The sun cracked against the dry sand like a whip, baking the bare backs of the gladiators crouched around the dusty camp. Stones, stumps, and fists served as makeshift seats, while meals were torn with teeth and greasy fingers. The camp lay just beyond the colosseum walls—close enough to hear the faint roars and the cawing of the carrion birds, already circling.
Brusk sat with his legs spread wide, gnawing on a thick chunk of meat, juices dripping down his beard onto his scar-laced chest. The firelight caught the edge of the great axe resting beside him—its steel chipped, but sharp enough to split a man in two.
Garrik squatted nearby, a claymore across his back, chewing slowly with half-closed eyes.
Hask leaned forward on his knees, skin tight over lean muscle, pale scars crawling like roots across his ribs. His twin daggers stuck out of the ground beside him like silver fangs.
Around them, their small gang of bruisers lounged in lazy half-circles. They clutched pieces of bread and baked potatoes, greasy and burnt at the edges. Laughter drifted through the hot air, rough and sharp.
Brusk tossed the last of the meat bone aside with a grunt. "Oi, Drem," he barked.
A scrawny youth with a nervous twitch flinched upright.
"Quit licking crumbs and go fetch more. Take it off those soft ones by the latrine side. You know the kind."
Drem nodded too fast and scrambled off. The gang laughed behind him.
Brusk spat. "Useless twig."
Garrik wiped sweat from his brow. "Boy's still better than that thing in the rat cell."
"Hmm?" Brusk grunted, tossing another bone into the sand.
"That one they shoved in after the child match," Hask added, lips thin. "Skin and bones. Doesn't even blink. Heard he ate the girl when it was over."
The laughter turned uneasy.
Brusk cracked his neck. "I'm gonna crush his skull. Feed it to the dogs. Bastard's an insult to fighters."
"Not like anyone'll stop you," Garrik muttered.
Brusk glanced toward the colloseum. "And that Valkira whore. Wind-tossed witch thinks she's above everyone. I swear on my axe, I'll pulp her spine before I'm done."
Hask's eye twitched. "You sure? Word is, she's close to winning her sixtieth. Might follow you up."
Brusk leaned back, tapping the axe handle beside him. "Good. Better arena. Better crowd. More to break."
"Sixtieth's big," Garrik said. "Means a bigger hall, more food, clean sheets. You get to train with real steel."
"'Cause the crowd loves a show," Brusk sneered. "Can't let the dogs rot before the blood hits the sand."
"Still remember my fourth," Hask muttered, looking at his daggers. "Slipped through a shadow-runner's ribs. Fast bastard. Took his blades before he even hit the ground."
Garrik chuckled. "Fourteenth for me. Former knight. Bit off his ear. Still tasted of pride."
The gang laughed.
Brusk slapped his knee. "Mine? Ten warm-ups, then a half-giant. Thick-blooded brute. Took my shoulder out. I took his axe in return."
He raised it slightly. "Still hungry."
Someone pointed at a skinny boy in their group. "Look at Fenn, swingin' that bent toothpick."
They roared. Fenn looked down, red-faced, gripping his rusty hilt.
Brusk smirked, but his face turned darker. "Still. None of you got what Valkira's wielding."
"Ain't that the truth," Hask said. "Sword's gleaming. Some say it belonged to the Prince's bloodline before the pit got him."
"She moves like wind wrapped in steel," Garrik muttered. "Magic in her limbs."
"Cheating," Brusk spat. "Real fighters don't need tricks."
The sun dipped lower, and laughter faded. One by one, their eyes drifted toward the colosseum gates, shadows lengthening behind the bars.
"Soon," Brusk said. "We'll deal with her soon."
—Meanwhile—
Valkira's group was seated near a half-cracked column that offered the barest sliver of shade. The fighters around her were not like Brusk's blunt-force pack.
A third were women, most young, not brutish but lean and agile, with scars that told of fights survived rather than dominated. The others varied—quiet, precise types who fought with more thought than muscle.
None spoke loudly. Not out of fear, but restraint.
Aelric sat near the edge of the circle, his long limbs folded neatly, the bowl in his lap untouched but for the bread and boiled potatoes.
Across from him, Valkira tore into her meat, sharp eyes flicking toward the monk.
"You're not eating again." Her tone was casual, but there was steel under it.
Aelric smiled faintly, ripping a corner from his bread. "It's not judgment. Just habit. In the monastery, we fasted from flesh. It quieted the spirit."
Valkira raised an eyebrow, biting into a charred strip of meat. "Your spirit won't last five matches here. And you're not in a monastery anymore."
His gaze didn't waver. "So I've noticed."
Then his voice dropped, quiet but deliberate: "They call him a monster for what he did. But is it truly worse than this?" He held up the meat from Valkira's plate with a gesture, not touching it.
She stiffened. "That's different."
"Is it?" Aelric's smile returned, thinner now. "One child or one lamb. A matter of which soul weighs heavier?"
Valkira's fist clenched. "You sound like him."
"Do I?" Aelric tilted his head. "Or am I reminding you that desperation strips us all bare?"
Before she could answer, a wiry boy in ragged clothes stumbled into their circle. His breath was ragged, his face flushed red from anger and heat.
"They took it," he spat. "Brusk's lot. Said I looked too skinny to need it. My meal."
Without a word, Aelric pushed his bowl toward the boy. "Take mine."
The boy stared. "You sure?"
"You need it," Aelric said. "You'll fight soon."
The boy took the bowl with a muttered thanks, retreating like a deer startled by its own luck. Around them, the others watched in silence.
"Meat's not just food here," Valkira muttered, sitting again. "It's a measure. Of how long we've lasted. How much we're worth."
Aelric gave no reply.
Beside Valkira stood a young woman, her posture rigid, eyes scanning the camp. Her name was Lysara, known for her discipline and unwavering focus.
She stood like a sentry, arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked on the shadows where Brusk's group laughed in the distance.
Her armor was mismatched, one pauldron too big, the other missing, but she wore it like a badge.
"If we don't train harder," she said to no one in particular, "they'll do more than take meat next time."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried. Heads around the circle nodded. Some clenched jaws. Others looked away.
Valkira didn't answer, but her eyes lingered on Aelric, who chewed his dry bread in silence.
Beside Lysara sat Seren, knees pulled close, her meal barely touched. She didn't say much—she rarely did when Valkira was around.
Her gaze kept drifting to the warrior across from her, the way Valkira tore her bread with quiet confidence, the way her presence seemed to keep the air around their group steady.
Seren's fingers tightened around her cup. She had once looked at the world with dead eyes, but now, when she looked at Valkira, she remembered how it felt to want something again.
Meanwhile, Aelric sat cross-legged on the dry earth, the shadows of his tattered robe folding gently over his lap. As the others focused on their meal or on gossiping about Brusk's latest threats, his hand moved with practiced ease. With a slight tug at the seam near his waist, he slipped half his bread beneath the inner fold of his garment, tucking it snug against his side.