Chapter Text
Act I
The road to Wyrdsted was long and cruel, stretching across leagues of dust-choked paths and jagged hills where bandits prowled like wolves. Agatha Harkness had seen worse. She rode through it all without complaint, her dark cloak snapping in the wind, her mare’s hooves kicking up dry earth as the walls of the city loomed ahead. Wyrdsted. Even from a distance, it reeked of sweat, steel, and the restless energy of men eager for bloodsport.
She pulled the reins as she neared the gate, scanning the city’s towering stone walls, the iron-studded portcullis raised high in welcome. The banners of the noble houses fluttered overhead—deep blues, forest greens, a bold crimson sigil that bore the golden lion of whichever stuck-up family ran the city. Trumpets blared beyond the walls, signalling the start of another match, and the crowd’s answering roar sent a thrill through her bones.
A tourney.
Agatha didn’t give a damn about chivalry or spectacle, but gold and glory? Now, that was something worth swinging a sword for. And here, in the heart of Wyrdsted, there was plenty to be won.
She nudged her mare forward, slipping into the swarm of bodies that choked the city’s entrance. Merchants bellowed from their stalls, hawking roasted meats and spiced wine to eager spectators, while blacksmiths hammered out last-minute repairs on battered breastplates and chipped swords. The air was thick with sweat and charred metal, and the streets stank of shit and spilt ale, but there was something undeniably alive about it all. A fever, a hunger.
As Agatha rode deeper into the city, she caught glimpses of other fighters moving toward the great tournament grounds—a grizzled soldier with a face like cracked leather, a young noble preening in his shining breastplate, a tattooed sellsword adjusting the wrappings around her fists. Some were seasoned killers, others were fools chasing glory, but all of them had the same gleam in their eyes—the kind that came from the promise of riches, renown, and blood well spilt.
She dismounted near the tournament registry, looping her mare’s reins over a post before striding through the crowd.
A long wooden table had been set up before the main gates of the tournament grounds, where a tourney scribe—a pale, narrow-faced man with ink-stained fingers—sat scratching names onto a parchment scroll. His eyes flicked up as Agatha approached, sweeping over her worn garments, the mismatched pieces of armour strapped over them, and the well-worn hilt of her sword.
“You’re here to register?” He asked, his tone clipped with thinly veiled scepticism.
Agatha smirked. “Isn’t that what this table is for?”
The scribe’s mouth tightened, but he dipped his quill, waiting. “Your name?”
She hesitated for only a breath. Names held weight. Hers was known well enough in the circles where blood and coin flowed together, but she had no use for titles here, not yet at least.
“Agatha of Nowhere,” she said smoothly.
The scribe let out a soft scoff, his quill pausing mid-scratch. “That supposed to be clever?”
Agatha leaned forward, just enough for him to catch the glint in her eyes. “It’s supposed to be written down.”
He sighed, muttering under his breath as he scrawled it onto the list. “Weapons?”
Agatha patted the hilt of her longsword. “This one does the job.”
He gave her a sceptical glance, but in the end, he only waved a hand toward the arena gates. “Take your place in the lists. You’ll be called when it’s your turn.”
She didn’t thank him.
Instead, she turned toward the open grounds, where the makeshift arena had been constructed—a vast ring of packed earth, enclosed by wooden barriers, with the noble stands rising high above the battlefield. The sound of steel clashing against steel rang out, punctuated by the occasional thwack of a body hitting the dirt. The crowd was wild, a mass of peasants and lords alike, all screaming for blood, for triumph, for their favoured champions to carve their names into legend.
Agatha rolled her shoulders, already itching to step into the fray, to carve out her own legend among them.
But then—
A flicker of movement caught her eye.
She turned her head, her gaze settling on a figure standing at the edge of the arena, their sword resting casually against their shoulder, their armour gleaming in the late afternoon light.
The golden lion sigil gleamed against her breastplate.
Rio Vidal, a knight serving the local noble family.
Agatha did not need an introduction. She had heard the whispers, the stories, the fucking songs.
The Crown’s Favourite. The army’s golden boy. So-called ‘Lady Death’.
Three-time champion of this very tourney, undefeated in fifteen duels, a warrior so precise, so untouchable, that even the bards struggled to find words that did her justice.
She was standing there now, speaking to a handful of admirers, her lips curled into an easy, self-assured smile, the kind that only belonged to someone who knew exactly how good they were.
The kind of smile that infuriated Agatha.
