Blood dried brown on Sarea's hands.
They dragged Drax's body off the sand first. No ceremony. Hooks through the ribs, pulled like meat at a market. Then they came for Sarea. Two guards, iron grips on his arms. He didn't fight. His legs shook too bad.
The crowd was still chanting. SARE-A. SARE-A. The name didn't belong to him anymore. It belonged to them.
They didn't throw him back in the pit cell.
That was the first sign something had changed.
1. The Asset
The room was small. Stone walls, one barred window high up that let in a square of weak sun. A bed. Real bed. Wooden frame, straw mattress. And on top of it — a fur rug. Not clean. Not soft. But fur. Better than stone.
Sarea sat on the edge of the bed and didn't trust it. The leather creaked under him. His hands still shook. He stared at them until a guard shoved a wooden bowl through the slot in the door.
Bread. Not moldy. Not crawling. Actual bread. A piece of meat too, gray and tough, but meat.
He ate with his fingers. Then his hands. Then he was licking grease off his knuckles before he realized what he was doing. He stopped. Stared at the fur rug.
Different chains, Drax had said.
These ones had padding.
He slept. Not well. Every creak of wood made him sit up, swordless, expecting a blade. But when morning came, no one threw filth through the bars. A boy brought water. Warm. And a cloth.
Sarea washed Drax's blood off his skin and tried not to think about whose blood would be there tomorrow.
2. Lord Varric Kestrel
On the third day, the door opened without a spear to the ribs first.
The man who entered wore velvet the color of dried blood. Rings on every finger. Hair oiled back, gray at the temples. He smiled like someone who'd never lost anything that mattered.
"On your feet," a guard snapped. Sarea stood. Slow. The fur rug fell from his shoulders where he'd wrapped himself against the cold.
The man's eyes dragged over him. Calculating. Appraising. Like Sarea was a horse.
"Better," the man said. Voice smooth, practiced. "You clean up well. Less… desperate. The crowd prefers a killer who looks like he chooses it."
Sarea said nothing.
The man stepped closer. "Lord Varric Kestrel. Of House Kestrel. My family has run the Kestrel Games for three generations. My grandfather bought the contract from the Empire. My father expanded it. I inherited it." He spread his hands, rings flashing. "You, Sarea Nexus, are my newest investment."
House Kestrel. The hawk that feeds on carrion. Sarea had heard guards whisper it.
Varric picked a piece of lint off Sarea's tunic. "You killed well yesterday. Messy, but honest. The crowd loves honest. So you get this room. The rug. Meat twice a week. You win again, you get more." He smiled, teeth too white. "You lose, you go back to the pits. Simple economics."
"You're not freeing me," Sarea said. His voice was rough from disuse.
Varric laughed. Soft. "Gods, no. Free men don't fight for me. Free men have choices. You, my boy, have potential." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Fight well, Sarea Nexus. You're wearing my colors now."
The door shut. The lock clicked.
Sarea looked down at the tunic. No colors. Just patched leather. But he understood. The rug wasn't a gift. It was branding.
3. Fight 2: The Rat Pit
They called it "The Rat Pit" because that's what they fed you if you lost.
Sarea stood in the tunnel again. Sand at his feet. The roar above him louder this time. They knew his name now.
Across the arena, a gate rose.
The man who stumbled out wasn't a fighter. He was a skeleton with skin. Cheeks hollow. Eyes too big. Chains had rubbed his wrists raw. A criminal, probably. Starved in the cells until he was light enough to throw in the sand for sport.
No weapon was tossed to him. They didn't bother.
The herald's voice boomed: "Sarea Nexus! Fresh from his first blood! Against the Rat! Let the Kestrel Games begin!"
The crowd laughed.
Sarea looked at the man. The Rat. He was shaking. Not from fear. From hunger. He could've snapped his wrist with two fingers.
Drax's last words echoed: Better you than them, kid.
This wasn't a fight. It was an execution with an audience.
Sarea drew his sword. The steel felt heavier than yesterday.
The Rat lunged. No technique. Just desperation. Sarea sidestepped. The sword came down.
It was quick.
Too quick.
The Rat hit the sand and didn't get up. Blood pooled fast in the thirsty ground. The crowd cheered anyway. They always did.
Sarea stood over the body, chest barely moving. No guilt. No triumph. Just the dull, human realization that this was easier than Drax. And that made it worse.
He was getting better at this.
4. The Reward
Back in his room, the bowl had meat again. And a blanket this time. Rough wool, but warm.
Sarea sat on the bed, fur rug under him, blanket around his shoulders. He listened to the sounds of the coliseum winding down. Coins clinking. Guards laughing.
He was fed decently now. He had a room with a lock he could touch. He had a name the crowd chanted.
He was still in a cage.
He pulled the blanket tighter and stared at his hands. Clean now. No blood under the nails.
Yet.
Outside, a guard shouted: "Nexus! Lord Kestrel wants you ready for next week! You're moving up the card!"
Sarea didn't answer. He just lay back on the straw mattress and closed his eyes.
Different chains. Better accommodations. Same cage.
And he was human enough to hate every second of it.