Days began to blur together beneath the city.
Down in the fighter's chamber, time was measured by three things.
The roar of the arena.
The creak of the cage doors.
And the single meal that came once a day.
Everything else faded into gray stone and torchlight.
The first morning after Garrick's fight, Kael woke drenched in sweat.
The fever had finally broken.
His clothes clung to him, damp and cold, but the burning heat that had gripped his body for days was gone. In its place came a crushing exhaustion, like every bone in his body had been hollowed out.
When he tried to sit up, his shoulder protested immediately.
The brand had begun to scab over, angry red skin pulling tight whenever he moved.
His wrist was worse.
The frostbite had left it stiff and swollen. The skin had turned an ugly patchwork of red and pale white, and every time he bent his fingers the nerves fired like sparks through his arm.
Still.
He could move it.
That was something.
Across the cage, Garrick noticed him stirring.
"You're awake."
Kael blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim torchlight.
"…yeah."
His voice sounded rough.
"How long?"
"Two days."
Kael frowned.
"…two?"
"You slept through most of it."
Kael leaned back against the wall.
For a moment he just breathed.
The air still smelled like rust and sweat and old blood.
But his head felt clearer now.
Not normal.
Just… clearer.
A guard arrived sometime later with the day's meal.
A dented bucket of thick stew and a stack of wooden bowls.
The fighters moved slowly.
No one rushed.
No one fought.
Hunger down here was a quiet thing.
Each man took his portion and stepped back.
Kael sat beside Garrick with his bowl.
The stew wasn't much.
A few beans.
A scrap of meat floating in murky broth.
But it was warm.
And it was food.
He ate every drop.
The routine repeated.
Day after day.
The guards came.
The arena roared.
Fighters were dragged away.
Some returned.
Some didn't.
Kael spent most of the time sitting beside Garrick, watching.
Listening.
Learning.
He studied the fighters in the other cages.
How they moved.
How they stood.
How they carried themselves even when they were exhausted.
And sometimes, when no one was looking too closely, he practiced small things.
Shifting his weight.
Balancing.
Moving quietly on the balls of his feet.
His father noticed.
But said nothing.
Soon, the tall man returned.
The one who had bought them.
He entered the chamber without hurry, boots striking stone with the same steady rhythm as before.
The guards straightened slightly when he passed.
He walked slowly along the cages, studying the fighters like a man inspecting horses.
One cage.
Then the next.
Then Garrick's.
He stopped.
For a moment he watched Garrick through the bars.
"You held well in the sand," he said calmly.
Garrick didn't answer.
The man's gaze shifted.
Downward.
Toward the boy sitting beside him.
Kael looked up.
Their eyes met.
The man studied him the same way he had the first day.
Bruises had faded from Kael's face now.
The fever was gone.
The boy sat straighter.
Alert.
Watching.
The man's brow lifted slightly.
"You're still alive."
Kael shrugged faintly.
"Seems like it."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the man's mouth.
"Good."
He turned to one of the guards.
"That one."
The guard frowned.
"The kid?"
"Yes."
"Sir, he's barely—"
"I know what he is."
The man looked back at Kael.
"Put him in the teen bracket."
The guard blinked.
"…teen?"
"He'll learn faster."
Kael's stomach dropped.
Garrick moved instantly.
"No."
The man's eyes slid back to him.
"No?"
"He's seven."
"And?"
"He's not fighting."
The man considered that for a moment.
Then he said simply,
"He belongs to me."
The guards unlocked the cage.
Kael felt his father's hand grip his shoulder.
Hard.
"Stay behind me," Garrick muttered.
The cage door clanged open.
Iron scraped against stone as two guards stepped inside. Their shadows stretched long across the floor in the torchlight.
Garrick moved without thinking.
He stepped in front of Kael.
The motion was instinctive. Immediate. A wall between his son and the hands reaching in.
"No."
The word came low and rough from his throat.
The guards stopped for half a second.
Then one of them snorted.
"You don't get a say."
Hands shoved Garrick backward. Not gently. His back struck the bars with a metallic rattle that echoed through the chamber.
Kael saw the flash of pain cross his father's face.
Then the guards grabbed him.
One hand clamped around his upper arm. Another seized the rope still tied loosely at his wrists.
"Move."
Kael planted his feet.
For a moment he didn't budge.
Not out of courage.
Out of shock.
The floor beneath him suddenly felt very real.
