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

Evan Kael paced the holding pen, the short sword in his hand a familiar weight, its iron edge gleaming faintly under the torchlight. The blade wasn't new—still notched from yesterday's fight—but sharper now, honed by Lysa's scavenged whetstone and their own stubborn will. The pen's air hung thick, a stew of sweat and rust, but it thrummed with the arena's pulse—the crowd's distant roar seeping through the stone like a heartbeat. He glanced at Lysa, perched on a crate near the bars, her legs dangling as she tightened the straps on her boots. Her hair was pulled back, a messy knot that left strands framing her face, and her green eyes met his with a flicker of something steady, unshaken.

"Pacing won't make it come faster," she said, her voice cutting through the pen's hum, light but edged with that fire he'd come to know.

"Keeps me loose," he replied, stopping to lean against the bars, the cold metal biting into his shoulder. "You ready, Ember? Two-on-two this time—Veyra's watching."

"Always ready," she said, hopping down with a soft thud. She grabbed her sword from the crate, testing its balance with a quick twirl, and smirked. "And yeah, she's watching. Means we don't screw around."

"No mercy," he echoed, Veyra's words from last time ringing in his skull. His gut twisted at the thought—killing, not just winning—but he shoved it down. They'd left the last three alive, and Veyra had made it clear: that wasn't an option anymore. He met Lysa's gaze, searching for doubt, but found only resolve, mirrored back at him. "We're doing this, then?"

"Got no choice," she said, stepping closer, her sword resting at her side. "We kill, we live. Simple."

"Simple," he repeated, but it didn't feel that way—not when the blood would be on their hands, not when it'd be their blades cutting the thread. Still, her certainty steadied him, a tether in the storm, and he nodded. "High-low?"

"High-low," she agreed, her smirk softening. "You lead, I finish. Like always."

The gate rattled, and the one-eared guard limped in, his club tapping the bars like a drumbeat. "Move it," he grunted. "Two against two. Lady wants a show—make it bloody."

Evan shot Lysa a look, her eyes glinting with that fierce spark, and they followed the guard out, swords in hand. The tunnel stretched ahead, its walls slick with damp, the air growing warm and heavy as they neared the arena. The crowd's noise crashed over them as they stepped onto the sand—a wave of jeers, cheers, and raw hunger that set his nerves alight.

The arena blazed under midday sun, the stands packed with shouting faces—merchants waving coin, soldiers pounding fists, drunks sloshing ale over the rails. The sand shimmered with heat, crunching under Evan's boots, and the air carried the sharp sting of blood and dust. Across the pit, their opponents waited: two men, older than yesterday's kids, but not by much. One was tall, broad-shouldered, clutching a heavy sword with a chipped blade, his leather vest patched and worn. The other was shorter, wiry, a curved dagger in each hand, his eyes darting like a cornered rat's. They weren't weaklings—not like the last batch—but they weren't seasoned either, their stances tight with nerves.

"Fresh meat!" a voice bellowed from the stands, and the crowd laughed, a jagged roar that fueled the fire in Evan's chest. He glanced at Lysa, her sword low, her body coiled like a spring, and they advanced together, steps falling into rhythm.

The tall one moved first, charging Evan with a bellow, his sword swinging high. Evan ducked, sand spraying, and parried the follow-up, steel clanging with a jolt that numbed his arm. Lysa darted past, her blade slashing at the man's side, but he twisted, catching it on his hilt and shoving her back. The wiry one lunged then, daggers flashing, and Evan pivoted, blocking one strike while the other grazed his arm—a hot sting, blood welling through his sleeve.

"Evan!" Lysa called, her voice sharp, and he grit his teeth, swinging high at the tall one again. The man's guard lifted, and Lysa struck low, her sword biting into his thigh. Blood gushed, dark and thick, and he roared, stumbling, but didn't fall. Evan pressed the attack, their blades locking, and he drove his knee into the man's gut, forcing him down.

The wiry one spun toward Lysa, daggers slashing wild, and she dodged, rolling under a strike that kicked up sand. Evan moved without thinking, tackling the shorter man from behind, his sword arm pinning the guy's wrists. They hit the ground, dust choking the air, and Lysa's shadow fell over them. Her blade flashed, slicing the man's shoulder, and he screamed, one dagger dropping. Evan rolled off, scrambling up, and swung hard—his sword caught the man's neck, a clean cut, and blood sprayed, hot and wet, across his hands.

