The city of Averasis was built on blood. Its marble arenas rose from the coastal cliffs like fortresses, and from their gates poured the cheers of thousands who lived for the clash of steel and the spectacle of glory. To be noble in Averasis was not simply to govern; it was to fight, to bleed, and to win.

  Zavana Vi Aurelia had been born into that legacy, second child of the powerful Vi Aurelia family. Her brother, Zakari, was already famed among their peers: a hunter whose bow never missed, a marksman whose eyes were sharp as hawk talons. From the day he could string a bow, his path had been clear.

  From Zavana's earliest years, she had no patience for precision or elegance. Archery bored her, lessons in etiquette suffocated her. What set her soul alight was simpler, rawer; throwing her strength against anything that dared stand before her.

  Her parents, though exasperated, were far from blind. They hired the best tutors coin could buy, master-at-arms who tried to polish her into a swordswoman worthy of Averasis. And for over a decade she trained, blade in hand, form drilled into muscle and bone. She loved the weight of a sword, the feel of steel biting through the air. Yet time and again, when her temper rose and her full power surged, the weapon could not withstand her. Steel cracked in her grip, blades snapped mid-swing, hilts shattered in her hands. Every duel ended the same; her sword broken, and her fists finishing what steel could not.

  The tutors despaired, but the city admired. Averasis had seen countless swordsmen. A brawler? That was something new. Zavana herself only cared for one thing: the Tournament of Averasis. Once every decade, warriors from across the land fought in its pit, and the victor earned the right to join the Knights of the Ring; the living legends of her city. From the first time she witnessed that crimson sand, she swore she would stand upon it as a champion.

  Her family wanted her in lecture halls. She wanted only the arena. Zakari, ever her anchor, understood. He tempered her rage with patience, took her hunting to sharpen her instincts. Side by side they faced beasts and monsters, steel against claw, brother and sister against the wild. To Zavana, there was no greater joy.

  On the eve of her sixteenth birthday, she asked him for more.“Not a beast,” she told him, eyes alight. “Something closer. A real challenge.”

  Zakari chuckled but did not dismiss her. Instead, he told her a story whispered among hunters: a creature born from human hunger, cursed to wander the caves beyond the northern woods. She grinned like a child offered a gift.

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  That night, beneath a rising moon, the siblings rode into the wild.

  They camped near the caves, the firelight dancing against the trees. Zakari left briefly to scout, and Zavana sat alone, her blade across her knees. A faint scratching caught her ear. She rose, tense, every sense bristling. Slowly, she crept toward the sound.

  A badger emerged, rubbing its back against a tree. She exhaled in relief;

  And flinched as a hand clamped her shoulder. She spun, weapon raised, only to find Zakari grinning at her, holding a small cake lit with a single candle.

  “Happy birthday, dear sister.”

  Her throat tightened. Tears spilled as she fell into his arms, laughter and sobs tangled together. They ate the cake by firelight, warmth and love filling the clearing. For a heartbeat, life was perfect.

  Zakari requested his kid sister go fetch the supplies for the hunt, she jolted with excitement to their bags of equipment. She turned to her brother to ask what they needed for the hunt. At first she thought it a trick of the flames, a blur at the corner of her eye. Then it stood clear: tall, wrong, its hand ending in claws that held a human body aloft. Its other hand dragged a severed arm to its mouth, teeth like needles crunching bone.

  Her scream tore her throat raw when she saw the body’s face.

  It was Zakari.

  Blood streaked his cheeks as his lips trembled. “Run…”He forced the word through agony. “Run, little sister! Run!”

  Her body would not obey. The whispers came instead, hissing into her skull: “It’s your fault. You wanted this. You are the monster.”

  Her vision faded to black before she could draw another breath.

  She dreamet of eyes; red, glowing like embers in the dark. A tall figure loomed, hand extended toward her as if to beckon, or accuse.

  When she woke, dawn lit the camp. Smoke coiled from the fire’s remains. Around her lay shards of flesh and scattered pieces of a creature’s corpse.

  In her lap lay Zakari.

  He was still. His chest pierced through, his arm gone. Blood dried against his skin like paint. She clutched him, sobbing until her voice broke. Then the whispers returned. His voice echoed in her mind. “You… did… this.”

  She stared down at him, and despite his mangled body, despite the horror of his death, his lips were curved in a proud smile.

  It was too much. She could not explain, could not face the family, could not bear their eyes when they saw she had returned alone.

  So Zavana Vi Aurelia buried her name with her brother that morning.

  She rose from the clearing not as a noble daughter, but as a fugitive of grief, guilt, and fury. Into the wilds she ran, fists clenched, her heart broken, and her dream of the arena burning with anguish.

  The Brawler had been born.