Darkness nests in every soul. Give it a crack, and it seeps—slow, methodical—until nothing glows.
"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The human soul is fragile. When darkness comes, we kneel.
"Kill her!" the crowd shouted.
"Thirty silver on the orc!" a trader called.
"Sun Guardians—that all?" a noble sneered.
From my cage in Nublis, I watched Nora bare her teeth. The jeers pressed against her like weight. They weren't wrong.
The Twilight Sanctum was a deep stone pit, banners hanging from the walls depicting the deaths of past champions. As the fight intensified, the crowd's cheers faded into silence, hands gripping coins, eyes fixed on every move. Two combatants fought on cold sand and old blood.
The pit wasn't just an arena. It was a market. Traders prowled the edges, scanning for value. Sex slaves. Worker slaves. Fighter slaves. Some were rare, some broken—but a few were destined for food. Like me.
Scar, who was a half-orc, had skin like dried blood, short green hair, and a heavy build. He was a veteran gladiator, and few had lasted as long as he had. His chest heaved, heartbeat hammering with every step. Sweat streaked his face, mixing with blood. Knuckles were white, aura flickering yellow like embers.
Nora was seven—or at least, she looked seven. Her face was small, but her eyes held a weight that didn't belong to someone so young. She stored sunlight and released it as fire, and even under Durnhal's gray sky, the longer she fought, the hotter she burned.
"RAWR!" Scar roared, and his fist slammed into the sand inches from her face. Shockwaves rattled the pit walls. She twisted, sand spraying, heartbeat quickening, breath sharp.
The crowd roared, but the sound was swallowed by stone.
Scar swung his greatsword low and fast. Steel whistled, striking sand. She barely parried; pain shot up her arm and shoulder. She rolled, sand burning her palms.
Scar advanced again. Every step thudded against stone, chest heaving, bruises blooming where she had struck. Blood glinted in the gray light.
Hair turned crimson as she moved, flames licking her form, sand hissing where it met fire. Blade in hand, steel felt heavy, but her aura made it sharper, more precise.
"Wake up," she whispered. The sound was too steady for a child.
Scar staggered, fist swinging wildly, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Nora moved quickly, footsteps light against the sand. She feinted left, then jabbed right, ribs nearly catching the steel. Heart thumping, breath ragged.
Scar roared again, aura swelling. He swung overhead. Sand and sweat flew, steel scraping close enough to singe her skin.
Too late.
Nora kicked him in the groin. He buckled, breath leaving him in a loud gasp, hands gripping the sand.
She spun, steel flashing. Flame followed. Heat licked the edges of his armor. A hiss of blood and sand filled the air.
Stab. Stab. Gut. Fire. Each strike landed with wet thuds. His breath came ragged, chest heaving against a body wounded and bleeding.
One thrust. Heart. His chest heaved once more. Then still.
Flames died. Hair back to blonde.
She stood over him, sword tight, breathing hard. Sand clung to sweat on her skin. His body twitched faintly beneath her boots.
I wanted to ask what it felt like. Some questions stay closed.
Guards came. She dropped the blade and let them drag her away.
Noon. The feeding pit beneath the Sanctum, called the "dining area," held no laughter. Slop gray, meat low. They used the dead, and refuse meant starvation. Revolt required strength, and strength required fuel. They knew it.
Guards lined the walls. Same sand. Same stink. Same stone.
"They say the master's one of us. Beat him, walk free," a whisper said.
"You'd die first swing," another muttered.
Rumor claimed the master moved in chains, a ghost unseen by the guards. Only the advisor knew his face.
I crouched in a corner. Today's meat had been Scar. Butchered. Roasted. Served.
I ate. Ash. Iron. Swallowed.
That night, the dream returned, always the same. Footsteps.
I woke in my cell. Tears. Again.