My Crush Died While I Was a Slave So I Became a Necromancer

Evan Kael leaned against the bars of the holding pen, the iron cool against his back, his fingers tracing the notched edge of the short sword resting across his lap. The air in the pen was stale, thick with the lingering stench of sweat and blood from yesterday's fight, but it felt different now—sharper, charged with the hum of the arena above. The crowd's distant murmurs filtered through the stone, a low rumble that set his nerves alight. Beside him, Lysa sat cross-legged, sharpening her own blade with a small whetstone she'd scavenged from somewhere—probably bribed a guard with that quick grin of hers. Her hair fell in a messy curtain over one shoulder, catching the torchlight, and her green eyes flicked up to meet his.

"Staring's rude, Kael," she said, her voice light but her lips quirking into a smirk.

"Caught me," he replied, smirking back. "Just making sure you're ready, Ember. Dren said three today—guess they're testing us."

She snorted, scraping the stone along her sword with a soft scrape-scrape. "Three weaklings, from what I heard. New blood, barely trained. Veyra's throwing us a bone after yesterday."

"Lucky us," he said, shifting to sit straighter. His muscles still ached from the training, a dull burn in his shoulders and thighs, but Dren's lessons had stuck—the way to move together, to cover each other's gaps. "Still, three's a crowd. We good?"

"We're good," she said, setting the whetstone aside and testing the blade's edge with her thumb. A thin line of blood welled up, and she wiped it on her tunic, unfazed. "You take the lead, I'll clean up. Like Dren taught us."

"High-low," he said, nodding. "Got it." He hefted his sword, the iron heavier than the wooden ones but familiar now, and stood, offering her a hand. "Let's not keep the bastards waiting."

She took it, her grip firm and warm, and pulled herself up. Her touch lingered a beat, her fingers brushing his palm, and he felt that pull again—steady, growing, a thread he couldn't cut. "You're getting cocky, Kael," she said, but her grin softened the words.

"Earned it," he shot back, and they laughed, a quiet sound swallowed by the pen's shadows. It felt good—too good, maybe, in a place like this—but he didn't fight it. Not with her.

The gate rattled open, and the one-eared guard limped in, his club tapping the bars. "You're up," he growled. "Three on two. Don't drag it out—the Lady's watching."

Evan exchanged a look with Lysa, her eyes sharpening, and they followed the guard out, swords in hand. The tunnel stretched ahead, damp and narrow, the air growing warmer as they neared the arena. The crowd's noise swelled, a wave of jeers and cheers that hit them full force as they stepped onto the sand.

The arena blazed with torchlight, the stands packed with shouting faces—merchants in gaudy silks, soldiers with tankards sloshing ale, drunks swaying and hollering for blood. The sand crunched under Evan's boots, still stained with dark patches from earlier fights, and the air carried the sharp tang of iron and sweat. Across the pit, their opponents waited: three figures, ragged and lean, clutching mismatched weapons—a rusty sword, a dented axe, a spear with a cracked shaft. They were young, barely older than kids, their stances shaky, eyes darting with nerves. New blood, like Lysa'd said. Weak.

"Fresh meat!" a voice bellowed from the stands, and the crowd laughed, a hungry, jagged sound. Evan tightened his grip, glancing at Lysa. She nodded, her sword low and ready, and they advanced together, steps synced like they'd been born to it.

The fight started sloppy. The spear kid lunged first, thrusting wild, and Evan sidestepped, the cracked shaft grazing his arm. He swung high, forcing the kid back, and Lysa darted in, her blade slashing at his legs. The spear clattered to the sand as the kid yelped, stumbling, and Evan kicked him down, his boot sinking into the boy's gut. One out.

The axe girl charged next, screaming, her swing wide and desperate. Evan ducked, sand kicking up, and Lysa pivoted, her sword catching the girl's arm. Blood sprayed, a thin arc that splattered Evan's cheek, and the girl dropped the axe, clutching the wound. Lysa didn't hesitate—she drove her blade into the girl's thigh, deep but not fatal, and the girl crumpled, sobbing.

