Death-Walker

The canyon held its breath.

Below the high stone walls, the clan gathered with heavy silence and tense posture. A moon had passed since the chief and his wife drowned during a hunt for the Iberian ibex, and the clan had lived in uncertainty since.

Anaya, their only child, carried the birthright, but she was only twelve. Half the tribe stood behind her, loyal to blood and tradition. The other half backed Remi, her father’s brother, a proven warrior with deep experience and support from many hunters.

With division came the old law: leadership must be settled through ritual combat to the death. Some warriors on both sides pushed for peace, while others feared the outcome for the clan if she abdicated her claim.

But even though she was only twelve, she understood that if she chose to live, she would also be choosing dishonor - for herself and her bloodline.

The price of her honor would be her death - and possibly the death of her tribe if she managed to kill Remi before she died.

The final choice was Anaya’s alone.

She chose to fight.

The night before the combat, she stayed inside her tent with her knees pulled close, rocking in a slow rhythm while tears slid down her face. Fear and duty pressed hard against her chest. The Witch, Vae'lith, stayed at her side through every hour, silent at times, speaking short guidance at others, bound by oath to honor whichever future Anaya chose.

Wind drifted through sun-baked stone, carrying dust and the scent of dry sage. The sky blazed clear and brutal overhead. Below, inside a ring of marked rock, Anaya of the Iron Sand Clan stepped forward. Her bare feet pressed the hot ground. Sweat gathered along her neck and spine. She kept her chin lifted.

She fought the instinct to tremble.

Dozens of warriors watched from the edge of the arena. Their bodies formed a sharp circle: leather armor, bronze piercings, ochre paint streaked across stern faces. No one spoke. No one moved. The trial rule forbade interruption.

Across the circle, Remi walked toward her.

He towered over the gathering, broad-shouldered and scarred from past wars. His hair, once black, showed thin streaks of smoke-gray near the temples. A leather strap crossed his chest, holding the weapon that swung at his side: a heavy iron mace, thick-shafted, hardened with desert-forged spikes.

Remi stopped five paces in front of her. His jaw tightened. His eyes locked on hers. They held no hatred—only resolve.

Anaya breathed slowly.

Her hand wrapped around the hilt of her blade: a short bone-handled knife, sharp and narrow. It weighed almost nothing. Against Remi’s weapon, it felt pointless.

She hid her fear as best she could.

Behind her, just outside the rock ring, Vae'lith stood motionless. Her skin carried soot and symbols. Her hair, bound with sinew and copper beads, touched her waist. She held a small clay bowl, nothing else.

Her voice earlier still echoed in Anaya’s head:

Strength will not win. Precision will. And mercy—leave it outside the circle.

The drums stopped. The clan Elder raised a carved horn.

One long note.

The ritual began.

Remi moved first.

His stride cut the distance fast. The mace lifted high. The weapon cast a long shadow as it arced toward her head.

Anaya ducked. Sand scattered under her feet. The mace crashed into the ground where she had stood. The impact sent a tremor up her legs. She rolled away and regained her footing.

Remi pivoted with controlled power. No hesitation.

Anaya stepped back two paces, watching his stance.

His center of gravity stayed low. His muscles coiled. Every motion telegraphed trained violence.

She circled him. Her knife remained visible—by intent.

Remi’s gaze flicked to the blade, then back to her face. His chest rose and fell with steady breath. His lips pressed into a grim line. Remi’s jaw flexed. His grip tightened.

He lunged again.

The mace swung in a sideways arc. The spikes caught the light. Anaya dodged. The strike missed her ribs by inches—close enough she felt the wind of it.

Her pulse hammered.

She darted forward, knife hand raised.

Remi stepped back with surprising agility. The blade scraped leather across his forearm. A shallow cut. Nothing fatal.

But the blade was never the actual threat.

Her fingers completed the motion: placing the spider.

Small. Black. Slow-legged. Its abdomen held faint patterns that looked like woven thread.

Death-Walker.

The clan knew its name in whispers.

Remi did not feel its weight. Not yet.

Anaya pulled back and steadied her breath.

Vae'lith’s lesson echoed: Knife distracts. Touch delivers. Let heat wake it. Sweat triggers the strike.

Remi kicked sand at her feet and advanced again. His movements grew sharper.

The next blow connected.

The mace slammed into Anaya’s shoulder. Pain shot through her arm. She stumbled and nearly fell. Her fingers numbed, and her grip faltered. The knife slipped, but she caught it with her other hand.

Remi froze for half a heartbeat—enough time for grief to flicker across his face.

Then he pushed forward—duty over emotion.

Anaya forced her legs steady.

The clan watched without sound.