Cold stone.
Torchlight.
The smell of sweat and iron.
The roar of the arena rolling down the tunnels like thunder.
He had heard that sound for days now.
But now it was meant for him.
Behind him Garrick struggled against the bars.
"Don't touch him."
One of the guards shoved him back again.
"Sit down."
Garrick didn't.
He tried to step forward again and caught the guard's baton across the chest for the effort.
The crack of wood against bone filled the cage.
Kael jerked forward instinctively.
"Stop!"
The guards dragged him out into the corridor before he could reach his father.
The cage door slammed shut behind him.
Iron locked.
Inside, Garrick hit the bars once with both fists.
The sound rang through the chamber.
But it changed nothing.
Kael twisted in the guards' grip as they hauled him down the tunnel.
"Let go!"
They didn't.
His frostbitten wrist screamed as the rope tightened. His shoulder burned where the brand had barely begun to heal.
Still he struggled.
"I'm not fighting!"
The guards laughed.
"That's the funny part," one said.
"You are."
They marched him down the corridor toward the arena gate.
The noise grew louder with every step.
The crowd above the pit was alive tonight.
Shouting.
Laughing.
Stamping their feet against stone.
Kael's heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs.
He tried to twist again.
"I'm seven!"
The guard glanced down at him.
"You're owned."
That was the only answer he got.
They stopped before the iron gate that led to the arena floor.
Torchlight blazed brighter here. The sand beyond the bars glowed gold under dozens of flames.
The crowd roared.
The announcer's voice echoed somewhere above them.
"Next fight!"
The guards crouched and untied the rope from Kael's wrists.
One of them shoved him forward toward the gate.
"Try not to die too fast."
The iron gate creaked open.
Hot air rushed out.
The smell of blood hit him like a wall.
Across the sand, another gate lifted.
A boy stepped through.
Fourteen.
Maybe fifteen.
Broad shoulders. Scar across his cheek. Already carrying the posture of someone who had fought too many times.
The teenager looked across the pit.
Then he saw Kael.
And froze.
For a moment even the crowd seemed confused.
Then laughter rippled through the stands.
The announcer's voice boomed again.
"Well now!"
The arena roared with amusement.
The older boy looked back toward the handlers.
"You serious?"
One of the guards behind Kael shoved him forward.
The sand shifted beneath his feet as he stumbled out into the arena.
Torchlight washed over him.
The crowd above leaned forward eagerly.
Thousands of eyes watching.
Waiting.
Kael stood there in the sand.
Seven years old.
Bruised.
Frostbitten wrist stiff at his side.
The brand on his shoulder still angry and red.
Across the pit, the teenage fighter stared at him.
"…they're insane," the boy muttered.
Kael swallowed.
Then lifted his chin slightly.
Even with fear pounding through his chest.
Even with the arena screaming above him.
He did the only thing he knew how to do.
He stood his ground.
Because somewhere in the cage behind those stone walls…
His father was listening.
And Kael refused to fall before the fight even began.
The sand felt strange under Kael's feet.
Soft.
Loose.
Nothing like the hard packed dirt of Willowmere's roads or the stone floors of the cages beneath the city. Each small shift of his weight made the ground slide slightly beneath him.
The arena lights burned bright above.
Torch after torch circled the pit walls, their flames dancing in the night air that drifted down from the open top of the arena. Smoke curled upward into the dark sky.
And all around it…
Hundreds of people.
Their voices rolled together into one living sound.
Some laughed.
Some shouted wagers.
Others leaned forward in their seats, curious to see how long the tiny fighter would last.
Kael tried not to look at them.
Across the sand, the teenage boy hadn't moved.
He stood there staring at Kael like he wasn't sure what he was seeing.
"…you're a kid," he said finally.
Kael didn't answer.
His heart hammered against his ribs so hard it almost made him dizzy.
The boy across from him ran a hand through his hair, glancing toward the men standing by the gate behind Kael.
"You serious?" he shouted up toward them.
The crowd answered with laughter.
One of the handlers shouted back.
"Fight."
The word echoed through the arena.
The teen let out a slow breath and looked back at Kael.
"I'm not killing a child."
Kael swallowed.
His throat felt dry.
The announcer's voice boomed again from somewhere above.
"No killing necessary!"
More laughter.
"Just a test!"
The teenager shook his head slightly.
"This place is insane."
Then he stepped forward.
Not charging.
