Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II) Read Free Page B

me by surprise. I open my mouth to command an explanation when Senator Thirty-Two’s voice echoes through the Hall.
     
    “My dear guests, it is my pleasure to present tonight’s entertainment. Two of the most admired fighters in our Arena will show us the true caliber of their training. As is customary, the match will be to the death. Please, let’s welcome from Squadron Twenty-Eight, Unit Eleven, Fighter Six.”
     
    A tall woman with long black hair enters the Grand Hall. The ceremonial gown enveloping her body in a delicate combination of embroidered silks generates hushed whispers from the crowd. She wears a strapless red suit, nothing like the black or white uniform she is used to wearing. The glossy fabric embraces her skin, emphasizing her svelte, yet toned figure. The outfit is only partially concealed underneath the waves of delicately embroidered silk. The ceremonial gown drapes all the way to the floor from a sash wrapped around her waist. A giant bow, crafted from the same type of fabric, is firmly secured at the low of her back, where two moon daggers peek out of a hidden belt. She has somewhat of a fragile appearance in spite of the curved knives tucked behind her. A thick white base covers every inch of her face with the exception of her bright red lips and black eyeliner.
     
    Senator Thirty-Two exhales at the sight of the woman. “And, from Squadron Twenty-Eight, Unit Seven, Fighter Thirteen.”
     
    Seven lets out a low groan at the mention of Thirteen, followed by the softest exhale as she appears at the opposite end of the Hall. Thirteen steps forward. Long, rippling waves of braided hair swirl around her forehead, twisting and curling in tangled harmony all the way down to her shoulders. Her eyelids have been coated with a sparkly green powder and her eyelashes and eyebrows are outlined with green, shimmering feathers. Loose threads of hair graze her exposed collarbones, veiling the crisscrossed straps of the brown leather corset tightly secured around her torso. Thirteen begins to walk toward the center of the hall, revealing a pair of brown leather pants and strapped boots under the emerald sheer skirt swathing from the belt at her hips. The slow, delicate movement of the fabric caresses the air as she moves, demanding the undivided attention of everyone in the room. Two double-sided knives can be seen tucked inside the pockets on her belt.
     
    Thirteen stops abruptly at the sight of her opponent, her obvious surprise turning into unrestrained anger. Six smiles back in recognition, making me frown. They know each other. I retrieve every memory I possess about the respective fighters, only to find that there is no possible way they met after conscription. Fighters are forbidden to interact outside their respective units and I am certain neither unit has crossed paths during training. Thirteen reaches for one of the daggers stored inside the golden clasp of her corset belt and Six responds by retrieving both of her moon blades. The thin knives fit perfectly around her knuckles, as if she had reached out into the starry sky and pulled down two half-moons from the dark vastness beyond.
     
    Thirteen throws first, aiming one of her daggers directly toward Six’s chest. Six rotates left, avoiding the dagger and throwing one of her knives in Thirteen’s direction. The blade scrapes Thirteen’s hip, tearing the delicate fabric over her skin. Before Six can even register the movement, Thirteen lunges forward and kicks her in the stomach. I can’t hold back my surprise at her aggressive approach. The blow throws Six off balance, making her wobble back a few steps, but she recovers quickly, retaliating with kicks of her own. Before long, both fighters are caught between blows, well-aimed strikes, punches, and kicks. No one dares to look away. Their swift movements flux through the air like the strokes of a painter, sketching patterns of color against the pale surroundings.
     
    Thirteen manages to grasp