Victory is a single drop.

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Vaigryth's breath is slow, her heart beat calmly, a patient predator, not giving away the slightest sign of intent to her opponent. The handsome high elf that had dared step into the arena with her might have never seen the fury of war, but she knows her chances are still slim. High elves undergo centuries of magical training in their hidden fortresses, deep in the heart of the forest.

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Her scarred, elven body is honed from countless battles, her resolve tempered steel from all the mortal souls she'd torn from their bodies. Her blades are scuffed and chipped from countless bouts with the races of the realm.

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The spectators are quiet. Warriors, all of them. Many had lost brothers and sisters just a couple days ago, to an incursion of the Radiant Empire. They wonder why the high elves, with their magical prowess keep away from the fighting.

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Vaigryth has stopped wondering. She can see the answer in the high elf's eye.

They tribes chose to be mortals. They chose to live.

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She clutches her blades tightly, and bellows her war cry, runs in a straight line toward her goal. She goes for his face – only to be stopped by a blow to her stomach. It came out of nowhere, and it is only by instinct alone that she blocks a second blow, putting distance between herself and her enemy. 

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It was a root; gnarled and heavy, slithering and snaking through the air as if alive, dollops of earth dropping from it. Behind it, the high elf's hands were moving like a puppeteer's. The magic of a high elf.

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More roots emerge from the soil, striking at her feet, trying to entangle her. Her blades whirl, punishing every advance, but the roots seem to follow her movement underground. Soon, they erupt all around her, forcing her to leap over them.

​

A mistake. A root shoots at her. While airborne, she cannot evade the attack, and the root stabs into her side, throwing her to the edge of the arena, at the feet of her tribe.

Roots crawl out and close around her arms and legs, fixing her to the ground while she tries to struggle free.

​

"It was a pleasure," the high elf's soft voice reaches her ear through her panting and growling. In the corner of her reddening vision she sees his arrogance, the superior high elves triumphing over the savages, like they did every year.

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With a growl of pain, she fights against the pull of the roots, until her shoulder pops out of its socket. The move frees her other arm, and she begins to hack at the snaking vines, screaming in pain and rage all the while. She tears free, and throws her blade at the high elf.

​

The high elf had turned around in time, reading the crowd's reaction. He was already wearing his robe again when he caught her blade in one hand.

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Vaigryth pops her shoulder back in, like she had done countless times before. She picks up her second blade, and charges.

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He wastes a valuable moment realizing he used all the roots underneath to cage her; none were left for him to use on this side of the arena. He blocks her swings, but his robe is heavy and clumsy. Her blade is a vicious snake, slashing and cutting relentlessly, getting closer and closer to the immaculate skin on his face.

​

He stumbles backward, but goes down into a roll. He comes up again with an elegant jump, shrugging off his robe while swerving his blade.

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She takes the blow, feels his blade slice her abdomen, while her own sweeps above his, the chipped, serrated edge cutting neatly through the skin on his face.

​

Both halt their attacks, letting a sudden tense silence fill the arena. His strike was well-placed; she can feel the cut going down to her muscles, feels her life emerge from the wound in warm rivulets.

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A single drop of blood runs down to the high elf's lip.

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The last thing she hears before she collapses, is the thunder of a crowd shouting her

name.

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