Fall Month: 3 
Day 
Heavy Rain
Kyyre hadn’t even had time to scream.
The impact stole every ounce of air from his lungs, his back slamming hard into the jagged rocks as Leon drove him down with brutal efficiency. The weight, the sheer force of him—it was suffocating, overwhelming. His ribs compressed painfully beneath Leon’s frame, pinned in place like an animal caught in a snare, breath coming in short, frantic gasps.
And then the pain registered.
A sharp, burning sting where claws had punctured into his flesh, four deep wounds blooming red across his side, each heartbeat sending another slow trickle of warmth down his skin. His mind caught up all at once—he was bleeding, pinned, helpless, and Leon was on top of him, dripping blood down onto his chest, his eyes glowing with an unnatural, terrifying hunger.
Kyyre’s hands scrabbled weakly at the rocks beneath him, instinct clawing at him to move, to fight, but the weight pressing him down was unrelenting. His throat tightened, a dry, broken whimper slipping from his lips as his body trembled beneath Leon’s, his entire form wracked with shivers of pure, unfiltered terror.
This was it.
He was going to die.
But then Leon’s grip loosened.
Kyyre barely had time to process the shift before the sound hit him.
A crack. A sickening, awful crack.
His stomach dropped.
Leon’s howl ripped through the air, raw and agonized, and Kyyre could only watch, shaking violently as the larger man’s body convulsed with the pain of his own doing. The way his forearm twisted at an unnatural angle, the way his lips peeled back in a grimace, exposing sharp teeth stained—
Kyyre gagged.
The blood. The sound. The sheer insanity of what he had just witnessed.
Leon had done that to himself.
Not Kyyre.
Not an opponent.
Himself.
The bell rang.
Leon’s name was declared.
And just like that, he collapsed.
Kyyre’s limbs moved before his mind did, pure instinct driving him forward. He rolled—scrambling, slipping on the rocks, ignoring the way his own wounds burned and bled as he forced himself on top of Leon, his trembling body making it worse with every movement. His knees pressed into the hard ground on either side of Leon’s thigh, the warmth of his opponent’s blood pooling beneath them.
His hands shook, hovered over Leon’s arm, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch—like he needed to do something—anything.
But he couldn’t.
He was too afraid.
“Leon—Leon, y-you didn’t have to make it that bad,” Kyyre’s voice came out wrecked, trembling, barely above a whisper. His fingers twitched again, useless, hovering inches above the mangled limb. “D-Don’t die, please, please—”
His vision blurred. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his own palms as his breathing grew shallow, uneven. He could still hear the crack, echoing in his skull, replaying over and over until it was all he could hear.
The roaring of the crowd.
The cheers, the jeers.
The blood-soaked battlefield.
His own shaking form, his own body screaming in pain.
And Leon, beneath him, motionless but breathing, his pulse still thrumming under torn, bloodied skin.
Kyyre squeezed his eyes shut, head tilting down, his trembling fingers finally brushing just barely against Leon’s arm, feather-light and unsure.
“You’re so stupid,” he whispered, voice raw, cracking with something dangerously close to desperation. His grip, despite its shakiness, firmed just slightly against Leon’s unbroken wrist, grounding himself there.
“You better not die.”
Astrid turned, breath ragged, sweat and blood clinging to his skin. His body thrummed with the high of combat, but it all came to a screeching halt when his gaze landed on them.
Leon, broken.
Kyyre, shaking.
Astrid swallowed roughly, his adrenaline still pumping but his mind clearing enough to focus. He could hear the cheers, the chants, the distant sounds of the crowd relishing in their suffering, but all he could see was the albanistic heir hunched over Leon, his body trembling, his hands barely brushing against the other man like he was afraid to touch.
And that wasn’t going to cut it.
Astrid knew Kyyre. He knew him better than Kyyre probably realized. And this? This hollow, shaking mess of a man? This wasn’t going to keep him alive.
So Astrid squared his shoulders, rolling out the tension in his bloodied limbs. He took a step forward, then another, the weight of his presence cutting through the air.
“Kyyre.”
His voice was rough, strained—but firm.
Kyyre flinched, his red-rimmed eyes snapping up to Astrid’s.
“Get up.”
There was hesitation. Kyyre hesitated, his body still lingering over Leon’s. His muscles were wound tight, his face caught between panic and exhaustion. But Astrid didn’t let up. He glared, lips pressing into a firm line, his jaw clenching.
And Kyyre, finally, slowly, stood.
Good.