The crowd erupted, a deafening howl, but Evan barely heard it, his breath ragged as the wiry one twitched, then stilled, red pooling beneath him. One down. He turned, finding Lysa locked with the tall one, her sword parrying his desperate swings. The man's leg bled, slowing him, and Evan circled, waiting for the opening. Lysa ducked a wild strike, and he lunged—high, like they'd trained—his blade arcing toward the man's chest. The guy's guard lifted, and Lysa struck low again, her sword sinking deep into his gut.

The man gasped, a wet, choking sound, and dropped, his sword clattering uselessly. Blood bubbled from his mouth, his eyes wide and fading, and Lysa yanked her blade free, stepping back as he slumped to the sand. Dead. The crowd's roar peaked, a tidal wave of sound, coins clinking as bets paid out, but Evan's stomach churned, the weight of it hitting him—two lives, gone by their hands.

Lysa met his eyes, her face streaked with sweat and a splash of blood not her own, and nodded once—a sharp, silent acknowledgment. "Had to," she said, voice low under the noise.

"Yeah," he said, wiping his blade on his sleeve, the red smearing into the fabric. "Had to."

The guards hauled the bodies off, leaving trails of crimson in the sand, and Evan and Lysa walked back to the gate, the crowd's cheers fading into a dull thrum. His hand brushed hers as they moved, a fleeting touch, and she didn't pull away—just kept walking, her presence a steady pulse beside him.

Back in the pen, the air felt cooler, the torchlight softer, but the weight of the kill clung to them like damp cloth. The one-eared guard tossed them a waterskin, a chunk of bread, and a strip of dried meat—better rations, a grim prize—and limped off without a word. Evan caught the skin, taking a long gulp, the water bitter 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, a small spark in the gloom, and they ate in silence, the day's blood still fresh in their minds.

"First time?" she asked after a while, her voice quiet, rough from the fight. She didn't look at him, just stared at the bars, chewing slowly.

"Killing?" he said, swallowing a tough bite. "Yeah. You?"

"Second," she admitted, her jaw tightening. "Back in the slave pit—had to, once. Didn't like it then, either."

"Didn't feel good," he said, leaning back against the bars, the cold seeping through his shirt. "But we're alive."

"Yeah," she said, glancing at him finally. Her eyes held something raw—regret, maybe, but tempered by that fire he'd named her for. "We're alive."

The silence stretched, heavy but not empty, woven with the shared stain of what they'd done. She shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his, and he felt it—a lifeline, a thread tying them tighter. The fight replayed in his head—their rhythm, her strike saving his skin, his blow opening hers. It wasn't just survival now; it was them, carved into each swing, each kill.

"You were solid out there," she said, breaking the quiet. "Kept me covered."

"Had to," he replied, nudging her gently. "You're the ember keeping this going, Lysa. Can't lose that."

She smirked, faint but real. "Smooth talker, Kael."

"Only for you," he said, and the words slipped out too easy, too true. Her smirk softened, her gaze lingering, and something shifted—warm, unspoken, rooting deeper.

They finished the meat, the pen's shadows lengthening, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, the motion natural now, like breathing. He let his rest against hers, her hair brushing his cheek, gritty but alive with that faint herb scent. His chest tightened, a slow burn he couldn't ignore—not love, not yet, but close, teetering on the edge. He didn't fight it, just held the moment, her warmth cutting through the pen's chill.

"Next one's two-on-two again," she murmured, voice fading. "We'll handle it."

"Together," he said, low and steady, and it felt like more than a promise—it felt like them.

Later, a guard rapped on the bars, summoning them to Veyra. She stood in the training chamber, her staff tapping, her gray eyes glinting with approval. "Good," she said, her voice smooth and sharp. "Bloody, clean—crowd loved it. Keep it up."

Evan nodded, Lysa beside him, and they returned to the pen, her head finding his shoulder again. The kill weighed on them, but her presence lightened it, a balance he clung to as the night deepened.