The stench of sweat, blood-soaked sand, and white-hot metal assaulted Gaël's nostrils as they descended into the bowels of the arena. The sickly light of swinging lanterns cast shifting shadows along the rough stone walls.
Gaël's perception of the place was very different from Brann's. He didn't see it as a forge for broken souls. To him, it was only rusted iron bars, twisted grates bearing the weight of ages, and a pit where only the desperate or the mad dared to tread. The smell of stale sweat and corroded iron turned his stomach. He wasn't sure which terrified him more: the thought of stepping into that pit, or what it would mean if he did.
Heart pounding, he glanced around. Fighters were silently warming up, wrapping gashed forearms, adjusting worn leather armor, sharpening blades as dulled as their stares. No one spoke. Only the cold, detached murmurs of gamblers filtered down from the arena above, the sound of men betting on beasts rather than people.
The woman who had welcomed them at the shop finally broke the silence.
"The rules are simple," she said, her lazy voice echoing off the stone vaults. "A standard match. One-on-one. To the death... or surrender. But if you forfeit..."
She tilted her head slightly, a wicked smile flickering at the corners of her mouth.
"...then you'll be demoted to the survivor matches."
A shiver ran up Gaël's spine. 'Survivor matches...?' He wasn't eager to find out what that meant.
"And every job deserves its pay."
She snapped her fingers, pointing casually at the grimy pit.
"During your fight, there'll be betting. The winner gets thirty percent of the wagers. The arena takes another thirty. Thirty goes to the lucky gamblers. And the last ten percent…"
She paused, her eyes gleaming with vicious amusement.
"...pays for Lameclaire to look the other way."
A low snicker rose from the lower stands. Gaël had known the city was rotten to its core, but hearing the mechanics of crime laid out so casually made him sick.
"If you kill your opponent, you get to claim their gear."
Gaël's fingers tightened unconsciously.
"And my first fight?" he asked, his throat drier than he would have liked.
The woman turned toward an iron gate, her slender fingers brushing absently against the worn metal.
"Your first match will be against a pretender to the Fallen's legacy. A Brother of Fenrir. Should be entertaining. You look so eager to imitate him with that big sword of yours, well, here's your chance to see who deserves it."
Gaël clenched his fists.
'One of those impostors who claim to wield the Severance...'
The shopkeeper stopped before a barred door and glanced back at him, a smirk playing at her lips.
"A certain Elioth the Headsman."
A man who claimed to wield Fenris as skillfully as Brann himself, who mimicked his techniques like a devoted disciple.A usurper.
"And if I win?" Gaël asked, his voice colder than he had intended.
The woman gave a feral smile.
"If you win, Valérian Ombrelac will agree to see you... and your master."
Gaël glanced up toward the stands. Brann sat there, arms crossed, watching the ongoing fight with his usual impassive gaze.
But before Gaël could respond, the woman continued, a strange gleam in her voice:
"And then..." She turned her head toward the arena, her eyes gleaming with hunger. "I'll finally have my fight."
Gaël raised an eyebrow.
"Your fight?"
She pivoted toward him, and the look she gave him hit like an electric jolt.
In the thick, oppressive gloom, her amber eyes glowed red, like those of a predator on the hunt. Beneath her unsettling beauty, Gaël saw the beast coiled just beneath the surface. A chill ran down his spine.
"With the legend finally back..." Her smile widened, revealing teeth too white not to look threatening.
"I've been waiting for this moment for so long."
A strange weight settled in Gaël's stomach.
"But…" he frowned. "Earlier, you said Brann was a fraud?"
The woman laughed, a sharp, unrestrained laugh that echoed through the underground corridors like a funeral bell.
"You didn't really think I hadn't recognized the Umbra drinker, did you?" She stepped back slightly, sizing him up with a glint of amusement.
"I was there, you know, at his last fight. I'd never forget that gaze, that blade... that presence."
Gaël's breathing quickened. A mixture of unease and fascination crept into him. 'Was it admiration? Obsession? Or both?'
"You might've heard of me," she said, her smile sharpening. "I'm Maera the Bloodthirsty."
That name he knew.
He had seen it, scrawled on tattered posters in the black market, whispered on Joric's lips.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Maera tilted her head, clearly savoring his discomfort.
"You should feel honored, little fighter. I'm guiding the little brother of the Umbra drinker... whose blood I'll drink one day!" Her voice quivered with dark excitement. "Just to see if he tastes as exhilarating after all those years of drinking down horrors of the Umbra!"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and her voice softened, almost caressing now.
"But you... you we want to see if you have potential."
Gaël clenched his fists, jaw tight. He opened his mouth to reply, but didn't have the chance.
A metallic rumble tore through the silence. The heavy grates of the trapdoor screeched open, belching a wave of hot, acrid air and dry dust. The tunnel shook with the strain of old chains and tired mechanisms.
Maera stepped closer, her breath brushing his ear.
"It's time, little pretender," she whispered, her voice thick with cruel excitement, no longer even bothering to hide it.
Gaël drew a deep breath. There was no time to think. No right to hesitate.
On the other side of that gate, Elioth was already waiting.
In the charged silence, a deep, dull sound rang out:
Clap... Clap... Clap...
The slow, deliberate beat of a blade slapping against a palm, a challenge hammered into the burning air.
The first step into the arena.
The crackling hiss of torches being lit.
The muffled roar of a crowd, ravenous for one thing: the first clash of steel.
Gaël moved forward, each step hammering the fear from his gut into the fiber of his muscles.
The duel was about to begin.