“Promise this one. If combat goes badly, female runs.”
“I'm not leaving you.”
“Promise.”
She presses against this one, arms wrapping around neck. “Come back to me.”
“Always.”
This one kisses her. Not breathing kiss, not gentle touch. Claiming kiss that leaves her gasping. Let her taste what waits after combat. Let her understand what her body will receive when young fools are floating corpses.
The swim to the challenge ground is ritual procession. Every creature in the territory knows what occurs. Schools of fish part. Reef sharks circle at respectful distance, hoping for scraps. The flesh-renders gather in the deep, patient as death.
The challenge ground is where territories meet nothing. A natural arena formed by volcanic activity centuries ago. Pillars of black rock rise from the depths, creating a maze of stone and shadow. The water here is warmer, heated from below. Sulfur tang mixes with salt.
The three wait in formation. Triangle pattern, classical and predictable.
Reef floats at the apex, green scales polished to shine. He's trying to look bigger, tentacles spread to maximum width. Thegouges this one left on his throat yesterday have already scarred. Good. Let him wear reminders.
Storm-Singer takes left position. Massive for his age, purple-black scales that seem to absorb light. His tentacles are unusually thick, bred for crushing rather than speed. This one notes the way he favors his right side. Old injury that never healed properly.
Tide-Dancer holds right position, smallest of the three. His silver-white scales flash like mirrors. Pretty thing. Probably gets by on looks rather than skill. The way he moves suggests dancer's grace but not fighter's instinct.
“Ancient One answers,” this one announces formally.
“The old one should have stayed in his cave,” Storm-Singer responds. “Should have accepted that time has passed.”
“Time.” This one laughs. “Young fool speaks of time? This one was hunting before Storm-Singer's grandmother spawned. This one will be hunting when Storm-Singer's bones feed the coral.”
“Enough words,” Reef interrupts. His fear-scent spikes. Good. He remembers yesterday's humiliation. “Form the circle.”
They spread to surround this one. Classical, predictable, foolish. They've practiced this, certainly. Can taste their coordination in the water. But practice in calm water means nothing in combat.
“Traditional rules?” This one asks.
“No rules,” Storm-Singer says. “Only victory.”
Perfect. This one prefers freedom to destroy.
They attack simultaneously. Clearly rehearsed. Storm-Singer goes high, massive tentacles spreading like net. Reef strikes middle, aiming for this one's torso. Tide-Dancer sweeps low, trying to tangle this one's tentacles.
Beautiful coordination.
Useless against experience.
This one doesn't dodge. Doesn't retreat. Instead, this one surges forward, directly at Reef. The unexpected aggression breaks their pattern. Reef's eyes widen as this one's greater mass slams into him. The impact sends him tumbling backward into Storm-Singer's descending tentacles.
They tangle. Storm-Singer's crushing grip catches Reef instead of this one. Reef screams, his own tentacles flailing. The collision creates opening that this one exploits immediately.
This one's tentacles wrap around Tide-Dancer's throat before he can adjust. Lift him from the water entirely, holding him in air where his gills burn useless. His pretty scales flash panic patterns.
“First blood,” this one announces, then slams Tide-Dancer into the nearest rock pillar.
The sound is wet. Crunching. Tide-Dancer's silver scales crack like shells, leaking bright blue blood into the water. He goes limp. Not dead, but close. This one releases him to sink.
Storm-Singer and Reef have untangled. They separate, circling from opposite sides. Learning. Good. Makes this more interesting.
Storm-Singer attacks first this time. His purple tentacles are indeed strong. When they connect with this one's torso, the pressure is impressive. Crushing grip that would collapse weaker males' organs. But this one's body has forty seasons of conditioning. Muscles that have fought hundreds of battles don't yield to one purple fool's squeeze.
