The stench of churned earth and nervous sweat filled Xadir’s nostrils as the brute's forearm locked around his throat, squeezing. The world swam. Mud squelched under his back, cold and thick, as the third-year cadet slammed him down for the third time, a taunting grin splitting sun-darkened skin. “Yield, runt!” the senior barked, the snarl echoing across the fighting pits of the Sun-Scarred Citadel. “You’re nothing but a stray dog, barking in a kennel of lions.” Xadir’s vision tunneled. The iron taste of blood bloomed in his mouth where his teeth had bitten his tongue. Every muscle screamed, but his throat was too tight for even a gasp. *Yield?* Never. Not with the phantom chill of that cursed concubine contract already brushing his skin. Not with sixty days ticking down to a fate worse than death. Pride, a stubborn, burning coal in his gut, refused to let him submit. He saw Tavros Helicon, the Citadel’s top cadet, lounging on the highest tier of the observation deck, arms crossed, a bored expression on his infuriatingly handsome face. Tavros’s gaze, usually sharp enough to flay, flickered over Xadir’s struggling form with an almost dismissive air. That look, more than Kaelus’s crushing grip, ignited a fresh surge of fury. He wouldn’t be dismissed. He *couldn’t* be. His hand, shaking, scrabbled for the hilts of the twin sabers strapped to his back. They were his mother’s, heirlooms stolen from his uncle’s vault, forbidden outside the Voss lineage. But here, in this blistering pit, they were his only chance. A guttural growl tore from Xadir’s chest, surprising even himself. His fingers closed around the hilt of the first saber, a familiar weight. A spark flared deep behind his ribs, pulled from forbidden drills whispered in the dead of night. He pushed. Not with strength, but with pure, desperate will. The brute chuckled, tightening the chokehold. “Stubborn, aren’t we? Don’t worry, pup, it’ll be over soon.” The air around Xadir shimmered. A faint hum vibrated through the mud. A gasp rippled through the spectators, a sound that cut through the haze of Xadir’s pain. On the observation deck, Tavros straightened, his bored expression replaced by a flash of something sharp and intense. With a desperate heave, Xadir ripped his right saber free. The blade, dull iron moments before, flared. A crackle of crimson Ember-Light danced along its edge, licking at the air. The gasp from the crowd swelled into a collective murmur of shock. *Ember-Arts.* Public display of such raw, untamed power was rare, especially from a first-year cadet. And Ember-Arts applied to *blades*? The brute's fingers slackened in sudden disbelief. Just enough. Xadir dragged in a ragged breath, then, with a snarl, he twisted, the glowing saber a crimson arc. He didn’t strike to kill, not yet. He struck to maim. The flat of the blade slammed into the attacker's bicep, radiating a concussive blast of heat that buckled the older cadet’s arm. The veteran bellowed, stumbling back into the slurry, clutching his scorched sleeve with a contorted grimace. He gaped at the smoking steel, then at Xadir, rubbing charred skin as if suspecting an illusion. Xadir’s second saber was already in his other hand, twin blades humming, casting crimson reflections in the mud. He was on his feet now, chest heaving, every muscle screaming, but the Ember-Art’s warmth was a fierce, invigorating current through his veins. “Next time,” Xadir panted, his voice raw but laced with triumph, “don’t choke a lion cub.” The roar from the cadets was deafening, a mix of awe and bewildered fury. The referee, an ancient, scarred veteran, stared at Xadir with a mixture of shock and grudging respect before finally raising his hand. “Victory! Cadet Xadir of Barracks Three!” Xadir, dizzy with pain and exhilaration, ignored the murmuring crowd. He ignored his opponent, who still huddled in the muck while nursing a blistered elbow. He even ignored Miloq, his loyal friend, who was already pushing through the throng, a worried frown etched on his face. His gaze, against his better judgment, sought out Tavros. Tavros was still on the observation deck, his gaze fixed on Xadir. But it wasn’t the blade, nor the Ember-Arts, that held his attention. His intense, dark eyes were locked onto Xadir’s mouth, a strange, almost hungry confusion warring with a flicker of pure, unadulterated fury. A dark flush crept past the collar of Tavros’s tunic; he snapped his chin away, grinding molars until tendons bulged along his neck. Xadir smirked, a triumphant, pain-addled grin. *That’ll teach the arrogant bastard to dismiss me.* Merit points secured. One step closer to Vanguard. One step further from that wretched contract. He turned, sheathing his still-humming sabers with a flourish, and began to strut away, a dizzying concoction of pride and exhaustion warring within him. He’d done it. He’d shown them all. He was Xadir. He was a force to be reckoned with. And then, a sudden, agonizing cramp hit him, deep in his abdomen, a sharp, twisting pain that doubled him over mid-stride. He gasped, pressing a hand instinctively to his belly, the triumphant smirk dissolving into a grimace of pure horror. The familiar, dreadful warmth bloomed between his legs, a sensation he knew all too well, one that had no place, no possible explanation, in this all-male stronghold. Xadira froze. Her period had just started.

Mud, Pride, and Panic