The ground beneath her felt uneven now. Her shoulder throbbed. She lifted her guard, slower than before.

Remi pressed the advantage.

Another swing. She ducked late. The weapon grazed her ribs. Cloth tore. Skin burned. Her breath caught in her throat.

She could not match his strength. The reality pressed close and cold.

Still—she moved.

She feinted right, slipped left, and slashed an opening across his thigh. Not deep. Just enough to raise blood.

The spider shifted on his skin.

Anaya held her stance.

Remi set his foot and steadied himself. His voice finally emerged—not gentle.

“You have fought well, little one. But you should yield. I will not show you mercy.”

Anaya stiffened.

To yield meant exile.

To yield meant the clan lost faith.

To yield meant weakness—and a leader without authority never survived long.

Her fingers curled tighter around the knife. She lifted her chin.

Remi’s brows lifted in brief sadness.

He responded with another charge.

Sweat traveled across Remi’s skin.

The desert heat intensified. The trial pit stones radiated stored fire. Every deep breath thickened the air.

The spider stirred.

Remi swung again. His elbow flexed. Muscles pulled across his forearm. The spider crawled higher, then paused near his shoulder.

Anaya kept a distance. She counted her steps. She let exhaustion slow her, as planned. Remi believed victory was in reach.

Her legs burned. Her shoulder ached. Dust coated her tongue.

Remi closed in.

His mace rose for the final blow.

Her gaze didn’t follow the weapon—she watched his pulse point at the neck.

The spider appeared.

Remi inhaled.

The bite landed.

He froze mid-swing. The mace hung suspended. Confusion crossed his face. His fingers loosened by instinct.

The weapon dropped. Dust rose on impact.

Remi staggered back one step. His chest expanded in a sharp breath—shallow, forced. Panic widened his eyes.

His hand moved toward his neck.

His knees bent. He fell to one side—a heavy, irreversible collapse.

The ground shook under the weight.

Anaya waited. Her knife lowered but did not touch dirt.

Remi tried to speak, but his throat tightened. His hands clawed at the sand. His pupils dilated. His breath turned irregular, sharp, then thin.

Moments passed—slow for her, fast for him.

His body stilled.

The canyon fell silent.

Anaya stood motionless.

Her chest lifted with uneven breath. Sweat marked her brow. Blood stained her ribs and shoulder. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the sharp collision of victory and loss.

No cheers rose.

Ritual demanded stillness until the verdict became clear.

Vae'lith stepped into the ring. Her bare feet made barely a sound. She walked to Anaya first.

A light touch on the girl’s wrist—approval, steadiness.

Then she knelt beside Remi.

Her fingers checked pulse at throat, then heart.

No movement. No life.

She lifted her chin toward the Elders.

The Chief Elder raised the carved horn and released one short note—final, stark.

“Remi of Iron Sand is gone,” he announced with a voice that carried age and tradition. “The challenge ends.”

Anaya slowly walked toward Remi.

She knelt beside him. Her fingers brushed his cooling hand. Tears escaped—silent, unchecked.

Her voice barely formed, but the words left anyway.

“Goodbye, Uncle Remi.”

Tears filled Vae'lith's eyes. She whispered, “Goodbye, my beloved.”

For a long moment, the ritual no longer mattered.

Only loss.

Later, when the clan dispersed in heavy steps and murmured breaths, the witch remained with her.

They sat beside Remi’s covered body. The sun dropped lower, casting long shadows across the canyon.

Anaya rubbed her injured shoulder. Her face looked older than it had that morning.

The Vae'lith spoke with measured honesty, not tenderness.

“Remi never wanted your death.”

Anaya lifted her gaze—eyes red, jaw tense.

“He believed you were not ready,” the witch continued. “He feared the clan would fracture.

Some warriors pressured him. Others warned of famine approaching. They thought a child could not hold a tribe together.”

Anaya stared at the wrapped body. Her lips trembled once.

“He chose the tradition of combat because tradition binds the clan. If he killed you, the clan would stay united; if you killed him, the same. His motive was loyalty to the clan—not cruelty to you.”

Anaya swallowed hard. Her breathing was shaky.

She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“You fought with mind, not anger,” Vae'lith murmured. “Leadership begins there.”

Anaya nodded, slowly.

She rose. The canyon wind moved around her. Dust lifted. The sky darkened toward dusk.

Warriors watched from a distance now—not as spectators, but as people waiting for a leader.

Anaya stepped forward.

Remi and Vae'lith trained her well—just not in the way intended.

She stood at the center of the arena once more.

The clan bowed.

Not in triumph.

Not in fear.

In acceptance.

Anaya exhaled, steady and clear. “I lead now.”