Not attacking.
Just closing the distance slowly.
Kael's body tensed instinctively.
His father's training flickered through his mind.
Balance your feet.
Don't lock your knees.
Watch their shoulders.
He shifted slightly in the sand.
The movement was small.
But it was deliberate.
The teen noticed.
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
"…you've fought before?"
Kael shook his head.
"No."
"You move like someone who has."
Kael didn't respond.
The arena crowd began chanting now.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The sound pounded against the stone walls.
The older boy sighed again.
"Alright."
He raised his hands loosely.
"Just don't do anything stupid."
Kael's frostbitten wrist throbbed as he lifted his own hands.
The brand on his shoulder burned where the skin stretched.
Everything hurt.
But his body still moved.
The teen stepped closer.
Five paces now between them.
Four.
Three.
Then suddenly the boy lunged.
Not a full strike.
A test.
His hand darted forward to grab Kael's shoulder.
Kael moved.
Instinct.
His foot slid back through the sand and he twisted sideways just enough that the grab missed him completely.
The crowd made a surprised sound.
The teen blinked.
"…okay."
He stepped in again.
Faster this time.
His hand shot forward again, aiming to grab Kael around the waist.
Kael ducked under it.
His balance wobbled slightly in the loose sand but he stayed on his feet.
The older boy straightened slowly.
Now he was actually looking at Kael.
Really looking.
"Alright," he muttered.
The crowd leaned forward.
The handlers along the walls exchanged glances.
And somewhere down in the cages beneath the arena…
Garrick gripped the iron bars and listened to the roar above.
Because in the sand…
His son had just dodged the first attack.
The teenager stopped smiling.
Before, he had been humoring the situation. A quick grab, a careless test. Something to end the absurdity of being thrown into the ring with a child.
But Kael had moved.
Not clumsily.
Not blindly.
The dodge had been small, sharp, and deliberate.
Now the older boy studied him differently.
"You've trained," he said under his breath.
Kael didn't answer.
His feet shifted again in the sand. The movement was subtle, but it mattered. He planted his weight like Garrick had taught him. Not locked. Ready to move.
The frostbitten wrist throbbed where he held it slightly behind him.
The brand burned when his shoulder flexed.
The teenager exhaled slowly.
"Alright then."
He came in faster this time.
No warning.
His foot kicked forward, trying to sweep Kael's legs out from under him.
Kael jumped back.
Too slow.
The teen's shin clipped his ankle and the sand slid beneath him.
Kael hit the ground hard.
The impact rattled his ribs and knocked the breath from his chest.
The crowd roared instantly.
Some cheering.
Some laughing.
"Kid's down!"
Kael rolled instinctively as the teen stepped forward.
A hand grabbed for his shirt.
Kael twisted out of it and scrambled back to his feet.
The movement surprised the older boy again.
"…stubborn little thing."
Kael's chest rose and fell quickly.
His heart pounded in his ears.
The arena felt enormous around him.
Too loud.
Too bright.
The teen moved again.
This time he didn't hesitate.
His fist came toward Kael's ribs.
Kael tried to dodge.
Too late.
The punch landed.
Pain exploded through his side.
The world tilted as he staggered sideways through the sand.
The crowd roared louder.
Kael barely stayed upright.
His lungs burned as he dragged in air.
Watch the shoulders.
His father's voice echoed in his memory.
The teen stepped forward again.
Kael saw the movement this time.
The shoulders turning.
The weight shifting.
The next punch coming.
Kael ducked.
The fist passed over his head.
The teen blinked.
Kael reacted without thinking.
His good hand shot forward and shoved the older boy's chest.
It didn't hurt him.
But it surprised him enough that he stumbled back half a step.
The crowd roared again.
"Oh!"
The announcer laughed.
"Little wolf's got teeth!"
Kael's legs trembled.
But he stayed standing.
Across the arena the teen rubbed his chest and shook his head.
"Kid…"
He stepped forward again.
This time he grabbed Kael before he could move.
Strong hands caught the boy around the waist and lifted him straight off the ground.
Kael kicked instinctively.
The frostbitten wrist flared with pain.
The teen turned and threw him down into the sand.
Hard.
The impact slammed the air from Kael's lungs again.
This time he didn't get up immediately.
The sand felt cold against his cheek.
The arena noise blurred together into one deafening roar.
The teenager stood over him, breathing heavier now.
"Stay down."
