The blade unraveled like made from string, thought it stayed in the position no matter the force until the wielder let it off. The trees rustled, bushes swayed. Wind blew, clouds traveled. All was moving, but the blade stayed perfectly still. The wielder never moved. A bounty hunter, the best of them all, paid from the dark web and back alleyways. She is what he came for. A powerful magic user, one of the last, the kingdom was trying to save the magic, to use them and harness it. The combatants in the shadows did not want their rivals to take advantage. They wanted them all gone. Every. Last. One. She was smart, she hid for as long as she could, 15 years since her power was discovered, and fought after. Yet, "Her wits were no match to my blade." I told the master.

Emma prided herself on her wits. It was the one thing she could always rely on. When all else failed, she could always get herself out of whatever hole she dug. However, sometimes wit bowed to strength. To uncontrollable, brutal strength. "Ha!" He exclaimed, shoving his hands to the side. "You see! Her wits were no match to my blade!" The man pulled out his sword to emphasize his point. Emma was on her knees beneath him. Trying to hold in her smile. They forgot one important little detail. Aros has an abundance of strength. And he was in the room with them.

Emma didn't even have to think about giving the signal when Aros pounced. He pulled the scythe from his back at pressed it to the man's throat. Blood seamed at the impact.

"What was that about wits and blades?" Emma snarked as she rose, dusting herself off. "That they were no match?"

"Uh... Em?" Aros pressed the scythe closer, "This wasn't exactly a plan."

"-they don't need to know that!" She interrupted, "Plus it was as good as any!"

metal against metal, she sought to distract me with her tongue; spewing words that were meant to cloud my mind.

but her wits were no match to my blade. metal against skin. watching her crumple to the floor.

“Luring you was harder than anticapted,” Azriel grinned, malice curling its sharp edges and curving his words. “You’re a hard woman to find, Anala Crux, it intrigues me. You intrigue me.”

His strong hand rises to my face, tanned fingers still dripping warm blood as his fingers caress the air above my cheek with that sadistic bare of his teeth. It takes all of me not to flinch, not to step back and snarl the forbidden curses that had rolled off of Mora’s tongue so easily. He looses a breath, shaky and deranged and teetering along a giggle.

“Well, I’m here now.” I sneered in lieu of the dread churning my chest.

“Yes,” He purred, his fingers twitching at my searing cheeks. “And what a prize you are.”

Prize? Is that what this was to him… a game? We were just chess pieces moving along a checkered board, waiting for our turn to brutally slain and buried along its outer-edges. We were nothing, meant nothing. Not me; not Mora; not Milo. No one. Arden was right — Azriel was an irredeemable, flaming piece of hell-raised shit.

“Prize?” I grit through tightly clenched teeth. “I am not your prize, Azriel Vustragae.”

Azriel pauses, demented grin faltering. His green eyes flecked with rage and surged with keening shock, but they don’t glow, don’t illuminate a deep, glistening crimson like Kellan told they always did when he felt anything. I wonder fleetingly, if Azriel wasn’t as invincible as we’d all been living like he was, as unfairly powerful.

He recovers quickly, the corners of his narrow eyes crinkling with his chesire smile. “There it is,” He breathed. “That fight, that… wit that I was promised.” Azriel steps forward, so close his breath tickles the bridge of my nose and his forehead hovers over mine. His hand drops onto my shoulder, heavy like a ragged rock, and squeezes lightly.

I roll the joint and jerk backwards, trying to get his spindly, bloody touch far far away. Azriel follows and presses closer. His gaze is hooded and seethes satisfaction. “Promised?”

His hum is gravelly and resounds through the clearing with the same withering intensity of the Bozaite only minutes before. His eyes follow the crease of my scowl. “By Kellan.” He rumbles. “By the little warrior you were so fond of. By June, by Arius, by the faeries and the people.”

The disgust licks through me as he lists of their names — names of people who had fought valiantly and subcame to grusome, brutal fates for freedom’s will; for me. It flourishes, and flows, and overtakes until there’s nothing left for me to do but feel it with all its suffocating gravity, stopped only by a groaning dam. But underneath it is a river of thick rage, gnashing its knife through my vining tendons and bleeding a mournful longing. Longing for all of those lost lives, forgotten stories.

“By Mora.” Azriel whispers. I sneer deeper. “She put up the hardest fight. Slashing her sword through the air with more passion than I’ve seen in so long, spitting curses every chance she had. She was good, she would have made a great addition to my people — too bad you got your grips in her first. Passion, bravery and wit; what a rare combination.”

