Cierra's Tale ✓

Chapter 2

The clash of blades echoed throughout the dimly lit cave. Illuminated by a small fire in the centre of the ring, two swift figures engaged in a fluent dance of swordplay, darting and twirling, leaping and lunging back and forth and back again, the sound of metal on metal weaving a melodious song that resonated through the cool, moist air.

Her long blonde hair - threaded through with the mesmerising golds and reds of the fire - fell in a cascade down Cierra's back, unbound and fanning out behind her in an arc as she executed a daring twirl that brought her just centimetres from the edges of the heat-radiating flames. She was a graceful blur of movement, swift as lightning and as fierce as a storm. She was a force to be reckoned with.

Feint, lunge, parry. The intricate steps to the exhilarating dance that made her blood sing and her heart pound came to her as naturally as breathing.

Cierra's opponent matched her blow for blow, his ebony sword an extension of his hand. Over and over their blades met in a fearsome display of skill and power for the gaping spectators watching the match.

Lungs heaving like bellows, she wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead. Closing her eyes, Cierra began counting under her breath, feigning exhaustion. Snickers rose from the audience, but she paid them no heed, refusing to let their prejudices cloud her judgement and prevent her from focusing on the match.

She knew the instant the dark-haired man she was fighting decided to take the bait; the sharp intake of breath and scuff of his boots on the stone floor was a dead giveaway.

Cierra opened her eyes just in time to meet his blade, darting backwards to give herself more space. She winced as their blows collided, a muscle twingeing in her left shoulder. He was faster than she had given him credit for. She narrowed her gaze in contemplation, mentally adjusting her calculations to incorporate the new knowledge. 

He feinted to the left and lunged forward, but this time she was ready, bringing her sword up to meet his in an upwards thrust, using the momentum to spin away towards the fire, dust trailing in her wake. Her laugh reverberated through the cavern, vibrant green eyes sparkling with joy and ebullience.

A sharp, two-toned whistle pierced the air. The message was clear: stop fooling around. She rolled her eyes but complied with the order, pointedly ignoring the dull throb in her legs. Time to get a move on, then.

Cierra charged at him with renewed vigour, going on the offence. Small, quick attacks to distract him while she bided her time, conserving energy and waiting for a gap in his defence.

He feinted to the right this time, leaving his left side undefended as he lunged forwards. Perfect. This was her chance.

Dodging his attack, Cierra ducked low and aimed her sword at his exposed side, turning it at the last moment so that the flat edge knocked against his ribs instead of slicing through flesh and bone. In a real battle, it would have been a lethal blow. With a dramatic flourish, she sheathed the sword in the scabbard strapped to her back. The match was over.

Straightening, she sought out the referee with her gaze, finding him gaping on the sidelines. His face was as white as a sheet, his whistle forgotten in his hand. Astonished silence filled the room.

Cierra lifted her brow at him, a silent challenge. Gulping, he picked his jaw off the floor, fumbling with the whistle. The crowd was still staring at her when he finally managed to blow it, the shrill sound piercing the shocked silence and echoing throughout the cavern.

Palms sweaty, she let out a shaky breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, trembling with relief. With a nod to her opponent, Cierra spun on her heel, striding purposefully back through the entrance. No one tried to stop her.

She made it all of ten steps before she collapsed to her knees, memories flitting across her vision in an incessant rush. The determined expression on her mother's face when she taught Cierra to wield a sword, like velvet over steel. The pride that glowed in her lambent eyes when they sparred. The rise and fall of her voice as she hummed the melody of a soft lullaby, the words long since lost to time. The calmness of her expression at odds with the panic in her green eyes. The soft, fervent rush of words as she instructed Cierra to hide.

The gunshot signalling the end of the beginning.

The heavy thud of boots signalling the beginning of the end.

The reel of disjointed memories ended as abruptly as it started, leaving behind two images burned into the back of her eyelids.

The husband who got away with murder. The child who plotted his demise.

Gasping, tears streaming down her face, she heaved herself to her feet, walking blindly away from the caves, leaving behind a no-doubt angry room full of men. She wondered for a moment, detachedly, if her opponent was irritated at her for humiliating him. The thought brought a smile to Cierra's face, but the fleeting mirth disappeared a moment later.

Directing misplaced anger at innocent people wasn't fair. It wasn't her opponent's fault for underestimating her. No one - not even a woman - would expect a girl to be capable of wielding a sword. Such was the nature of the world they lived in.

She may have won this battle, but all around the world, other women fought their own battles every day, and things weren't just going to change overnight. The worst part was there was nothing she could do about it.

So despite all she had achieved, Cierra went home with a heavy heart.