging his companion along, he positioned them between tall stacks of durasteel containers and pointed at the lowered boarding ramp.
“We cannot be seen, we cannot be heard.” His voice was low, lips pressed to the curve of her ear as he explained, “We must get on that ship and find somewhere to hide.”
Beyond that he had no plan, no idea of what they would find or where they would be going. But they would be free of Rattatak and the Blood Furnace, and Zhaolin would be free to pursue the one he’d once called lover. Using his connection to the Force—something the Pitmasters had expressly forbidden—Zhaolin could faintly feel the movement of the freighter’s minimal crew.
When the moment was right he surged to his feet, bringing the healer with him. Like a crack of lightning he was off, sprinting across the distance to the ramp. His hold on her arm slipped, but he managed to catch hold of a hand and refused to let go. Clearing the ramp, Zhaolin quickly took them opposite of the crew and found them a place to stow away at the rear of the ship. Tucked into shadows with her, his intense gaze met her own wide-eyed stare.
They were free.