“Fuck you.” I snarl, more animal than human, more fae than myself. Azriel goes on, as unaffected by raw displays of supernatural as I’d come to be.

“Of course,” He shrugs a muscled shoulder, his sharpened, white canines gleaming against the kaleidoscoping, golden rays peaking through the trees. “Her wits were no match to my blade.”

The creaking levee snaps, bursting at the seams with molten fury.

Kiana's green eyes blazed with a burning fury that could put her unruly red locks to shame., her grip on her sword tightened until her knuckles turned white. Harlem, her features set in a grim line and her blonde hair braided in preparation for a battle long awaited ,mirrored the intensity, her own weapon drawn and ready. She had been waiting for this opportunity for far too long. Ever since the king of their lands was assassinated, and Kiana had been proven to be the mastermind behind the entire ordeal. Of course, the coward had immediately gone into hiding, but she should have known she couldn’t outrun Harlem forever.

"Your blade may be sharp, Harlem, but it will never taste victory!" Kiana spat out the words, each one laced with venom.

Harlem's response was a guttural growl as she lunged forward, her blade slicing through the air with deadly precision. ‘’ Some nerve you have! You fucking traitor!’’

Kiana sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a vicious swipe aimed at Harlem's head. Metal clashed against metal, sending sparks flying into the night. ‘’ oh, Harlem. Such a naïve little girl. I didn’t kill the king. I simply took the actions to get the job done,’’ she said with a malice grin, regaining her stance and repositioning her sword. That was all Harlem needed to hear. No more talking. She smiled back at Kiana, for she knew that she would have her head soon enough.

The fight escalated quickly. Their swords moved faster than the eye could follow. Kiana's anger fueled her attacks, each one more ferocious than the last. She was a whirlwind of fury. Her blade sought Harlem's flesh with a relentless drive.

Harlem fought back with equal ferocity. Her defense was as impenetrable as stone. She parried and dodged, her sword a blur as she fought to find an opening in Kiana's onslaught. The women were locked in a dance of death, their movements a deadly mix of aggression and skill.

With a roar, Kiana unleashed a series of strikes, each one more powerful than the last. Harlem was forced back. Her boots dug into the earth as she struggled to keep up. But in her eyes, there was no fear, only the cold determination of a hunter stalking her prey.

In a moment of sheer brutality, Kiana's sword found its mark, cutting a deep gash across Harlem's arm. Blood spurted onto the ground, staining the forest floor Crimson. Harlem hissed in pain but did not falter. Instead, she used Kiana's momentary satisfaction to launch a counterattack.

Their swords smashed together again with a groan like thunder. The force of the impact reverberated through the woods. Kiana's arm shook from the collision, but she pressed on, driven by a rage that seemed to consume her very soul.

The battle raged on, neither willing to yield. With each passing second, the likelihood of death loomed larger. They were no longer just fighters; they were warriors hungry for blood.

As the fight reached its climax, Harlem saw her chance. Kiana, blinded by anger, left herself open. With a vicious series of spins and a monstrous roar, Harlem's blade pierced Kiana's heart. The light in Kiana's eyes flickered and died, her body convulsing and collapsing to the ground with a thud that seemed to silence the forest itself.

Harlem stood over Kiana, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. ‘’ Nice try, bitch!’’ She snarled, her expression one of fury and victory. With a sinister smile and a twinkle in her eye, she stared up at the night sky. ’’ Her wits were no match to my blade, King,’’ she said softly, before spitting on the body of her enemy and triumphantly sheathing her sword. With her chin held high, Harlem turned to walk away from the forest – not so much as giving Kiana a second glance.

Dazai is far away from his past now. Like a dog running from a collar— he never quite slips away. It'll always hang firmly around his neck, invisibly visible to all.

He doesn't work for the Port Mafia anymore; he left Chuuya behind without a word. It still haunts him every moment he breathes.

Now he works for the Armed Detective Agency and only very lately, has talked to Chuuya again. The four years he spent away from his soulmate hits him like a brick in the gut everytime he sees the man. How could he?

"Dazai-kun?" Kenji pipes up, sipping messily on his hot chocolate compared to Kyouka, whose silently drinking in an orderly, quiet and calm manner, "What's Mr. Fancy Hat like outside of work?"