She studied her for a long moment, taking in the way Rio’s dark hair tousled slightly at her temples, damp from exertion, the way her gloved fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword, the way she carried herself—not with the forced bravado of the young nobles who came here seeking fame, nor with the brutish aggression of the mercenaries looking to make a name.
No.
Rio Vidal was a woman who knew she had already won.
Agatha’s fingers twitched at her sides.
Oh, she would love to wipe that smirk off her face.
Her gaze swept down to the tournament roster, where the names had been listed in the order of matches. She scanned the parchment, eyes flicking over the names of unfamiliar men and women, a blur of half-remembered titles, until her own caught her attention.
Agatha of Nowhere.
She kept reading.
The matches were listed in brackets, leading up to the final round. She traced the lines with a gloved finger, following them up, up, up—
Her grin faded.
The only way she would face Rio Vidal was if they both made it to the final round.
A slow smirk curled at her lips.
Well, that was incentive enough.
—
The clash of steel against steel rang through the air, a brutal symphony of grunts, shouts, and the thunderous roar of the crowd. Though tourney blades were blunted, meant to prevent outright slaughter, there was no illusion of safety here. A sword was still a sword, even without its edge, and a poorly timed parry, a misplaced step, or a single lapse in judgement could mean shattered bones, crushed windpipes, or a skull cracked open like a ripe fruit.
Agatha had no intention of making those mistakes.
She moved through the preliminary rounds like a storm, her fighting style unrefined but effective, a mercenary’s pragmatism honed by years of real combat. She did not care for elegance or the precise footwork and perfect form the knights of noble houses prided themselves on. War was not elegant. War was won by the one who walked away still breathing.
And Agatha intended to breathe for a long time.
Her first opponent was a towering brute of a man, a sellsword like herself, with a nose crooked from too many poorly healed breaks and a broadsword nearly as tall as she was. He came at her like a battering ram, all brute force and no grace, expecting to overwhelm her with his size alone.
Agatha let him.
She sidestepped his opening swing, feeling the wind of it rush past her face, and let him overcommit to his momentum. Then she slammed the heel of her boot into the side of his knee.
A sharp, sickening pop.
The man crumpled with a howl, his sword clattering to the dirt as he clutched at his leg. The audience roared in approval—or perhaps in horror—but Agatha only stepped over his body, barely sparing him a glance as the officiator declared her the victor.
Her second match was much the same.
A young noble, too fresh-faced, too full of bravado, came at her with a flourish of his longsword, their footwork pristine, their technique practiced to the point of perfection. But perfection meant predictability.
Agatha let them dance around her, let them believe for a moment that they had the upper hand, before she drove her elbow into their throat the moment they left themselves open. They stumbled back, choking, their stance faltering just long enough for her to drive the hilt of her sword into their stomach, hard enough to knock the air from their lungs.
They fell to their knees, retching.
Victory.
By her third fight, she was already breathing hard, sweat clinging to her skin beneath her armour, her muscles burning with exertion. But exhaustion had never stopped her before. She faced off against a seasoned knight this time, one who clearly had years of experience, his stance steady, his grip firm. He would not be as easy as the others.
So, Agatha did what she did best.
She feinted left, making him believe she was going for his exposed side. He took the bait, raising his sword to block—and she kicked his legs out from under him instead.
He hit the dirt hard, his helmet clanging against the packed earth, and before he could recover, Agatha drove her boot down onto his wrist, forcing his fingers to release their grip on the sword. The officiator barely had time to call the match before she had already stepped away, rolling the tension from her shoulders.
It was only then—as the crowd erupted in cheers and jeers alike—that she felt it.
A gaze.
Not just any gaze, but one piercing through the noise, sharp as a blade pressed against her throat.
Agatha turned, breath still coming fast from the fight, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
Across the arena, standing with an easy, effortless stillness, was Rio Vidal.
She was watching.
For a moment, Agatha thought she might look away, might cast her gaze elsewhere, as knights often did when they thought themselves above a common fighter.
But she did not.
Rio’s eyes—dark and unreadable—held hers with an intensity that sent something twisting low in Agatha’s stomach.
She was no fool. She had spent her life reading people, reading their movements, their tells, the little shifts in stance that signalled an impending strike or a moment of weakness. Rio was not impressed by her.
Or disgusted, or amused.
She was just… watching.
Agatha exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as she tore her gaze away first, her lips twitching in something halfway between a smirk and a snarl.
