The gong struck.
Its echo rolled across the coliseum like thunder trapped in the bones of the earth. Torches flared in response, their flames whipping high as the crowd roared in frenzy.
In the center of the pit stood the Demon.
Black iron chains bound her wrists and ankles — thick, scarred, and heavy with the memory of every fight she'd survived. The sand around her feet was uneven from older battles; blood had dried in the cracks. She stood barefoot, motionless, her breathing calm and precise.
Across from her, the black gate shuddered open.
Six entered.
They came one by one, each to the thunder of a thousand voices chanting their names.
The Braavosi duelist — slender, sharp-eyed, the grace of water in his stance.The Norvosii giant — bare-chested, his muscles scarred, his axe nearly as tall as he was.The Lyseni twins — moving as one, blades curved like smiles, gold paint gleaming across their skin.The Qohorik champion — broad, dark-armored, his twin maces carved with runes of forgotten gods.And last, the Myrish sellsword — young, handsome, confident, his saber polished and unused.
They formed a half-circle before her, each watching the chained woman who waited in silence.
The announcer's voice rose, booming across the walls.
"People of Volantis! You have seen glory before — but never this! The Six Blades of Essos, undefeated! And she, the curse of the pit, the blood-born Demon!"
The crowd answered with thunderous cheers. The drums began to pound again — low, relentless.
But the Demon didn't move.
The torchlight flickered across her face — pale, smudged with blood and ash, eyes like cold metal.
The gong struck again.
The battle began.
The Braavosi
The first to move was the duelist.
He approached her with a smirk, his blade glinting in the light. His steps were silent, smooth — every motion polished by years of practice. He feinted once, twice, testing her guard.
The Demon didn't react.
He lunged.
She turned her wrist.
The chain snapped forward — quick, precise — catching his blade midair. A twist, a pull, and the sword spun from his grasp. Before he could draw breath, her foot drove into his knee.
The crack echoed.
He dropped — and her elbow followed through his jaw.
The sound was sharp, final.
The duelist collapsed, neck twisted, eyes wide with disbelief.
The crowd roared approval, drunk on spectacle.
She didn't look at them.
The chain slid from her wrist, humming as it hit the ground.
The Norvosii
The giant came next, roaring his name.
He charged across the sand, swinging his axe in wide arcs that cut the air itself. Dust rose, torches flickered, and his steps shook the earth.
The Demon waited — still, unblinking.
The axe fell.
She stepped aside. The blade missed by inches.
He swung again — faster, furious — but she was already moving.
The chain snapped, wrapping around his wrist. A single pull — the joint cracked. He stumbled forward, his roar turning into a scream.
She moved behind him, her shoulder striking low, toppling him off balance.
The chain came around his throat like a serpent.
One pull.
He fell face-first into the sand, blood spreading fast beneath him.
The cheers dulled to murmurs.
The Twins
The Lyseni moved together — graceful, lethal, and cruel.
Their gold-painted skin shimmered, their movements mirror-perfect. One darted left, the other right — twin arcs of motion around her.
They attacked at once — one high, one low.
The Demon stepped back, chains swinging outward. The air sang with the sound of iron.
She ducked under one blade and struck — the chain caught a wrist, twisted, yanked. The woman screamed as her blade turned on her brother.
The steel slid clean between his ribs.
He froze. She froze.
That pause — one heartbeat — was enough.
The Demon turned, her elbow crushing the woman's jaw, the chain looping around her throat.
A single, practiced pull.
The bodies fell together, blood spreading across the sand in a mirrored pattern.
The crowd was quieter now — watching, not cheering.
The Champion of Qohor
The Qohorik champion stepped forward, silent beneath his black steel.
His armor gleamed with the reflection of fire. The twin maces he carried looked heavy enough to break stone.
He struck first, a swing so powerful it threw sand into the stands. The crowd gasped.
The Demon moved just enough. The mace missed.
He swung again, faster. She dodged. Again — closer this time — the wind from the strike brushed her shoulder.
The third came higher.
She leaned forward, catching the haft of his mace with her chain. She pulled hard, twisting her body with the motion. The weapon tore from his hand.
Before he could react, she lunged inside his reach. The chain wrapped around his neck — a perfect coil.
He stumbled, clawing at the links.
She kicked behind his knee. The joint shattered.
She pulled again, steady, unrelenting.
When she released him, he fell forward, face striking the sand.
His blood steamed in the heat.
The Myrish
The last man remained — pale, sweating, trembling in the torchlight.
His saber quivered in his hands.
Around him, six bodies lay strewn like offerings.
The crowd waited, silent, leaning forward as one.
The Myrish took a single step back. Then another.
The Demon began to walk toward him.
Her chains dragged through the sand, leaving trails like black scars.
He screamed and charged — not with courage, but panic.
His swing went wide.
She ducked beneath it, caught his ankle with the chain, pulled.
He fell face-first. The saber flew from his hand.
She placed her foot on his back, caught the weapon mid-fall, and drove it through his chest.
The sound that followed was small — a sigh, not a scream.
And then, silence.
The torches hissed.
The sand steamed.
The crowd sat frozen, unsure whether to cheer or breathe.
The announcer swallowed, his voice cracking as he raised his arms.
"Victory… to Volantis."
No one answered.
The Demon stood motionless, her skin streaked in red, the chains around her wrists dripping blood.
Two guards appeared at the far gate, hesitant, their spears shaking in their hands. They exchanged a glance — neither wanted to approach.
The Demon turned slowly toward them. The torchlight painted her eyes in silver and flame.
They stopped moving.
The silence that followed was heavier than thunder.
Then, as she began to walk toward the gate — slow, calm, her chains dragging — a sound broke through the quiet.
Clapping.
Soft at first.
Then steady.
One pair of hands, deliberate and slow, echoing through the empty hush of the arena.
The sound didn't belong to the crowd. It didn't belong to fear.
It was applause — measured, certain, almost theatrical.
The Demon paused.
She turned her head, her expression unreadable.
High above, in the seats reserved for the wealthy, a lone figure stood — tall, calm, his face shadowed beneath torchlight.
Kaine.
His hands moved in steady rhythm, each clap ringing against the marble, precise as a metronome.
He was smiling faintly — not mockery, not arrogance, but appreciation. The kind of smile given to a masterpiece of art or war.
The crowd turned to look, whispering. No one else dared join him.
The Demon's brow furrowed slightly — confusion flickered across her face, the first sign of emotion all night.
She stared at him, still breathing hard, the chains swaying lightly as she stood among the dead.
For a heartbeat, nothing else existed in the pit — not the torches, not the blood, not the crowd.
Only a stranger clapping in admiration.
And a killer, standing still to listen.