Kael tried to push himself up.
His arm shook.
The frostbitten wrist gave out.
He collapsed back into the sand.
The referee stepped forward immediately.
"That's enough!"
The crowd booed and cheered at the same time.
The fight was over.
The teen stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You're insane," he muttered quietly to Kael.
The guards were already walking out to collect him.
Kael lay there for a moment longer.
Everything hurt.
His ribs.
His wrist.
His shoulder.
Even breathing stung.
But inside his head…
Something else had happened.
He remembered the sweep.
The punch.
The shoulder movement before the strike.
The balance in the sand.
The way the teen shifted his weight before throwing him.
Kael rolled slowly onto his side as the guards grabbed him.
The arena lights spun above him.
But his mind was still working.
Still watching.
Still learning.
Because he had lost.
Badly.
But he had survived his first fight.
And that meant he would get another.
Somewhere deep in the cages beneath the arena…
A father waited to see if his son was still alive.
The guards did not help him up gently.
One grabbed Kael under the arm and hauled him to his feet. The sudden movement sent a sharp bolt of pain through his ribs and shoulder, and his knees buckled before he could stop them.
"Up," the guard muttered, more impatient than cruel.
Kael forced himself upright.
The arena was still roaring.
Some people were laughing. Others booed the short fight, disappointed it had ended so quickly. A few shouted things Kael didn't understand.
Above them, the announcer's voice rolled across the stone.
"Well! The little one has spirit, at least!"
More laughter.
Kael kept his eyes down.
The sand clung to his clothes and hair. When he wiped his face, his fingers came away gritty and red.
The teenager who had fought him stood nearby, catching his breath. When the guards dragged Kael past him, the boy looked down and shook his head slightly.
"You're crazy for getting up after that," he muttered.
Kael didn't answer.
He was too busy trying not to collapse again.
The guards pushed him through the iron gate.
The roar of the arena dulled instantly once the bars slammed shut behind them.
The corridor beyond felt darker.
Colder.
The torches flickered weakly compared to the blazing lights of the pit.
They dragged him back through the tunnels the same way they had brought him out.
Boots on stone.
Chains clinking.
The smell of blood lingering in the air.
Kael stumbled several times along the way, but the guards kept him moving.
Finally they reached the fighter's chamber.
One of them unlocked the cage.
The door creaked open.
"Back in."
Kael was shoved forward.
He caught himself on the stone floor just before hitting it face-first.
The door slammed shut again behind him.
For a moment he stayed on his hands and knees, breathing hard.
Then a pair of arms grabbed him.
Garrick.
"Kael!"
His father pulled him upright quickly, hands moving over him in a frantic check.
"Are you hurt?"
Kael blinked up at him.
His lip split open when he tried to smile.
"…I lost."
Garrick let out a breath that sounded halfway between relief and exhaustion.
"You're alive."
Kael nodded faintly.
"Yeah."
His legs gave out again and Garrick lowered him carefully against the wall.
The gray-bearded fighter across the cage watched quietly.
"You stayed on your feet longer than I expected," he said.
Kael wiped sand from his face.
"He swept my legs."
The man nodded.
"Good move."
Kael stared down at the floor.
"He turns his shoulders before he punches."
The older fighter's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"You noticed that?"
Kael shrugged weakly.
"I got hit by it."
Garrick studied him.
Despite the bruises forming along his ribs and the sand still clinging to his hair, something in the boy's eyes had changed.
He wasn't just scared anymore.
He was thinking.
Watching.
Learning.
Kael leaned his head back against the stone.
His body ached everywhere.
But the fever was gone.
And the sand of the arena still lingered in his mind.
The way it shifted under his feet.
The way the other boy moved before striking.
The way the crowd roared when someone stayed standing.
Kael closed his eyes for a moment.
"…I'll do better next time."
Garrick didn't answer right away.
He just rested a hand on the back of Kael's head.
Because in the pits beneath the city…
"Next time" was never a promise.
But for tonight—
The boy had survived.
Night in the cages did not mean darkness.
The torches burned constantly in the underground halls, their flames flickering against the stone walls until everything looked the same shade of dim gold and black. Time lost its edges down here.
But the arena above eventually quieted.
The roaring crowds faded.
The last fights ended.
Boots echoed through the tunnels as guards locked doors and dragged away the fighters who had lost too badly to stand.
Then the pits went still.