Let her watch, she thought.
Soon enough, they would stand across from each other with blades drawn, and then she would give Rio Vidal something worth watching.
—
The crowd’s roar was deafening, the air thick with dust and sweat and the lingering scent of iron. It was a sound that had carried across the tournament grounds all day, but now—now it was different. Now it was anticipation.
The final match had been announced, and all eyes were on the ring.
Rio Vidal versus Agatha of Nowhere.
Lady Death against a nameless sellsword.
The favourite against the underdog.
Agatha stood at one end of the dirt-swept arena, rolling out the stiffness in her shoulders, the lingering ache of her earlier matches settling into her bones like an old friend. She’d fought four times already, each match more gruelling than the last, but there was no room for fatigue now. Not when she stood across from Rio Vidal.
Her gaze flicked over her opponent, taking in the meticulously polished armour, the measured way Rio adjusted her grip on her sword, the way she held herself—composed and effortless, like this was merely a formality.
It set Agatha’s teeth on edge.
She smirked, letting the expression stretch slow and sharp across her face as she tilted her head. “Nice armour,” she drawled, voice carrying just enough over the buzz of the crowd. “I’d say I’ll try not to scratch it, but I’d be lying.”
Rio’s lips curled in return, the kind of smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. “And I’d say I’ll go easy on you, but that would be lying, too.”
The officiator raised a hand, and the crowd stilled.
With a drop of the flag, the match began.
And suddenly, Agatha understood.
Rio was fast.
Not just fast, but precise too.
Her first strike came in clean and controlled, a perfect diagonal cut meant to test Agatha’s reaction. Agatha barely had time to bring her blade up to parry before Rio was already moving, pivoting seamlessly into a second strike, then a third, each one executed with ruthless efficiency.
Agatha gritted her teeth, digging her heels into the dirt.
She was no stranger to speed or to power, but this was something else entirely.
Rio’s form was flawless. Every movement was calculated, every attack had a purpose. There were no wasted strikes, no unnecessary flourishes, no grand displays of strength or intimidation. She did not hack or heave like lesser fighters; she carved through the air with terrifying precision, a swordsman who had never known anything but victory.
But Agatha had never cared for rules.
She pivoted, letting Rio’s next strike glance off the flat of her blade, then shifted her grip and swung for Rio’s legs instead. It was a dirty move, not illegal mind you, but not one a knight would expect.
Rio barely avoided it, jumping back at the last moment, her expression flickering ever so slightly in surprise.
Agatha grinned.
“Oh,” she purred, “don’t tell me you’ve never fought someone who doesn’t play fair.”
Rio didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she pressed forward again, this time with a feint, trying to force Agatha onto the defensive.
Agatha dodged, then sidestepped and kicked up a spray of dry soil, aiming for Rio’s eyes.
It was a dirty trick. One that should have worked.
But Rio had anticipated it.
She turned her face at just the right moment, letting the dust pass harmlessly over her shoulder, then closed the distance between them in a single step, sword raised.
Agatha only just got her own weapon up in time to block. The force of the blow rattled down her arms, nearly sending her to one knee.
Their faces were close now, both of them locked in the struggle, the sound of metal grating against metal filling the narrow space between them.
“You rely too much on deception,” Rio huffed, breath warm against Agatha’s cheek.
“And you rely too much on honour,” Agatha shot back, voice strained. “Someday, it’s going to get you killed.”
Rio’s smile didn’t falter. But she did break away, shifting back into a ready stance, waiting for Agatha to make the next move.
Agatha exhaled sharply, flexing her fingers around the hilt of her sword. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Fine. She never liked things that came easy anyway.
It wasn’t the first time Agatha had struggled in a fight. She had fought sellswords and mercenaries, thieves and brutes and assassins who moved like shadows. She had fought in taverns, in alleyways slick with rain, on bloodstained battlefields where there was no honour.
But this, this was different.
Rio wasn’t just skilled. She was precise. Calculated. As if she could already see the outcome of the fight and was merely waiting for Agatha to catch up.
Agatha lunged aiming a quick strike at Rio’s side, but Rio had already stepped aside, the edge of Agatha’s blade whistling through empty air.
She barely had a moment to recover.
Rio was on her in an instant, sword swinging high and fast, forcing Agatha to block at an awkward angle. The force of the blow sent a jolt through her arms, rattling down to her bones, and Agatha gritted her teeth against the impact.
