The arena is my stage, and a sword is my prop. At least, for today that is.

A sea of vibrant coats roar from the stadium, banners fluttering with provincial pride. I even see a few Valken’s in the far back, cheering for me. I wave, and they cheer louder.

Most days the arena is empty, say for the few students who are given clearance to spar here. But today isn’t most days. It’s the damn winter solstice. And I sure as hell plan on making it out alive.

Ten students, each with different colored armor plates stand at their base, swords in hand. A green-clad girl I don’t recognize hangs her head low, trembling. I don’t think it’s the cold that’s got to her.

Every year, the best students of each province from the graduating class of Quarstias academy put on what our professors call a show.

We’re chosen weeks prior, and don’t train in refining our combat or agility. We were chosen because we’ve already mastered it. Instead, we’re trained in the dramatics. How to draw blood without killing. Though, if someone ends up dying in the hands of a blood thirsty student, it would make more of an eventful night.

The scribes begin recording. The nobles keep an eye on their province. Lord Knott scowls at me and the purple crest we share. Not even he has hope in me. Not when half the people in this arena want me dead.

The announcer blows the horn, and it takes everything I have to rip my legs off the thick mud and run.

To my left, red and blue seem to have made a pact, taunting the girl in green.

To my right, Finn strides towards me, parting the way of young soldiers. No one wants to initiate a fight with him.

"Mel," he taunts, sword unsheathed. Screw theatrics; I maintain distance.

“Running away, again?”

At that, I freeze.

His long finger traces his scar from his temple to his neck, a scar that speaks of the pain I inflicted. Though I didn’t mean to harm him, my actions did. And he has made sure he strike back for years. Once, guilt lingered, but now it tastes of bitter hatred.

“I think it’s time I repay the favor.”

I grip my sword defensively, matching his strides forward. This is really happening.

He’s the first to strike, swinging the sword just a hair away from my torso. To the people in the audience, it looks like a mistake. To me, a taunt.

I plunge my sword towards his chest plate and he staggers back, but not nearly far enough.

“If I didn’t have a chest plate, that would surly be a fatal blow” he says, swinging his sword. I dodge

“Good.”

We exchange attacks, building up the tension as even other fighters catch weary glances.

I have to remind myself it’s not about winning, or who walks out the bloodiest. It’s all a show, and he’s playing into the dramatics like a performer.

I throw jabs to his right and he dodges every time, stepping closer and closer.

The horn is blown twice. Two more minutes.

Tightly grabbing the sword, I swing at his feet and he falls to his knees. Just as quickly, he gets back up and knock the sword out of my hand with a kick to my knuckles.

That’s not fair, I want to say. But it is. We’re trained with swords, but I’ll be damned if punches aren’t thrown.

I stumble to get my sword back, careful not to turn my back on Finn. I grab it by the edge and drag it towards me.

“Careful. You’ll cut yourself” Finn says.

“Careful” I mimic. “I can cut you.”

He frowns. “You already have.”

I look towards his scar and back at his eyes. Then, I get back up and continue the fight.

The horns blown once.

“Is there anything you can do besides grazing my armor? This performance must be getting quite boring” I say as he lunges his sword forward, blocked by mine.

“There is. Though not much you would enjoy.”

I glance at the crowd, the king, all awaiting our next move. So does Finn, and then he swings his sword beneath my feet, mimicking my earlier move.

I roll away, but his boot pins my hair.

I’m dead. Deader than dead. And what a humiliating death this would be.

“Say” he whispers, so only I can hear. “How grand is your will to live?”

I kick forward. “You’ve seen.”

“So I have.”

And when the final horn in blown, I clench my hands around the sword he steps on, prepared to go down with a fight.

But instead of bringing the sword down, he nicks my ear and…smiles?

“Till the next sparring” he says.

Walking towards the exit with bloodied and bruised rivals, I count ten. None are dead.

The crowds cheer, the king smiles, and our professors will be glad to hear about the performance.

But all I can help thinking about is if Finn hadn’t taken up all my time, the others would have been ready to kill me.

I betrayed them after all. At least that’s how everyone sees it.