Mr. Fancy Hat is obviously Chuuya, gaining popularity among the younger members of most organisations with his useless almost maternal style.

"Well," Dazai taps his chin mockingly, thinking about what lie to make up about Chuuya this time, "He's very witty. Sarcastic, too. But really, he's just one big softie, who loves dogs and wine and romance films and cello music and jazz bars and dad-rock songs..."

Wow, he really has gone soft. None of that was a lie, and he ending up sort of... gushing about Chuuya. Who would gush about that guy? Dazai hates him afterall.

Kenji smiles, "Mr. Fancy Hat says you like to try and stab him."

Dazai barks out a laugh and Kyouka even smirks a little into her cup— Dazai couldn't lay a finger on Chuuya if the man didn't want him to! Let alone stab him. Dazai's the verbal ventriloquist, Chuuya's the final act of violence.

"Dazai-kun couldn't touch Chuuya-kun," Kyouka giggles softly, swirling the leftover hot chocolate around gently in his cup.

Dazai lays an offended hand to his chest, gasping loudly for dramatic effect, "Why, I'll have you know I lay hands on him all the time," He snickers at his own dirty joke, "But... I suppose, yes, my blade is no match for his wits!"

Chuuya is more of a feeling. A feeling Dazai will miss for as long as breath comes from his mouth, as long as there's still moisture in his body, and even as long as he remains fictional for.

Kenji suddenly brightens tenfold, waving over Dazai and when he turns around, there's a faintly annoyed looking Chuuya standing behind him.

"What's this about laying hands on me?"

Her mind was sharp No doubt about that But my knife was sharper Hence my attack

It wasn’t that hard I had nothing to lose Just one fatal mistake And I couldn’t refuse

It was me It was me and nobody else I’m sorry I really didn’t think this out

Now after the fact, I ask myself “why?” How can I live When I caused her to die?

And after thinking And thinking And thinking a lot

I have come to the conclusion

I simply cannot…

Silvanus entered the passageway to the arena, his light armor clinked around on each other. He could hear the cheers and excitement of the crowd, and became nervous. He would be fighting for his life with barely any protection, and a sword that was too heavy for his lanky arms. As Silvanus walked forward to the open air, the dirt crunched under his feet, and the air was full of anticipation. He came up through the tunnel, the light almost blinding him, and saw the arena. It was as big as an agora but it was empty with no structures except for on the outskirts. He looked to the other side of the stadium and saw a massive armored man with a huge club to fit him. The man looked as if he could crush Silvanus with no force at all, and he began to fear the worst. The man came towards him, with a murderous look on his face and Silvanus walked forward. Before they reached each other, Silvanus picked up a handful of dirt and came at him. The man prepared himself and put himself in a defensive position. That's when Silvanus knew that this man had once been a soldier, unlike himself, who was a thief. Silvanus threw the dirt at the soldier’s face and the man backed up giving him a swipe at his leg. He cut his leg and came up to the other side of the man, but when Silvanus turned, the brutish and enraged man was already up and facing him. Yes, this man was definitely a good gladiator. Silvanus stood there as the gladiator walked towards him ignoring the cut leg, which was bleeding. He dodged a swipe from the club that came towards his head and then another. Silvanus had to play this smart or else he would die. The man attacked him again and he rolled away towards his non-injured leg and cut his achilles tendon. The beast screamed and fell to his knees. This was his opportunity to finish him. Silvanus walked to his back and when he was about to strike, a club came out to his chest and hit him. He was sent sprawling several feet away, and hit the floor hard. Slivanus gasped as the air was strewn away from his lungs, he tried to get up but he became dizzy. When the dizziness subsided, he finally saw the man who was towering over him. Silvanus tried to dodge but was sent flying again. He couldn’t do this anymore, he thought. He got up again, spitting blood out of his mouth and glared at the gargantuan. Silvanus prepared himself as the man approached. The gladiator knew he had him and swept his club towards his head, but Silvanus ducked down, still drowsy from the previous hit, he swept his sword up, and hoped he hit something, anything. He kept his eyes closed and awaited the death he deserved but nothing came. He heard nothing at first, and then he heard a vast uproar of cheering. Silvanus, confused, opened his eyes and looked around. The crowd cheered at him. He looked at his feet and saw the gladiator dead. He had won. The realization that he would live to see at least one more day hit, and he fell to his knees to praise Jupiter. After his praise, he stood up, legs shaking, and slowly walked to the tunnel he had come from. He would live another day.