Kael sat against the wall beside his father, knees pulled up loosely to his chest.
His ribs hurt every time he breathed too deeply.
The frostbitten wrist throbbed.
The brand on his shoulder burned whenever he shifted.
But none of it mattered as much as the memory replaying in his mind.
The sand.
The sweep.
The shoulder turn before the punch.
He traced the movement in the air with his good hand without even realizing it.
Garrick noticed.
"You're thinking."
Kael nodded faintly.
"He put his weight on the front leg before he swept."
Garrick watched him carefully.
"That's how you saw it coming the second time."
Kael shrugged.
"…too late though."
"You're alive."
"That's not winning."
"No," Garrick said quietly.
"But it's surviving."
Across the cage the gray-bearded fighter chuckled softly.
"That's the first rule of the pit."
Kael looked over.
"What's the second?"
The man scratched his beard.
"Watch everyone."
Kael frowned slightly.
"I did."
"Good. Keep doing it."
He gestured toward the cages around them.
"Every man here moves different."
Some lean forward when they strike.
Some step heavy.
Some breathe too loud.
"You learn those things… you stay alive longer."
Kael leaned his head back against the stone.
His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, though all he could see was torchlight flickering on damp rock.
"…the sand moves."
The man nodded.
"Yeah."
"I almost fell before he even hit me." Kael scowled slightly.
The gray-bearded fighter laughed quietly.
"Then you learned something."
Kael thought about that.
His fingers brushed the rough stone beside him as he replayed the moment again.
Next time…
He would step wider.
Keep his weight lower.
Watch the shoulders sooner.
Garrick studied the boy beside him.
The bruises.
The dirt.
The way Kael's mind was still working through the fight piece by piece.
"You should sleep," Garrick said finally.
Kael shook his head.
"Not yet."
His eyes shifted toward the corridor where the guards had taken fighters all night.
"Someone else is going out."
"How do you know?"
Kael tilted his head slightly.
Listening.
Bootsteps echoed faintly down the tunnel again.
The iron gate creaked.
Chains rattled.
A guard's voice barked an order.
Kael's eyes sharpened.
"…told you."
The gray-bearded man smirked.
"You've got good ears."
Kael didn't answer.
He was already watching the hallway again.
Watching.
Listening.
Learning.
Because the pits beneath the city had only one real rule.
You either learned fast.
Or you died faster.
And Kael Thorne had already decided he wasn't dying here. He was going to get his revenge.
The night did not truly end beneath the arena.
Even when the crowds above went quiet and the final torches were lowered in the stands, the tunnels below remained awake. Guards walked the corridors. Fighters shifted in their cages. Somewhere deeper in the halls a hammer rang faintly against metal where someone repaired broken gear for the next day's blood.
Kael stayed awake longer than he meant to.
His back rested against the cold wall, Garrick beside him, the gray-bearded fighter across the cage watching the corridor with the patience of someone who had survived here far too long.
At some point Kael's head dipped forward.
Not fully asleep.
Just resting his eyes.
The arena sand was still in his mind.
The sweep.
The grab.
The throw.
He kept seeing it again and again, but each time he imagined a different answer.
Step wider.
Lean lower.
Don't let the other fighter grab the waist.
Somewhere between those thoughts, he finally drifted into sleep.
⸻
The next day began with the rattle of buckets.
A guard kicked the cage bars with the heel of his boot.
"Food."
Men stirred slowly.
No one rushed. No one spoke much. They simply stood, took their bowls, and stepped back.
Kael rose stiffly.
His ribs still hurt from the throw. His wrist throbbed dully now instead of the sharp fire from before. The brand had started to crust over, dark and angry against his shoulder.
But he could move.
That was enough.
He took the bowl when it reached him and sat beside Garrick again.
The stew was thin.
Beans.
A scrap of fat floating on the surface.
Kael ate it anyway.
Every drop.
Across the chamber the iron doors opened again.
More fighters were brought in from other cages.
Some walked on their own.
Some were dragged.
One man was carried between two guards, barely conscious.
Kael watched all of it.
Quietly.
The gray-bearded fighter noticed.
"You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Watching."
Kael shrugged slightly.
"You said to."
The man grunted approvingly.
"Good."
Bootsteps echoed again.
But these were slower.
Measured.
The tall man had returned.
The same man who had bought them.
He walked through the chamber without hurry, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving across the cages like a merchant inspecting his goods.
The guards followed several paces behind him.