Astrid took another step forward, exhaling sharply through his nose. His eyes locked onto Kyyre’s, unwavering, and then—
He smirked.
“You’re pathetic.”
Kyyre stiffened. His hands twitched at his sides.
Astrid tilted his head, rolling his shoulders, keeping his stance loose, lazy. “You’re standing there, shaking like a fucking rabbit, Kyyre.” He gestured vaguely to Leon. “Like you didn’t just win. Like you weren’t supposed to.”
Kyyre’s throat bobbed. His fists clenched.
“Is this what you’re going to do? Just stand there? Cry? Hope someone else fights your battles for you?” Astrid took another step closer, his tone sharpening, cutting through the air like a blade. “Maybe you’ll just roll over and let me win. That’s easier, isn’t it? That’s what you do, isn’t it? Just sit back and let someone else take the fall while you play the poor little victim—”
“Shut up.”
Astrid grinned.
“There you are.”
Kyyre’s breathing had shifted, rougher, deeper. That slight tremor of fear had been replaced by something else—something dangerous. His muscles tensed, his eyes burned.
Astrid pushed.
“What, does it make you mad? Hearing the truth?” His voice was practically dripping with mockery now, his arms spreading slightly, leaving himself open. “Because it is the truth, Kyyre. You can’t even fight without someone holding your damn hand.” His smirk deepened. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it when someone talks to you like the pathetic little prince you are?”
Kyyre moved.
Fast.
His hands snapped forward, grabbing Astrid’s shoulders, slamming into him with a force that sent them both crashing into the sand. Astrid barely had time to brace before Kyyre was on top of him, his normally delicate features twisted in fury, his teeth bared, his breathing ragged.
And Astrid?
He laughed.
“There’s the fight,” he mused, his grin never faltering as Kyyre straddled his chest, fingers digging into his shoulders with enough force to bruise. “About damn time.”
Kyyre snarled—actually snarled—before pulling back and swinging.
Astrid let him.
The punch cracked against his cheek, sending his head snapping to the side. A burst of pain, a metallic taste on his tongue. He barely had time to savor it before another blow came, catching his jaw.
Yeah.
That’s it, Kyyre.
Astrid let his body go loose, moving with the blows instead of against them. He could feel the fury radiating off of Kyyre, the way his entire body shook with anger now instead of fear. It was good. It was right.
Kyyre reared back for another hit, but this time, Astrid moved.
With a sharp twist of his torso, he sent them both rolling, shifting his weight until he had Kyyre beneath him instead. But he didn’t pin him—no, that wasn’t the point of this. He wanted Kyyre to fight back. He wanted him to win.
So he gave Kyyre just enough room to move.
And Kyyre did.
The smaller man twisted, his knee snapping up into Astrid’s ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Astrid barely had a second to recover before Kyyre shoved him off, scrambling back to his feet, his expression wild with adrenaline, eyes burning.
Astrid stood slower, rolling his jaw, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
“Now that’s more like it.”
Kyyre didn’t hesitate this time.
He lunged.
And Astrid welcomed it.
Kyyre crashed into Astrid again, this time with a force that sent them both staggering back into the sand. But Kyyre wasn’t flailing anymore—he wasn’t just swinging in blind fury. He had focus. He had intent.
And Astrid? Astrid let himself lose.
He threw up his arms to block as Kyyre rained down blows, but he didn’t fight back with the same brutality. He dodged where he could, guided the fight rather than controlling it. When Kyyre’s fist connected with his ribs, Astrid let himself stumble, let himself reel back.
But Kyyre didn’t stop.
He followed through, a sharp elbow colliding with Astrid’s sternum, forcing a breathless grunt from his chest. Astrid barely had a second to recover before Kyyre kicked him in the side, knocking him down onto one knee.
For a moment, Astrid stared up at him, blood trickling from his lip, his breath ragged. Kyyre was standing over him now, chest heaving, his entire body trembling—but not from fear this time. From victory.
Astrid chuckled.
“Atta boy.”
Kyyre’s eyes flashed, and then he finished it.
His leg swung out in a clean, sharp motion, and the heel of his foot cracked against the side of Astrid’s skull.
Astrid saw white. Then black.
Then the sand.
His back hit the ground, the sky spinning above him, and somewhere in the distance—
The bell rang.
The crowd roared.
Kyyre won.
Astrid blinked up at the sky, his body aching, his head still ringing from the kick. Then, despite it all, he grinned.
“Finally.”
He let out a breathless laugh, shutting his eyes for a moment. Kyyre had done it. He had fought. He had won.
And Astrid couldn’t have been prouder.
