CLARISSE LA RUE

The impact steals the air from your lungs before the pain even has time to register.

One second, your footing is solid—balanced, controlled, your blade angled just right—and the next, the world tilts violently beneath you. Your back slams into the packed dirt of the arena, breath knocked clean out of your chest as dust rises around you in a suffocating cloud.

Your grip tightens instinctively around your sword, though it’s already useless. The match is over before your mind can catch up.

Again.

A few scattered laughs ripple through the arena, not cruel, not mocking—just familiar. Expected. The kind of reaction that comes from watching the same outcome play out over and over again.

Because this isn’t new.

It never is.

Clarisse La Rue doesn’t lose.

Not to you. Not to anyone.

And she certainly doesn’t go easy.

You cough, turning your head slightly, spitting dirt from your mouth as your chest rises and falls in uneven bursts. Above you, the sky stretches wide and unforgiving, but it’s not what holds your attention.

It’s her.

Of course it is.

Clarisse stands over you like something carved from war itself—unshaken, unbothered, entirely in control. There’s not a trace of hesitation in her stance, not a flicker of doubt in the way she holds herself.

Her boot lands just beside your ribs—too close to be accidental, too deliberate to ignore.

Not pressing down.

Just there.

A warning.

A statement.

A claim.

Her spear spins lazily in her hand, effortless, like the fight you just lost meant nothing at all. Like it didn’t cost her even a fraction of the effort it took you to stay standing for as long as you did.

And then she looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Dark eyes sharp and cutting, sweeping over you with an intensity that feels almost surgical. There’s no softness there. No mercy. Just that familiar, relentless scrutiny—like she’s cataloguing every mistake you made, every weakness you showed.

Like she’s already planning how to exploit it next time.

“Pathetic.”

The word lands harder than the fall did.

She drags it out, slow and deliberate, like she’s savoring it. Like it’s something to be enjoyed rather than simply stated.

“You call that a fight?” she continues, one brow arching slightly as she tilts her head. “I’ve seen first-years swing better.”

There’s a murmur somewhere to your left—someone snickering, someone else muttering something under their breath—but it fades into the background. None of it matters.

Not when she’s looking at you like that.

Not when you know—deep down—that she means every word.

Clarisse doesn’t lie to spare feelings.

She doesn’t soften her blows, physical or otherwise.

If she thinks you’re weak, she’ll say it.

If she thinks you can do better—

She’ll make sure you do.

She crouches then, sudden and fluid, bringing herself down to your level. The shift is quick enough to make your breath hitch, your body tensing instinctively despite the fact that you’re already pinned beneath the weight of her presence.

Up close, she’s overwhelming.

There’s something about Clarisse that fills space differently than everyone else—like she takes up more room than she physically should, like the air bends around her instead of the other way around.

You can feel the heat of her now, radiating off her in waves, close enough that it’s hard to ignore. Too close.

Always too close.

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

If anything, it sharpens.

She studies you like you’re a puzzle she hasn’t quite solved yet, something frustrating and intriguing all at once. Her eyes flick briefly over your face—your expression, your breathing, the way you haven’t moved to get up yet.

Then back to your eyes.

Always back to your eyes.

For a split second—just one—it almost feels like something else.

Not mockery.

Not irritation.

Something quieter.

Something you’re not sure you’re meant to see.

Then it’s gone.

Replaced with that same crooked smirk, carved deep and unapologetic.

The blunt end of her spear presses lightly against your chest, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you exactly where you are.

Pinned.

Grounded.

Held.

“Don’t pout, princess.”

Her voice drops slightly, lower now, rougher around the edges. There’s mockery there, sure—but it’s laced with something else. Something that lingers just beneath the surface, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

“You look kinda cute down there.”

The words should sting.

They should humiliate you, reduce you to nothing more than the losing opponent sprawled beneath her.

But the way she says it—

The way her eyes flicker, just briefly, like she’s catching herself on something she didn’t mean to reveal—

It does something else entirely.

Your pulse stutters.

Annoying.

Unwelcome.

Unavoidable.

Her smirk deepens, like she notices. Like she always notices.

Of course she does.

Clarisse misses nothing.

Her head tilts again, just slightly, as if reassessing you, recalculating. The spear doesn’t move from your chest, but her grip on it shifts—loosens, almost absentmindedly.

Like she’s forgotten it’s even there.

Like she doesn’t need it to keep you where you are.

And maybe she doesn’t.

She leans in.

Not enough to close the distance entirely—but enough that you feel it. The shift. The change in atmosphere. The way the space between you narrows into something tight and charged and impossible to ignore.

“Go on,” she murmurs, voice quieter now, but somehow more intense. “Tell me you want a rematch.”

There’s a challenge in it.

There always is.

Clarisse thrives on challenge. On conflict. On the push and pull of something that refuses to back down.

Her eyes search yours again, sharper this time, like she’s waiting for something specific. Not just a response.

A reaction.

“I’ll beat your ass again,” she adds, lips quirking slightly, the edge of her teeth catching the light as her grin turns just a little more dangerous. “And maybe—maybe—I’ll go easy on you next time.”

She won’t.

You both know she won’t.

Clarisse doesn’t do mercy.

Not in the arena.

Not in anything that matters.

But that’s not the point.

The point is the way she’s looking at you.

The way she hasn’t moved.

The way the rest of the arena has faded into something distant and irrelevant, the world narrowing down to just this moment, just this space, just the two of you locked in something that feels bigger than a simple fight.

You could stay down.

Let the moment pass. Let her win, like she always does.

It would be easier.

Safer.

But that’s never been who you are.

And it’s definitely not what she wants.

Because beneath the taunts, beneath the smirk and the sharp words and the deliberate pressure of her spear against your chest—

Clarisse is waiting.

For you to push back.

For you to prove her wrong.

For you to be something worth fighting.

Your fingers tighten around your sword, the weight of it grounding you as your breath steadies, your body shifting beneath her just enough to remind both of you that you’re not done yet.

Not even close.

Her eyes flicker—just for a second.

Approval.

It’s gone as quickly as it appears, buried beneath that same relentless confidence, but you catch it.

You always do.

The corner of your mouth lifts, just slightly, despite everything.

Despite the dirt, the bruises, the way she has you pinned and knows it.

“You talk too much,” you manage, voice rough but steady.

Her grin widens.

There it is.

That’s what she wanted.

Pressure builds for a moment—tight, electric—before she finally pushes back, rising to her feet in one smooth motion. The spear lifts from your chest, the weight gone as quickly as it came.

Freedom.

Or something like it.

She takes a step back, rolling her shoulders like the fight barely registered in her muscles, like she’s already ready for more.

Always ready for more.

Her gaze never leaves you.

“Get up,” she says simply.

Not a suggestion.

A command.