He stopped at one cage.
Studied the fighter inside.
Moved on.
Another cage.
Another look.
Then he stopped in front of Garrick and Kael again.
Kael looked up.
Their eyes met.
The man studied him in silence.
Long enough that the chamber seemed to pause.
"You lasted longer than expected," the man said finally.
Kael didn't respond.
He just held the gaze.
The man's mouth curved faintly.
"Most children cry."
Kael shrugged.
"I did."
"Not in the sand."
The man turned slightly toward one of the guards.
"Bring him again tomorrow."
Garrick stiffened instantly.
"No."
The man didn't even look at him.
The guard nodded.
"Yes, sir."
Kael's stomach tightened.
Tomorrow.
Another fight.
The tall man glanced down at him one last time.
"Watch the older ones," he said quietly.
"You might live longer."
Then he turned and walked away.
The guards followed.
The chamber slowly resumed breathing again.
Across the cage, the gray-bearded fighter gave Kael a sideways look.
"Well."
Kael rubbed his sore ribs.
"…guess I'm fighting again."
The man nodded.
"That's how this place works."
Kael leaned his head back against the wall.
The sand returned to his mind again.
The movement.
The balance.
The mistakes.
This time…
He would stay on his feet longer.
The rest of the day passed slowly.
Not quietly.
The arena above never truly slept.
Even when the chamber beneath it seemed still, the roar of the crowd would swell and fade through the stone ceiling like distant thunder. Sometimes cheers erupted so suddenly the iron bars rattled. Sometimes the noise dropped into a tense silence that meant something ugly had just happened in the sand.
Kael listened to all of it.
He had learned already that the sound of the crowd meant something.
Long cheers meant someone impressive.
Sharp laughter meant someone had fallen badly.
And sometimes—
Sometimes there was only silence.
Those were the ones that didn't come back.
He sat beside his father, arms resting on his knees, watching the corridor the way the gray-bearded fighter had shown him.
Every man who returned from the pit moved differently.
Some limped.
Some walked tall.
Some had to be dragged.
Kael watched their shoulders.
Their hands.
The way their feet touched the floor.
Across the cage, the older fighter noticed again.
"You see anything?"
Kael nodded toward a man who had just stumbled past with blood running from his temple.
"He leans before he swings."
The gray-bearded man grunted approvingly.
"Good eye."
Kael watched the man disappear into another cage down the corridor.
"He got hit when he leaned."
"That's because someone else noticed it too."
Kael absorbed that quietly.
Another cheer rolled down from the arena above them.
A door clanged open farther down the tunnel.
More fighters were being brought back.
One of them collapsed the moment the guards shoved him through his cage door.
No one rushed to help him.
That was another lesson of the pits.
You saved your strength.
Even sympathy cost energy down here.
Garrick finally spoke beside him.
"You don't have to watch everything."
Kael didn't look away from the corridor.
"Yes I do."
"Why?"
Kael shrugged.
"Because next time one of them might be the one trying to break my ribs."
The gray-bearded fighter chuckled quietly.
"That's the spirit."
Hours crawled past like that.
Torchlight shifted along the stone walls.
The crowd above eventually grew louder again.
That meant the evening fights had started.
The bigger ones.
The ones people paid the most to see.
Guards moved through the corridor again soon after.
Chains rattled.
Cage doors opened.
Men were called out one by one.
Kael stiffened each time boots stopped near their cage.
But the guards kept moving.
Not yet.
Finally the gray-bearded man spoke again.
"You're breathing too fast."
Kael blinked.
"What?"
"You're thinking about tomorrow."
Kael didn't answer.
The man leaned his head back against the wall.
"Fear burns your strength before the fight even starts."
"I'm not scared."
The older fighter smirked.
"Sure."
Kael frowned.
"…okay maybe a little."
"That's normal."
The man tilted his head slightly toward Garrick.
"But fear can make you stupid."
Garrick glanced down at Kael.
"He's right."
Kael rubbed his frostbitten wrist slowly.
It still ached when he moved it too quickly.
"What do I do then?"
The gray-bearded man nodded toward the corridor.
"Same thing you've been doing."
"Watch."
Another roar erupted above them.
The stone ceiling trembled faintly with the sound.
Somewhere in the arena a fight had just turned.
Kael looked back down the corridor again.
Studying.
Listening.
Learning.
The arena roared again above them.
