The Dagger Darts event was another one of those impossibly dull and boring ones, which the public loved and hated all the same. Twenty competitors were entered in the event, all of them showing dexterity and skills on daggers of different sizes, weights and even material. Rezef's own daggers had made a name for themselves in this event, being smaller replicas of her swords. Nazt and Matum were lighter than normal daggers, having their centre of gravity so precisely in the middle of their length they granted Rezef utter and complete stability in throwing. The Assassin was used to them, just as she had become used to the longer, double edged twin swords. The dagger forms of Nazt and Matum were strapped to the outside of her thighs by bounds of black leather, both exactly at the height of her hands. Rezef could in one move draw and aim her daggers, as well as unsheathe her swords. She had practices that very routine many, many times when she was in the Wild and had come to know it so well it had now become an instinct, something the girl did when waking, even before her eyes had opened. It had saved her life more than once.

Last year, the dagger throwing event had been the one Rezef had excelled in, having trained to kill in the night since she was a child. All competitors had been gathered into the centre of the arena, where they had been led into a wooden box, pitch black. Each and every single competitor had been trapped there, and when the whistle had blown from the outside, all hell had broken lose. They had one minute for there to remain one person.

Daggers had flown all around the box, people tossing them around in the hope to hit someone. Rezef had waited. She had patiently held her breath, her body so still she was one with the shadows until the panic had faded and there was only one remaining competitor. Then, her movement as sleek as she shadows she was drowned in, the woman had unsheathed in complete silence one of her lesser daggers. She had tested its weight in her hands, dexterously grabbing the blade as she judged the man, her enemy, her prey to be five metres to the right of her. She could hear his laboured breathing, his anxiety as he waited for the predator in the shadows. She heard the sharp sound of a dagger piercing the air, the dull sound of the blade hitting the wood.

In one silent movement, she had uncurled her arm and thrown her black mythril blade. She had watched –heard, felt it sail through the darkness, had sensed it embed in the flesh and with a content smirk had witnessed the silence. Bada. Bada. Badabump. Bada. Bada. Badabump. There was only one heartbeat left, one heartbeat and one smile.

However, this year, the organisers weren't this clement.


Each competitor was allowed to bring four daggers in. They were placed, one after the other, inside an area which had been delimited in the sand. The circle created by spilling blood onto the arena was small, barely a metre in diameter. Each competitor was told to stand there, whilst three ropes were shown to them, each twenty five, fifty and a hundred metres away in a straight line. Each rope was linked to a black iron gate, which would crash down ten, five and two metres away from the person, each blocking the entry of one of the three corridors which converged towards the centre of the arena, the ring of blood. Rezef understood very quickly what each corridor was for, when she heard the roaring of Lothian Lions. They were fierce beasts from the forest which stretched north of Harad, the frontier between the deadly desert and the hostile jungle. Upon the beginning of the task, all three lions would be set free. With each lion rushing down its corridor, the competitor would have to sever each rope leading to each gate. First the twenty five, then the fifty and then the hundred. The longer the competitor took to sever the rope, the further the lions would get. If he failed to cut the ropes, the man would be mauled to death by a hungry lion.

It was, as with all the other events, do or die.

The first person to go up against the Lothian Lions was a young earthly warrior. He must have been a freed slave, for his apparel was of red –but he was young. Too young to be in the Warrior Tournament. Too young, far too young. Rezef watched him, full of the assurance of youth. She watched as the starting whistle made him jump, watched as his dagger flew true and hit the first rope. The hungry roar of a running lion threw him off balance, and he missed the second rope. His dagger sailed past it, embedding itself far off the mark, deep into the sun kissed wood making up the arena walls. The boy inhaled deeply, steadying his hand as he refused to glance over his shoulder. Rezef watched his lips murmur something, as he gripped the dagger into the throwing position and sent it to sail through the air. His eyes closed, awaiting either the dull throb of the metal against the wood, sign of his failure or –the rattling of metal as it fell down made his eyes open wide in surprise. He had hit the fifty mark. The gate slammed shut right in front of the beast, its snout colliding with the metal squares. It roared in annoyance, watching its prey stand five metres away from it, so out of reach. The boy glanced over his shoulder, seeing the very last lion rushing down its corridor.