The sword boy hesitated, his rusty blade trembling, but the crowd's jeers—"Kill 'em! Finish it!"—spurred him on. He swung at Evan, a clumsy arc, and Evan parried, the clash ringing in his ears. He stepped in, locking blades, and Lysa moved—low and fast, her sword slicing the boy's calf. He buckled, and Evan slammed his hilt into the kid's jaw, dropping him cold.

The crowd roared, a tidal wave of sound, but Evan's chest tightened as he looked at the three sprawled in the sand—bleeding, groaning, alive. Lysa stepped beside him, her breath heaving, her sword dripping red. "We didn't kill 'em," she muttered, voice low under the noise.

"Veyra won't like it," he said, wiping blood from his cheek. "But they're done. That's enough, right?"

"For now," she said, her eyes flicking to the stands where Veyra's crimson cloak stood out, a silent judge. "Next time, though…"

"Yeah," he said, the weight settling heavy. Next time, they'd have to cross that line. Together.

The guards dragged the losers off, leaving streaks of red in the sand, and Evan and Lysa walked back to the gate, the crowd's cheers fading into a dull hum. His arm brushed hers, a small anchor, and she didn't pull away.

Back in the pen, the air felt cooler, the torchlight dimmer, but the tension lingered like a bruise. The one-eared guard tossed them a waterskin and a hunk of bread—better than before, a grudging reward—and limped off without a word. Evan caught the skin, taking a long pull, the water tepid but soothing, and handed it to Lysa. She drank, then sank to the floor beside him, tearing the bread in half. Her fingers brushed his as she passed him his share, and he took it, the contact a quiet spark.

"They were weak," she said, chewing slowly, her voice rough from the fight. "Barely a challenge."

"Still three," he said, swallowing a dry bite. "We handled it. Dren's stuff worked."

"Yeah," she said, leaning back against the bars. "High-low's solid. You're getting good, Kael."

"Had a good partner," he replied, nudging her shoulder. "You're like an ember out there—burning steady, lighting the way."

"Ember again, huh?" She tilted her head, her smile faint but warm, green eyes catching the flickering light. "You're sticking with that?"

"Suits you," he said, and it did—her fire, her grit, the way she kept going. She held his gaze, something soft flickering there, and it dug into him, a root he couldn't pull up.

They finished the bread in silence, the pen's shadows stretching long, but the quiet felt easy, woven with the day's shared strain. She shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his, and he didn't move away. The fight replayed in his head—the way they'd moved together, her blade covering his gaps, his strength opening hers. It wasn't just survival anymore; it was something more, something he couldn't name but felt in every glance, every touch.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. The weight was light, warm, and he froze for a heartbeat before letting his own head rest against hers. Her hair grazed his cheek, gritty with sand but carrying that faint herb scent he'd latched onto—alive, stubborn, her. His chest tightened—not adrenaline, not fear, but something deeper, something he didn't fight. He closed his eyes, letting it settle, her warmth a shield against the pen's cold iron.

"Next one's two-on-two," she murmured, voice fading. "We've got this."

"Yeah," he said, low and rough. "Together."

The pen grew still, the arena's hum fading into the night, but with her head on his shoulder, the world felt less brutal, less empty. He didn't sleep much, just listened to her breathing, steady and real, and held onto it like it was all that mattered.

Hours later, a guard rapped on the bars, jolting them awake. "Lady's got words," he grunted, and led them back to the training chamber. Veyra waited, her staff tapping, her gray eyes sharp as they entered.

"You won," she said, her voice smooth and cold. "Clean, quick—crowd liked it. But they're alive. I told you to kill."

Evan's gut clenched, but he kept his face steady. "They're out," he said. "Couldn't fight back."

"Not the point," Veyra snapped, stepping closer. The crystal flared, and that shiver hit him again. "Blood's the draw—death's the payout. Next time, two against two, you finish it. No hesitation, no mercy. Understood?"

Lysa nodded, her jaw tight. "Understood."

"Good," Veyra said, turning away. "Rest now. You fight again soon."

They returned to the pen, the weight of her words hanging heavy. Evan sank against the bars, Lysa beside him, and she leaned her head on his shoulder again, a silent anchor. He rested his against hers, their breathing syncing, and the line they'd cross loomed closer—but with her there, he could face it.