She was strong. But so was Rio.
She had always been able to overpower her opponents—through sheer force, through unpredictability, through fighting dirty when it counted. But nothing was working.
Every trick she tried, Rio was already a step ahead.
She tried switching hands mid-swing, but Rio adjusted effortlessly, as if she had expected it all along.
She tried a feint, but Rio didn’t even flinch, reading the deception before Agatha had fully committed to it.
She dug her heels into the ground, using her smaller frame to move unpredictably, shifting from offense to defence in a heartbeat, yet still—still, Rio was there, meeting her strike for strike, parrying every attack with infuriating ease.
The longer the fight dragged on, the more frustration clawed at Agatha’s ribs.
How?
How was she not winning?
She had fought for her life more times than she could count. Rio might have been a champion of tourneys, a knight with a name drenched in gold and glory, but Agatha was a survivor.
She had fought in places where no crowd cheered.
She had fought without armour, without a name, without a second chance.
And yet—here she was, and still, she couldn’t land a decisive blow.
Her breaths came quicker, sharper, the weight of the duel sinking into her muscles.
She risked a glance—just a quick flicker of her gaze—to gauge Rio’s stance, to see if she, too, was feeling the strain.
But Rio was barely sweating. She stood there, blade poised, balanced on the balls of her feet like she had all the time in the world.
Agatha’s grip tightened on her hilt.
The crowd, once a distant hum at the edges of her focus, had become thunderous.
They had long since stopped treating this as just a tourney match. This was something else. This was a fight destined to become legend.
Agatha’s pulse hammered against her ribs, threatened to burst out.
She needed to end this.
Her body burned with exertion, her muscles screaming from the relentless back-and-forth. Every inch of her ached, but she shoved the pain aside. She had fought through worse. She would not lose; she could not lose.
Rio was still standing there, maddeningly composed, barely looking winded. She had the kind of discipline that only came from years of rigid training, from a lifetime of wielding a sword like an extension of her own body.
But everyone had a weakness.
Agatha had made a career out of finding them.
She adjusted her stance just slightly, subtly shifting her weight onto her back foot. A small movement, one that most fighters would miss. But it was deliberate. She let her breathing hitch, let the exhaustion show on her face, let her sword-arm lower just a fraction too much.
A calculated slip. A weakness revealed.
The perfect bait.
She had used this trick countless times before. Against hardened warriors, against seasoned mercenaries who had killed for far longer than Rio Vidal had played at being a knight.
They had all fallen for it.
So would she.
Agatha saw the flicker of movement, the barest shift in Rio’s weight as she took the bait.
Now.
Agatha seized the opportunity.
She surged forward, blade flashing—a ruthless, precise strike aimed not at Rio’s chest, but at the fraction of space she had left open in her stance.
For the first time, Agatha was sure she had her.
Not for the first time, she was wrong. Rio didn’t fall for it. She didn’t react the way Agatha expected—she had not panicked; she didn’t even look remotely surprised.
She had seen the feint for what it was before it even fully formed.
And she countered. Faster than thought, Rio’s sword swung, not to kill, not even to wound, but to redirect.
Agatha felt it before she understood it—the forceful twist of metal against metal, the sudden loss of control.
Then, the pain.
Not a sharp, searing pain, but a brutal, jarring impact—a strike delivered with such perfect precision that it sent a violent shockwave through her arm, numbing her fingers.
Her grip faltered.
Her sword slipped.
She saw it leave her hands, a sickening moment of weightlessness as steel spun through the air.
And then—the sound of it.
The unmistakable, humiliating clang as her weapon hit the ground.
Her knees followed.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t intentional. The sheer force of Rio’s final manoeuvre had thrown her off balance, and the only thing she could do was catch herself before she fully collapsed.
Silence.
For the first time since the duel began, the roaring crowd was utterly, breathlessly still.
Agatha knelt in the dirt, chest heaving, sweat slicking her brow, her empty hands digging into the surface beneath her.
And above her, Rio stood victorious.
The world felt distant.
The weight of her defeat pressed against Agatha’s ribs, settling heavy in her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. She had lost.
Sure, it wasn’t the first time. No fighter won every battle. But never like this.
Never to someone who had seen through her tricks so effortlessly. Never to someone who had outmatched her so completely—not just in strength, but in sheer, infuriating skill.
The air was thick with anticipation. She could feel it pressing down on her, the hush of the crowd waiting for the final blow.
