Trial Challenge - Luna vs. Luna
1084 Words
Arena Match
The arena wasn’t a cave with torches but a training dome—glass ceiling, LED rings, cameras hidden in the rafters. The mat was striped: white yield circle, blue weapons lane. A med team waited behind the plexiglass. A referee in black stood midline, mic in hand.
Talia rolled her shoulders, still feeling Aunt Amalia’s crash course in her bones: tap, listen, feel for seams. Across from her, Mira stretched like a gymnast trained for an audience. She picked a saber and a hooked knife—sharp, stylish, mean.
“Rules are simple,” the referee intoned. “First to yield loses. No killing. Weapons are allowed. Cameras rolling.”
Lucian takes the high bench with the elders; Casius stands a step behind his right shoulder. Alina slides into the row below beside Aunt Amalia. Without looking down, Casius passes a water bottle along. Without looking up, Alina takes it.
Kaela wakes, stretching within Talia’s mind. Tail up. Watching Casius and Alina. Cute.
Talia selected a short sword and a forearm knife, balanced them, then flicked her wrist. The blade sang.
Mira smirked. “Pretty. Let’s see if you’re so pretty after the match.”
Talia smiled politely. “Pretty is for photos. I’m here to win.”
Laughter rippled from the benches. Lucian didn’t smile, but heat burned in his eyes.
“Begin.”
First blood came in fast from Mira—saber probing, knife-hunting ribs. Talia parried, pivoted, steel grazing her jacket. The crowd hushed. Mira pressed again, but Talia’s knife kissed leather and peeled a strip. Mira’s eyes narrowed.
They circled. Talia tapped her heel, listening. The mat thrummed alive—then stuttered. A dead spot. Noted.
Mira swept low; Talia leaped and landed on a light and slapped her blade across Mira’s thigh—a clean point. Scoreboard lit.
“You’ve been practicing,” Mira said.
“Since I could walk.”
Blades clashed again. Mira snagged Talia’s sleeve, but Talia countered, pommel popping Mira’s forearm until her knife dropped. Mira’s saber sang close to Talia’s face.
Another tap—the seam pulled along the weapons lane. Drive her there, Kaela urged.
Mira tossed a silver charm. The ward devoured it. Talia snorted. “Party favors? Really?”
They pressed in close—elbows, breath, clove oil, and metal. Kaela whispered, "She has tells; watch the hip." Talia did, turned, and forced Mira into the seam. A quick arc knocked the saber clear. Scoreboard lit again.
Mira flipped back, catlike, wire snapping from her belt. It kinked in the seam, making it useless.
“Bad plan,” Talia quipped. “Great outfit.”
Mira shifted, unleashing her stunning silver wolf, claws and teeth, pinning Talia with a growled “Yield.”
“No,” Talia breathed—and kicked her off. Mira shifted back midair, naked, and hit the floor. Talia pounced, pinning her knee to the sternum, forearm to the throat, sword at the collarbone. “Yield.”
Mira glanced at the elders, then Lucian. No rescue. “Yield.”
The referee raised his mic. “Match—”
The lights flickered.
The hum under the mat died. Black ribbon coiled from the seam. Net. Move, Kaela barked.
Talia shoved Mira aside. The coil caught the wire instead, whipping free. It lashed Talia’s forearm—three clean lines of blood. Acid burn seared her wrist.
Mira struck in the chaos—claws ripping Talia’s thigh, elbow cracking ribs. Talia’s vision swam.
Hit back.
She headbutted Mira. Cartilage crunched. Blood poured. A kick folded Mira’s leg. Both staggered as the net whipped again.
The exchange was brutal. And neither she-wolf would concede.
Mira yanked Talia’s braid, claws raking her cheek. Blood blurred her sight. Talia answered with a pommel strike to the mouth. Teeth snapped. Mira bit her knuckles anyway, skin splitting.
Talia slashed her shoulder—Mira's arm went limp. The net cinched Talia’s throat, choking. She wedged steel, sawed, and ripped it free.
Mira drove her into the post, elbows pounding ribs. Pain flared white.
Talia dropped weight, scythed a blade across Mira’s ankle. Tendon snapped. Mira yelped. Still feral, she pulled knives from her braid.
“Illegal,” the referee barked.
Mira didn’t care. Steel flashed. One cut deep into Talia’s arm. She answered in angles—short sword up, hook down, slicing Mira’s tricep. Blood sprayed.
They locked wrists, foreheads grinding. Mira’s claws sank into Talia’s shoulder. Talia’s blade hovered at Mira’s throat.
“Call it,” she rasped.
Mira kneed her wounded thigh. White pain exploded. Talia screamed, then attempted to rip Mira’s knife from her hand, violently twisting her wrist until it popped. Knife clattered. Talia crushed her foot into Mira's midsection. Talia was satisfied with Mira's gut-wrenching howl.
A savage hook to the liver folded her. Talia didn’t stop—pommel to brow, blood blinding. She threw Mira down, pinning both arms with her knees and shin, a sword to her throat. “Yield.”
Mira spat blood. “Y—”
The blade nicked skin. “Say it.”
Her eyes went flat. “Yield.”
The referee, shaken, lifted Talia’s wrist. “Winner: Talia Graves.”
Noise erupted—howls, boots, thunder. Kaela purred: Wolves love this sh!t.
The aftermath found Talia swaying, blood dripping. Kaela braced her mind. Lucian’s gaze burned down, hot with pride and fury. Casius already stood at the edge, the knife slick with black residue. He had seen it too—sabotage.
Talia raised her sword. The crowd answered like a wall at her back. Her knees buckled. Strong hands caught her. She didn’t have to look to know who.
The referee shouted, “Arena breach—clear the lanes!” Wardens poured in with shields, sealing the seam.
Lucian scanned her, possessive, unashamed. Casius had Alina in his arms, breathless.
“Who cut the grid?” a captain barked.
“It wasn't us,” a technician stammered. “Reading external pull.”
“On my floor?” Elder Howell snarled.
Mira twisted, but Talia pinned her again, voice flat. “Don’t.”
Mira’s breath seethed. “You think a win here makes you queen?”
“No. But it makes you not.”
Talia felt eyes burning on her back. Thomas stood in the guest tunnel, flanked by guards, his gaze bitter with loss. Beside him, Mira’s parents watched coldly.
Lucian descended the stairs toward Talia. The lights flickered again.
No one noticed the black coil slide back beneath the mat, vanishing, waiting.
- Writer
