The healing priestesses worked quickly, weaving restorative magic over the combatants until bruises faded and torn flesh knit together as though the battles had left nothing more than memory. The scent of herbs and incense lingered in the waiting room, where the fighters sat recovering in silence, listening to the muffled roar of the Colosseum outside.
Helga flexed her arm, rolling her shoulder where Circe's magic had scorched her earlier. The skin was unmarred now, but the phantom ache reminded her of every second of the duel. She caught sight of Circe across the chamber—lounging against a column, combing her hair idly with her fingers, basking in the victory glow as though she'd just returned from a pleasant evening stroll instead of a grueling battle.
Helga rose.
Her boots struck the stone floor in measured steps as she closed the distance. Circe's violet eyes lifted lazily, then gleamed with amusement when the German mercenary stopped in front of her.
"Well, well," Circe purred, brushing a lock of silken hair behind her ear. "Do you want another round already? I must warn you, darling—I can go all night."
Helga's jaw tightened. "I'm not here for that."
Circe tilted her head, lips curving into a playful smirk. "Oh?"
"Teach me," Helga said, her voice clipped. "About magic."
For a moment, Circe blinked in genuine surprise. Then, slowly, she pushed away from the column and approached. Her perfume smelled faintly of roses and smoke. She cupped Helga's chin with delicate fingers, tilting the soldier's face up toward her own.
"It isn't often," Circe murmured, "that a defeated opponent seeks out the woman who humbled her and asks for lessons."
Helga slapped her hand away, scowling. "Are you going to answer me or not?"
Circe chuckled, clearly delighted by the defiance. "So fiery. Fine." She leaned in, whispering close enough that Helga could feel the warmth of her breath. "Since I can't seem to find a man worthy of me, perhaps I'll pass the time trying to make you worthy instead." She pressed a kiss to Helga's cheek before Helga could dodge.
Helga recoiled, wiping her face with the back of her hand, glaring daggers.
Circe only smiled wider, savoring the reaction. "After the match," she promised, "come find me."
Before Helga could retort, a trumpet blast sounded from the arena outside. Phil's booming voice carried over the stone walls:
"Alright, folks, it's time for the Beginner's Cup Finals! You've seen them fight their way here—now it's the clash you've all been waiting for! On one side: the ruthless enchantress with spells sharp enough to cut stone—Circe! And on the other: the spear-wielding storm herself, the Amazon warrior who crushed every opponent in her path—Tempest!"
The crowd's roar was deafening, shaking the chamber walls. Circe's eyes glimmered as she sashayed toward the exit. "Try not to blink, darling," she threw over her shoulder to Helga.
Helga muttered something in German that the priestesses did not to understand.
The Colosseum floor was ablaze with anticipation. Dust swirled in the sunbeams that cut through the high arches, and banners snapped in the wind. On one side, Circe stepped gracefully into the light, her robe trailing like molten silk. On the other hand, Tempest strode forward, spear in hand, her posture rigid, her eyes locked onto her opponent.
The crowd chanted Tempest's name, then shifted to Circe's, the stadium divided between the warrior's strength and the sorceress's allure.
The gong sounded.
Tempest charged first, spear low, her boots tearing furrows in the sand. She lunged, thrusting for Circe's chest—but the enchantress spun aside, skirts flaring, and snapped her fingers. A wall of flame erupted in Tempest's path.
The Amazon didn't flinch. She spun her spear and struck the ground, vaulting high over the blaze, twisting in midair to bring the spear down at Circe's head.
Circe lifted her palm—Reflect shimmered into existence, a crystalline dome of light. Tempest's spear slammed against it, sparking violently, but Circe only smirked.
"You'll have to do better, darling."
Tempest landed, spear scraping sparks across the barrier, then shoved hard. The barrier shattered in a burst of light, forcing Circe to stumble back. The crowd erupted.
Circe's smile thinned. "Very well."
She flicked her hand, and shards of ice shot across the sand. Tempest spun her spear in a blur, deflecting the first barrage, but one shard grazed her shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.
Tempest grimaced but pressed forward. She swept her spear low, kicking sand into Circe's eyes, then pivoted into a roundhouse strike with the weapon's butt.
Circe snarled, raising a gust of wind that hurled Tempest back across the arena. The Amazon skidded, heels digging furrows, but planted her spear to halt her momentum. She spat blood, lifted her weapon, and grinned.
"That's all you've got?"
The crowd roared approval.
They clashed again—Circe hurling thunderbolts that split the air with blinding light, Tempest darting through with spear whirls and feints. A bolt slammed into the spear's shaft, vibrating it in her grip, but she twisted and redirected the energy, stabbing the spearhead into the ground. The lightning discharged harmlessly into the sand.
Circe's eyes widened, then narrowed in irritation.
Tempest used the moment, lunging in close. The spear sliced through Circe's robe, nicking her thigh. Circe hissed, retaliating with a point-blank Aero burst that sent Tempest flying. The Amazon hit the wall hard, but rolled, came up bleeding and smiling through her teeth.
"Finally," Tempest growled. "A real fight."
The crowd chanted both their names now, caught in the thrill of a battle without a clear victor.
Circe lifted both hands, summoning twin orbs of fire and ice, hurling them together so they spiraled in a deadly dance. Tempest twirled her spear, eyes locked, waiting until the last second—then split the orbs apart with a savage slash. The explosion rocked the arena, but she emerged from the smoke, charging once more.
Circe raised another Reflect, but Tempest feinted left, then vaulted off the barrier itself, using it as a springboard to dive over Circe's head. She landed behind her and swung the spear in a vicious arc.
Circe ducked barely in time, hair whipping free. She retaliated with a Slow spell; the gray energy latched onto Tempest's frame. The Amazon's movements staggered, each motion dragging as if through water.
The crowd gasped. Circe smirked, confidence returning.
But even slowed, Tempest adapted—short, brutal strikes, using Circe's arrogance against her. When Circe stepped in to gloat, Tempest drove her knee into the enchantress's stomach, drawing a grunt of pain.
The two locked eyes, both bloodied, both smiling dangerously now.
Minutes passed in a storm of fire, ice, spear thrusts, and shattered barriers. Circe's magic tore furrows in the sand; Tempest's spear broke the air like thunder.
Neither yielded.
Neither broke.
The final exchange of the round saw Tempest hurl her spear like a javelin—Circe caught it in a Reflect bubble, twisting it in midair, and flung it back. Tempest caught it on the rebound, sliding back a foot in the dust, grinning savagely.
The crowd thundered their approval, chanting both names as the gong sounded—marking the round's pause, not the victory.
Circe flicked a strand of hair from her face, eyes smoldering. Tempest twirled her spear, chest heaving, every muscle taut with anticipation.
The fight was nowhere near finished.
And the Colosseum had never cheered louder.