She thought she was good. she thought she could beat me because she had beaten so many others. The reality is, that she had never seen anything like me before. We fought for no more than 15 minutes in a duel spectated by many. We exchanged many blows, fighting ferociously. The whole while I stayed calm. many times I dodged a swipe at the head, then deflected another blow. In my opinion it was one of the easiest fights I had ever fought. I had fought many others, who were much greater. "You know what? You know why I beat her so easily?" I said to my friend. He was a big man; tall, dark hair, brown eyes and rough patches over his hands and arms. He had a muscular build, accomponied by a big sword on his back. He had a square face as well as a beard that made him look like a viking. "What? How?" said he. "Her wits were no match to my blade. She didn't know enough to be able to beat me. It was time for someone to show her that she wasn't great." "Don't you think that was a little cruel of you, though?" "No, she needed it. How else is she going to improve?" I said. "Well, I guess you can see it that way," said my friend. "What would you have done? You are much better than me at the sword and beat me almost every fight we have," I said. "I would have made the fight longer for one, and maybe NOT have severed her left ear." "That was a little unexpected for me to do but she dodged the wrong way, ok?" "Fine, I must leave anyway," he said. "Who you hunting now?" I said grimly. "A rich tyrant. He is said to have been slowly taking over this village and my boss wants him dead." "How much for him?" I asked curiously. "50 pounds of gold." I whistled, in surprise. "Good luck." "Thank you." With that he left in the night and headed east.

“You. WHAT?” I cringe as Hanna’s clearly enraged voice causes the walls of our small sleeping quarters to tremble. I know she heard me the first time, but I’m also not sure if she wants me to say it to her again so I can hear how stupid we were, or if this is the beginning of a rant. “Look, it wasn’t supposed to end that way. We were just going to be in and out. No one was supposed to… “To DIE?!” Hanna throws her arms up in the air, and I take a step back. This is the first time I’ve seen her so mad. Rightful so. Still, I’m worried she’s going to evolve into a werewolf and eat us all. “Philip wasn’t even going to come until an hour or two ago. He told me if we didn’t bring him, he’d tell you, like the moody, annoying, egotistic reject child he is.” I make sure I make deathly eye contact with him as I say those last words. He only smiles mockingly and goes back to picking bits of dried blood of the little knife he now holds like a medal of valor. He’d always told me he wanted his first kill to be special. But that was supposed to be a joke or something. Not real. Hanna slumps against the wall rubbing her forehead and muttering to herself. I look over at Riley, who was supposed to be the only other one who snuck into the Bruner’s manor with me. If it had been just the two of us, none of this ever would have happened. We make a reluctant eye contact. I can see the emotions swimming behind his eyes. Mostly a great frustration, probably directed at anyone but himself. Probably mostly at Philip. Hanna starts pacing again, arms crossed and chewing her lip. “Okay tell me what happened again. We need to find out just how bad this is.” I’m quite sure we’re all going to have our heads lopped off in front of the entire if she hears the story again or not, but I know it help her think better, so I do. “We were planning to go in through the kitchen window. The cook leaves a pie on the window sill every Sunday to cool, there fore leaving the window open. Then we’d sneak up to Ella’s room, take back your pocket watch, and come back.” I can see Hanna about to tell me that she asked for the story, not the failed plan, so I continue before she can. “But, on our way out of Ella’s room, she came in. She was giddy, saying how we’d finally get put away like we should be. Talked about her higher education, how she doesn’t even know how ‘scum like us’ are allowed to live.” “That higher education isn’t going to do her very well if she’s harried sick feet under.” Riley scoffs. Hanna shoots him a glare. “And so Philip killed her? For being snobby?” Now it’s my turn to rub my forehead. “If you want to put it that way. She did a little more than be snobby though. She told us that she was going to carve the words ‘street maggot’ into our heads as a method of punishment. That she would laugh at our demise.” “It’s psychopathic, Hanna!” Riley inserts, “Philip was doing the world a bit of a favour, no matter how awful.” “I’d like to hear Philip speak for himself.” Hanna says. The three of us all turn to look at him. He’s still cleaning his bloodied knife. “Her wits were no match for my blade. She was asking to be stabbed, You see. I had to. There was no other way. And aren’t you happy we got your watch back?” He smiles innocently at us as he pulls the golden clock from his coat pocket. It ticks loudly in the silence that follows.