Azeric woke to the sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor—measured, heavy, not the usual laziness of routine but the deliberate march of men hunting something. Each step rang sharp, steel on stone, pulling him from shallow sleep like a blade dragged across armor.
He didn't rush. He sat up slowly, back straightening like a drawn bowstring, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the cadence.
They had found the body.
They were looking for him.
His eyes flicked toward the corner of the cell—the lamp where he burned the bloodied wood. Not even ash remained. Just a blackened basin and a faint smell of oil. He had made sure of that. There would be nothing to find. Nothing to link him to the body cooling in the hallway shadows.
The cell door scraped open. Iron grinding against iron. A guard filled the frame, eyes blank, one hand gripping firm on his spear.
"Stand up."
Azeric rose.
They patted him down, checking his waist, back, and ankles—likely looking for a weapon. Quick. Efficient. One guard nudged at his ribs, felt along his forearm, then stepped back without a word.
"What's this for?" Azeric asked, voice low.
The guard didn't answer. He simply jerked his chin.
"To the pit."
As he stepped out into the corridor, he saw others being led the same way. Most walked like he did—slow, guarded. A few looked confused, still rubbing sleep from their eyes. No one spoke. But the air buzzed with silent questions they were too afraid to ask.
Behind him, the other guard entered the cell, overturned his bowl, scraped through his bedding, scattered ash.
Azeric didn't look back. His feet moved down the corridor, the weight of silence heavy on his shoulders. Cells lined the passage, each one housing men who'd seen too much and spoken too little. They watched him pass. Quiet. Careful. No one spoke.
The pit glowed ahead, flames dancing in their sconces, licking the stone walls with light not yet touched by dawn. The sun hadn't risen. But the Warden had.
He stood like a monument—unmoving, expression unreadable. Guards lined the wall behind him, spears at their sides but not raised. The arena was full now. Gladiators pulled from their sleep, stiff with uncertainty. Azeric joined them in the circle.
No one spoke. But fear was there—taut, pressed into shoulders and knuckles and twitching jaws.
They all remembered the last time this happened. The only time someone had managed to escape.
Then five more were strung up in their place, limbs twisted, necks stretched, eyes frozen wide like they hadn't truly expected the noose until it tightened.
Kestel stepped forward. The movement alone cut through the air.
"We have five bodies this week," he said. Calm. Controlled. The kind of tone used by a man who had already decided the outcome.
"Five deaths."
He let the number hang. The silence that followed was worse than shouting.
"If anyone gives me even one name of the killers," he said, scanning each face like he already knew who would break, "you'll get fifty gold coins. And your chains—gone."
Silence broke, not with voices, but with movement.
Azeric kept his face blank, jaw loose, eyes dull—like a man barely awake. But he was. Wide awake. Kestel wasn't looking for any killer. He was looking for the one who silenced his informant.
No one spoke. No one stepped forward.
The Warden's gaze darkened.
"Then you will all share the punishment."
That did it. A wave rippled through the pit—tiny sounds erupting at once. Foot shuffles. Whispers. A man sucked his teeth. Another turned to spit.
The Warden raised one hand.
"Strip them."
They were lined up. One by one. The chains cracked through the air, striking bare backs with a wet snap. Blood quickly followed—splattered, seeping, painting the dirt. The scent of it thickened the morning air. But not one man cried. Not one begged. Grunts filled the silence, raw and ragged, but no one pleaded. No one dared.
When it was Azeric's turn, Kestel stepped forward. His boots whispered over the stone, cloak unmoving despite the weight of the moment. He raised a hand.
The guard beside Azeric stopped. Moved on.
He was skipped.
Azeric clenched his jaw, muscles ticking. Kestel didn't look at him. But the message was clear.
He didn't like his merchandise damaged.
After the punishment, they were fed—dry bread and a ladle of stew barely warmer than the air. Then, as if nothing had happened, practice resumed. The sun had barely cleared the wall, yet the weapons clashed again in the yard. Most moved sluggishly. Some didn't move at all. The lashes had drained more than blood.
Azeric sat on the edge of the ring after his drills, sweat clinging to his back, shoulders aching from repeated strikes and forms. Around him, only a few kept training. The others crouched in corners, bruised and silent. The sound of practice had dimmed.
So had the fire in their eyes.
To his right, he noticed the black folds of cloth slithering across the dirt like smoke—silent, slow. A small figure stopped near him.
"Little rat," Azeric muttered, not unkindly. "What have you seen?"
The girl didn't answer at first.
Azeric tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Did you kill Jat?" she asked.
"Didn't you ask me to?" he added, dry.
She didn't answer. The girl blinked as confusion flickered across her face.
He continued, voice quieter. Sharper. "He won't bother you again."
She nodded—small, unsure.
Azeric leaned forward. "So what did you see?"
She gripped the handle of a axe, mimicking practice strikes—wide sweeps, a sudden upward slice, then a crouched recoil. Intent. Focused. She stepped forward again, shifting her stance. The axe dragged low, then snapped upward in a brutal vertical arc. She rotated at the hip, added a diagonal strike that swept through empty air, followed by a sudden crouch and an explosive swing aimed at an imaginary knee. Then a backward step, another slash, and a tight, defensive twist. It wasn't polished.
But it was fast. And violent.
The girl slipped away quietly, disappearing into the shadowed edge of the yard. Azeric remained seated, watching her go. His thoughts drifted—not to her, but to Adol.
He'd seen Adol wield more weapons than most men had names for. Blades, clubs, jagged steel that looked more like broken tools than weapons. But one always stood out.
The axe.
Big. Two-handed. Brutal. It wasn't elegant—it didn't need to be. He remembered watching Adol bring it down like he was splitting stone. Not many could stop a weapon like that.
Not many ever did.
Azeric looked down at the new sword resting beside him—sharper, better balanced, but still lacking weight. The steel was clean, the edge crisp, yet it felt too light in his hand. It wouldn't hold against Adol's axe in a direct clash. The force of that weapon would still break it. Maybe him too, if he misstepped.
And yet, he could defeat Adol.
He remembered one fight—chaotic, brutal—where Adol had almost fallen. A moment when the axe-wielder's knee buckled. A mistake that nearly cost him his life. That weakness remained. An injury, old and deep. If Azeric could force him to twist that knee, to shift his weight just right, it would open the gate.
If he could land the blade.
That was the challenge. The sword was shorter. Slower. And getting close to Adol now, in his current state, was nearly impossible.
But Azeric had something else.
Repetition.
If he survived long enough to use it, it might be enough to bring the giant down.
Or there was the other option—kill someone else. Take another life. Feed the system. Gain more.
He looked around the yard, eyes scanning the bruised and broken silhouettes. The first one he saw was a man named Mirsa—lean, fast, but loud-mouthed and careless.
Azeric's jaw set.
Mirsa it is.