Nehset’s chest heaved with nerves, her hands trembling. Yet she did what she could to steady them. There was one last thing that needed to be done. Slowly she removed the dark wig that had always donned her head. A requirement in the house of her former master. Why she held fast to it for so long she could not be sure. As the covering fell to the ground a warm breeze came to caress her newly bared head. If she survived, with no command to be shorn, her hair would begin to grow back. A texture that Nehset had not felt for many years. A reminder of her long since passed mother, her sisters, her father, and her brother.

     The man standing near to the one called Legatus, the Editor she assumed, spoke his final condemning statement and the giant before her gave an earth shaking cry.

     For all her determination it did not prepare her for the coming of brute strength. Had she not raised her sword she was sure that he would have cleaved her head from her very shoulders. In its stead he came around to slice deeply into her arm. Nehset cried out, cradling her weeping wound.

     Now left with empty hands Nehset could only duck the second coming swing aimed for her throat. Leaving herself vulnerable to the knee crashing into her face, sending her reeling back, and landing near to her fallen sword. A profuse spurt of blood ran in wide rivulets from her nostrils. Her heart beat too fast for her body. Her breath coming in panicked gasps.

     Blindly grasping for the hilt of her weapon, Nehset raised it haphazardly, deflecting the downward swing of the gladiator with no more than real luck. Scrambling back she placed as much space between them as she could.

     She forced herself to act. Unable to afford to be frozen by fear. She could not fall from that. She could not fall this day, period. Not as a slave, not when she had tasted freedom. Not while her brother’s warning words stayed burned in her mind.

     The thought of her brother, lead to a flickering thought towards Agron and more importantly his words. She had to be quick. She had to move with purpose. Giving a cry of her own, with a wild swing, she prayed for flesh. Prayed for bone and blood. Yet just as she confessed to Vatis, desperation could be no contest. She caught neither flesh, bone, or blood. Leaving her gasping for breath when his heavy foot came barreling into her abdomen and bring to her eyes flashes of bright lights.

     She had never prayed for the death of another at her hands. Yes there were circumstances when she did so similar as it would have meant having and keeping her freedom. It was an innocent desire then, stemming from promises made in a time that seemed so far away.

     Yes she killed the Roman. But it had been fast, a frenzy in defense. Still, it was never this. This stranger he had nothing to do with her. Never laid eyes until this day. Yet here she was, pitted against this man whose station was equally as pitiful as her own, praying for his life in exchange for hers. It was disgusting and while they cheered, they continued to fight. She continued to struggle to simply continue breathing and they enjoyed it. Her every second of pain.

     Receiving a pound to the center of her back Nehset found herself with her face against the ground. Sand filling her bloodied mouth. She shrieked passed the bubble of emotion in her chest as he roared above her bringing down his sword once, twice, hard enough to shatter her faulting sword beneath his weight. The tip of the errant piece of iron pierced her side. She bared her teeth at the onslaught of pain.

     Then while she trembled and struggled for breath; covered in sand, sweat, and blood, the gladiator above her did just as Agron said he would. He underestimated her. More importantly he underestimated her will to live. He pulled her up to kneel, bringing her faded body close. Cradling her head against his armor clad abdomen. Unwary or perhaps just uncaring of the broken blade in her hand. Why should he have given her thought? She was weak. Finished. There should have been nothing left; and that very same ideal sat in front of her, reflected on the face of her enemy as he sat perched at the edge of his seat. He couldn’t have known, not one of them could have known, but it was that look, that desire waiting on baited breath that birthed a rage in her like none other.

    With grip reaffirmed against the hilt of what was left of her broken, dull blade. Nehset cried out swinging upward. Backed by the strength of desperation and unadulterated fury she sliced into the man’s inner thigh. Dragging the weapon from knee to groin. Instantly, he released her. Shoving her away, cradling himself, giving Nehset the time to recover and roll out of reach of his wild swings.

     The ringing sound of iron against iron barely registered in her ears. The feel of his thick chest was barely felt against the bottom of her foot. Barely saw the turn of the crowd from their champion, nor their thirst for blood. All that she felt, heard, or saw was the ease in which the jagged tip of her blade pierced through the man’s thick neck. The sound of his gurgle as blood pooled there, stealing his breath. All that could be seen was the image that would burn in her mind for a lifetime. The look in his eyes as the light faded from them.