Stone dust drifted faintly from the ceiling with the force of it.
Kael barely noticed.
He sat with his back against the cage bars now, one knee pulled close to his chest, his sore wrist resting across it while he watched the corridor the way the older fighter had shown him.
But Garrick wasn't watching the corridor.
He was watching his son.
For a long time he said nothing.
The torchlight painted the boy's face in shifting gold and shadow. Dirt still clung to his hair. The brand on his shoulder looked too large on such a small body.
Seven.
He was seven.
Garrick exhaled slowly.
"…this place isn't supposed to exist."
Kael glanced sideways at him.
"What?"
Garrick rubbed his hands together slowly, staring down at the floor.
"When I wore armor," he said quietly, "places like this were what we hunted."
Kael blinked.
"You mean the arena?"
"No."
Garrick's voice hardened slightly.
"The slavers. The pits. The people who buy children and make them bleed for coin."
Kael turned toward him fully now.
"You knew about this?"
Garrick gave a humorless laugh.
"I've burned three of them."
The gray-bearded fighter across the cage raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.
Garrick leaned his head back against the wall.
"First one I saw… I thought it was a rumor."
His jaw tightened.
"We found cages under a grain warehouse."
He paused.
"Twenty men chained to the walls."
Kael's voice came small.
"…did you free them?"
"Yes."
Garrick nodded slowly.
"We broke the locks. Arrested the men running it. Sent the survivors home."
His hands curled slightly into fists.
"That's what knights were supposed to do."
The roar of the crowd rolled through the ceiling again.
Kael swallowed.
"…then why are we here?"
The question hung heavy between them.
Garrick didn't answer immediately.
His eyes moved across the chamber.
The cages.
The guards walking the corridor.
The iron doors.
Finally he spoke.
"Because sometimes we miss one."
Kael looked down at the floor.
The dust there still held faint marks from where fighters' boots had scraped earlier.
"…you missed this one."
Garrick's expression tightened.
"I shouldnt have."
Kael frowned.
"What?"
"I should have known what those men were the moment they rode into Willowmere."
His voice dropped lower.
"I've seen slavers before. The way they watch people. The way they count numbers instead of faces."
Kael remembered the merchants laughing in the square.
Remembered the wagons.
The fire.
His mother.
He looked away.
"You couldn't know."
"I should have."
The words came sharper this time.
Garrick forced himself to breathe slowly again.
Silence settled between them.
Finally Kael spoke again.
"…you're not failing."
Garrick looked down at him.
Kael shrugged slightly.
"You're still here."
"That's not enough."
"It is to me."
The words were simple.
But they hit harder than any blow Garrick had taken in the arena.
For a moment he couldn't answer.
Then he reached out and gently ruffled the boy's messy hair.
"You're supposed to be worrying about toys and chickens."
Kael made a face.
"I hate chickens."
Garrick almost smiled.
Then Kael shifted slightly and winced as his ribs reminded him where he was.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"…tomorrow."
Garrick already knew the question.
"Yeah."
"What do I do?"
Garrick looked at the floor of the cage.
Then at Kael.
Then at the corridor.
Finally he spoke quietly.
"You remember how I taught you to spar?"
Kael nodded.
"Feet first."
"Good."
Garrick pointed lightly at the stone between them.
"Fights start in the feet."
Kael listened carefully.
"If you fall, you lose."
He tapped the boy's knee.
"Stay balanced."
Then his chest.
"Breathe slow."
Then he touched Kael's forehead.
"And think."
Kael nodded again.
"What about punching?"
Garrick shook his head.
"You're not strong enough to beat them with strength."
Kael frowned.
"…great."
"But you're smaller."
"That doesn't sound better."
"It is."
Garrick leaned closer.
"They have to reach down to hit you."
Kael blinked.
"…oh."
"Which means their balance shifts."
Kael's eyes lit faintly.
The gray-bearded fighter chuckled quietly.
"Kid's starting to see it."
Garrick nodded.
"You move when they move."
Kael leaned forward slightly now.
The fear in his chest had changed again.
Not gone.
But sharper.
Focused.
"Okay."
Garrick rested his hand briefly on the back of his son's neck.
"You survive."
Kael nodded.
"I survive."
Above them, the crowd erupted again.
Another fighter had fallen in the sand.
But beneath the arena, in the iron cages where the forgotten men waited…
A father who once hunted slavers was now teaching his son how to survive them.