DTT: Round One, Iris vs Rhaegar

Death had never been in your plans when you'd first volunteered for the Games. You knew you had the wits to survive, the knowledge of how to bend people to your will to protect yourself, and after that it would come down to simple, pure luck.

But you were confident, not arrogant, and you knew that mortal combat was not your strong suit. Wasn't that very fact why you had ran from your fate in Eight instead of fought, thrown everything into one last-ditch gamble because deep down, even the tiniest glimmer of hope was far superior to a fate set in stone? The first part of the Games would be easy; it was the last part where even the best laid plans could unravel just...like...that.

You'd make exactly one plan for yourself when it came to your fate. No matter what, you'd die on your feet, and you'd die screaming.

And you did.

So when your form is reconstructed, when you're pulled back from the void in a pale imitation of your life down on Eight, it's to a scream, the same way you'd left. Only there's no living corpse to strike down, no psychopath who'd laughed while your knives had carved him apart and his hammer had done the same to you in turn, just an arena and a handful of other souls brought back for what you quickly determine is the same purpose as before.

Because of course.

No one plans for what comes after death, at least that you are aware of, and as pair after pair are pulled into the arena for a repeat of their dance of death, you recognize some things.

Like how spectral knives manifest in their hands the second the combat begins, yet they cut as real as any other blade.

How each body falls faster than those in your arena - was that because of a lack of cold, or a lack of a will to live?

How as each pair finds themselves halved, the number of spirits at your side dwindles - and how a few of them happen to be familiar.

So it's not entirely a surprise when you're pulled, second from the last, alongside a boy who'd represented Two nearly a decade before you'd thrown your life away. What happens in life must reflect in death after all, right?

(Still, it doesn't stop you from muttering 'Of course it's a damn Two' under your breath. Others might care about redemption; you, on the other hand, simply want to forget how quickly the living corpse dismantled you.)

When your spectral knife manifests in your left hand, you add one more caveat to your vow - this time, you won't throw it away as a last, desperate attempt to cling onto half-life.

"Hammerfell, right?" you ask, because in your experience, most opponents are easier to unsettle with words than with wounds, and though his Games were old, you vaguely remember this particular boy - and his legendary duel with the runner-up of his Games. "Still feeling self-sacrificial after all this time, I presume?"

One side of your mouth twitches upwards in a smirk. "For your sake, please say yes. I can't guarantee this won't hurt if you resist."

You really need to learn to not taunt Careers. Doing it once and having it end badly is pure chance, while twice is an unfortunate coincidence.

Three times? Well, there's no escaping a pattern after that.

Not to say it's completely one-sided. You do land a hit, after all, far better than you'd expect for someone who'd tried to avoid close-range combat whenever possible. But you merely hit an arm, while Rhaegar Hammerfell slices you clean across the neck in retaliation.

Even in death, such wounds are devastating to the system.

"I-" you choke (on air, not on blood, for unlife still thrums through your veins and you're not dead yet), before regaining your composure through sheer force of will. The first time around, you'd had everything to lose and little more to gain. Here? That situation is reversed. Death here won't give you anything you haven't felt before, but victory?

"Glad to see some things don't change with time," you manage after a minute, mostly managing to ignore the fire burning your throat. "Don't worry - I'll keep my promise."

Good thing Rhaegar doesn't know that this lie is far from your first, nor will it be your last.