“Look who decided to show up.”
Calla’s voice slices through the fencing hall’s electric buzz, and I feel every pair of eyes turn toward me. She stands poised at center court like a golden predator, her foil catching the harsh lights, that razor-sharp smile already in place.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force my steps to remain steady as I cross the mat. The equipment fits me like battle armor—tight in all the places society says I should be ashamed of, but today those curves feel like weapons.
“Worried I might not?” I ask, checking my gear with deliberate calm.
“Worried?” Her laugh could shatter glass. “Darling, I’m practically salivating. It’s been so long since I had a proper warm-up.”
The crowd presses against the barriers, their bloodlust palpable. House banners snap overhead like war flags, and I can taste the violence in the air.
“Then you’re about to be disappointed,” I reply, clicking my helmet into place. “I don’t do warm-ups.”
The referee raises his hand. “Fencers ready?”
We salute—a mockery of courtesy before the slaughter begins.
“En garde!”
Calla explodes toward me like a viper striking, her blade seeking flesh with brutal precision. I barely parry in time, steel singing against steel as she drives me backward with relentless fury.
“What’s wrong?” she snarls through her mask, pressing her advantage. “Afraid you’ll split a seam?”
I don’t waste breath on words. Instead, I absorb every strike, studying her rhythm, cataloging the tiny flaws that rage creates in even the most perfect technique.
The crowd roars as she forces me back, step by step, toward the boundary line.
“She’s finished!” someone shouts from the stands.
“Calla’s just playing with her!”
But I keep my eyes locked on her blade, watching, waiting. When she overextends on a particularly vicious lunge, I see my moment.
Lightning-fast, I pivot inside her guard and strike.
The electronic scoring system blazes to life. Point: Helena.
Silence crashes over the gymnasium like a physical force.
“Lucky shot,” Calla hisses, but I hear the tremor in her voice. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Was it?” I settle back into position, my confidence growing with each breath. “Let’s find out.”
The second exchange comes faster, more brutal. She attacks with desperate precision, but I can see her composure cracking with each failed assault. My defense has become a wall of steel—impenetrable, unforgiving.
When the next opening appears, I take it without mercy.
Point two.
The crowd erupts in confused cheers. This isn’t supposed to happen. Golden girls don’t fall to charity cases.
“This is impossible!” Calla screams, ripping off her mask to glare at the referee. “Check the equipment! Check the scoring! This is rigged!”
“The equipment is fine, Miss Vale,” the referee replies with infuriating calm. “Shall we continue?”
I watch her perfect composure shatter like dropped porcelain. Tears of rage streak her cheeks as she raises her foil with shaking hands.
“I am the champion!” she shouts to the watching crowd. “I’ve never lost! Never!”
“Every streak ends eventually,” I say, my voice carrying across the silent gymnasium. “Today just happens to be your day.”
The final exchange becomes pure warfare. We abandon all pretense of finesse, our blades meeting in showers of sparks as we dance our deadly ballet. The crowd holds its collective breath.
Then I see it—that microscopic gap in her defense, the split-second vulnerability that desperation creates.
I strike.
The point lands clean, decisive, final.
The electronic system confirms what my body already knows: I have won.
For a heartbeat, the world exists in perfect silence. Then sound crashes back like a tsunami—cheers, gasps, the thunderous applause of witnesses to the impossible.
I remove my helmet, feeling my dark hair plastered to my skull with sweat, my face burning with triumph and disbelief.
Calla stands frozen, staring at the scoreboard like it might change if she glares hard enough. “No,” she whispers. “No, this isn’t real. This isn’t happening.”
“It happened,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You lost, Calla. To me.”
“You think this matters?” Her voice climbs toward hysteria. “You think beating me at some stupid sport changes anything? You’re still nothing! Still the same pathetic fat girl who—”
“Who just defeated the three-time Academy champion,” I interrupt, my voice carrying to every corner of the gymnasium. “Who proved that skill matters more than bloodline. Who showed everyone here that your perfection has some very ugly cracks.”
The crowd murmurs—some in agreement, others in shock at witnessing their goddess bleed.
Calla’s face twists with pure rage. “This is insane! You can’t just—you don’t get to—”
“I already did.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that somehow fills the silent space. “And deep down, you know something, Calla? This was always going to happen. Because bullies like you? You always fall eventually.”
“I am not a bully!” she shrieks. “I am the champion! I am—”
“Beaten,” I finish, savoring the word. “By a fat girl.”