He wouldn't have the time to throw the dagger.

The boy looked down at the weapon in his hand, and then back up to the rope, faintly seen in the distance. He wouldn't have the time. He gripped it harder and turned on his heels, meeting the lion headfirst.

The crowd roared, angry shouts drowned by the cheers of those looking forward to the bloodbath. No one have ever fought a Lothian Lion with a dagger and survived. The boy was doomed to die, but he would die fighting. Like a true Haradrim. Rezef watched, as his eyes widened in fright when they caught sight of the rows of sharp, yellowing teeth. Spit rolled down the animal's beastly mouth, flying off in the wind as the jaws opened into a deafening roar. He watched, mesmerised as the lion's rolling muscles tensed under his sleek, golden fur. The beast sprung up in the air, jumping high, arching towards its prey. The boy forgot to raise his dagger in a parody of defence, as the mighty beast's fanged jaws crushed his trachea, grinding bones and tearing off the head. A geyser of blood shot high in the air, the stadium erupting into heated applauses. The boy had done well, his tribe was proud.

He would never get to feel the fame, though.


Rezef was the last contestant to go. No one had so far been able to hit the hundred mark, and the blood of many was littering the floor of the arena, causing the sand to overflow with the liquid. Rezef's boots seemed to sink into the bloodied ground. The girl made her way to the circle which had almost faded over the course of the event and waited for the signal to begin, her eyes silently trained over the shape of the three ropes, aligned one beside the other. Silently stroking the metal, her fingers slithered over Nazt and Matum. Rezef watched, tense and ready as the man brought his whistle to his lips and blew sharply.

The hissing of paws on sand was deafened by the sound of two metal gates crashing down onto the ground, Nazt and Matum having hit the twenty five and fifty marks respectively before the shrill sound of the whistle had died. Silence took over the arena as the daggers began to spin and curve, making their way back to their owner which caught them. Rezef silently breathed in and out, sheathing the two again. She cracked her neck, not doubting her ability to kill the Lion if it came to this. She had done it before, though not with daggers.

Her breathing evened, as she closed her eyes. She felt, more than she saw, the tense rope a hundred metre away, she watched it strain against the weight holding it down, watched it whimper against the heavy weight of the iron gate. Rezef's hands caressed Nazt and Matum, wrists flexing with the dexterity of a cat. She felt the sand shift, could feel the slight breeze breathing through the arena.

In one fluid motion, Nazt and Matum burst out the their holsters, kissing the tanned lines of Rezef's wrists and with the accompanying flick of her hand, were sailing through the air towards the hundred metre rope.

The arena held its breath.

They watched, tense, as Nazt reached the rope first, the rotation barely hitting the rope on the side. A few hairs of the rope were cut, but it held strong and Nazt flew past. Tension grew. Matum was rushing up close behind, silently following the path Nazt had opened for her. However, when Matum reached the rope, the rotation was at its fullest, perfectly perpendicular to the rope.

It cut through cleanly.

The gate rattled down, slamming onto the blood red sand as the crowd roared in approval. The trial was however not finished. Rezef watched the lion coil its muscles, angered by this prey escaping its claws, and jump. His stomach barely grazed the top of the metal gate and the desert beast landed into the centre of the arena with the grace of a cat. Silently, Rezef watched the beast prowl towards her, its jaws already parted and ready to crunch her head between the powerful canines. The putrid odour of rotting death exhaled from its mouth, and Rezef felt the lion come towards her, nearing. She waited, held until the last possible moment when the lion was only a heartbeat away from her, silently appraising this prey which refused to quiver before it. His smell was putrid, his fur still matted with the blood of his victims. The black eyes bore deep into hers, defying her to defy him. Rezef's widened in madness. Her hands snapped out to the side, each grabbing Nazt or Matum on their return swing and, using the given momentum, plunged them both deep on either side of the lion's neck. Nazt pierced the trachea, as Matum severed the carotid. Blood spurted, bathing her in the crimson, warm liquid.

The arena offered her a standing ovation, as the great cadaver of the still warm beast slowly sunk down to the ground.