Courtyard Gladiator

In the dust-choked pit of the Courtyard, the gladiator stands empty-handed of magic: no sparks dance at fingertips, no whispered incantation to fend off pain. Only breath, sweat, muscle, blade. The ring goes silent with anticipation—crowds rising, Gurard’s voice cutting through tension: “Let the fighting begin!”   The opponent charges; they parry with blade, shield ringing. A slash across thigh, another across shoulder—the gladiator tastes blood, knows the burn. But they fight on, steps driven by survival, pride, the roar of betting tongues. Each swing, each dodge, each gasp stripped down to pure body.