Agatha braced herself for it.
For the sting of dulled steel against her skin, for the humiliation of a strike that would seal her defeat in front of hundreds of watching eyes.
For the eruption of cheers, for the ringing announcement of Rio Vidal’s victory.
But it did not come.
Instead, there was a whisper of steel sinking into a patch of dried earth next to her head.
Agatha’s gaze snapped upward, and there—standing above her, unbearably composed, unbearably whole—was Rio.
Extending a hand.
"You fought well," Rio said, voice infuriatingly steady. "Come, take in the crowd with me. They’ll love you."
Agatha saw red.
This was so much worse than any physical blow Rio could have dealt her. She could have handled losing. Losing was temporary. Losing was fixable.
But this? This mockery of mercy? This patronising display of chivalry?
Agatha's fingers curled into fists against the dirt. She did not need Rio Vidal’s pity. Her whole body ached, but she forced herself up—without help.
She ignored the offered hand. Slapped it away.
Rio didn’t flinch. Instead, she watched, calm and infuriatingly amused, as Agatha shoved herself to her feet.
Her legs were unsteady beneath her, exhaustion clawing at every nerve, but she refused to show it. She locked eyes with Rio, her voice low, rough, edged with raw fury as she growled, "next time, I’ll gut you."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—Rio smirked.
"Looking forward to it."
—
The winner’s ceremony was in full swing.
The banners of Wyrdsted snapped in the breeze, their rich blues and greens vibrant against the afternoon sky. The makeshift dais, erected at the edge of the tourney grounds, was a grand affair—draped in silks, lined with nobles, a place where champions were honoured, and legends were made.
And at the centre of it all, bathed in the glow of victory, stood Rio Vidal.
The herald’s voice carried over the arena, sharp and clear, announcing what the crowd already knew.
"And so, the grand champion of Wyrdsted’s open tourney—Rio Vidal!"
The gathered spectators erupted into cheers. The sound was deafening, an overwhelming wall of adoration, punctuated by the rhythmic beat of hands clapping against polished steel and leather.
But Agatha barely heard any of it over the blood pounding in her ears.
She watched from the sidelines, the taste of dust and defeat thick in her throat. Every muscle in her body screamed from exertion, but nothing compared to the raw, seething burn beneath her skin. I wasn’t just rage, but something far, far deeper.
Rio stepped forward as her name rang through the air, shoulders squared, the picture of a knight who was born for this moment.
A rather pretty noblewoman approached and draped a wreath of laurel over her shoulders, the soft green a stark contrast against the burnished plate of her armour. Another handed her a ceremonial dagger, its hilt inlaid with gold, an extravagant token of triumph. And, of course, the real prize—a heavy pouch of gold, enough to fund a comfortable life for months, if not years.
Agatha thought that Rio would somehow find a way to spoil it all in a single drunken evening.
She should have been up there. She should have been the one standing where Rio stood now. Taking the prize, taking the glory. But no, instead, she had been left kneeling in the dirt like a fool.
Agatha had received a prize too, of course.
The herald had called her name moments earlier, voice perfunctory as he announced the second-place finisher. She had stepped forward to accept the modest reward—no laurel, no ceremony, just the weight of a smaller coin purse pressed into her palm and a murmured, "Well fought."
And that was that.
Now, here she stood, at the edge of the crowd, watching as Rio soaked in the admiration of the people, watching as she stood at the centre of a celebration that should have been hers.
She was furious.
But buried beneath the rage, beneath the wounded pride, beneath the sharp edge of resentment, was something else.
A slow, insidious fascination.
She hated how well Rio fought. How easily she countered, how precisely she moved, how impossibly effortless she made it all look. How, despite everything, Agatha wanted to fight her again because this thing between them was far from over.
Rio Vidal might have bested her today, but Agatha wasn’t someone who lost and simply walked away. She was someone who learned. Adapted. Waited. Next time, because there definitely will be a next time, she wouldn’t just fight to prove herself. She would fight to break Rio’s composure.
To shake that damned smirk off her face.
To win in every way she could.
Without another word, without waiting for the ceremony to finish, Agatha turned on her heel and walked away. But as she left the arena, boots crunching against the dirt, she felt it settle deep inside her; her life had shifted.
She didn’t know how, not yet, at least not in ways she could name, but something had been set in motion. Like the first strike of a blacksmith’s hammer against an unshaped blade—subtle, but the beginning of something being forged anew.