The smoke-hazed air of the waiting chamber felt heavy. Even after Azura's healers had closed Kai's wounds, there was no peace in this place. Slaves shuffled in the corners, guards leaned on spears, and the hum of the next match rolled down the stone hall like a warning drum.
Drake leaned against the doorway, his smile too easy for the moment. "He's… yours?!? You own Nightmare?!? Like own own?!?" His voice cracked with disbelief, though it quickly slid back into calculation. He paused, the weight of the tower's future in his eyes. Then he exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I'll tell you what—let me live and you're free to leave whenever you're no longer a slave."
Kai's mouth stayed shut. The idea of owning a guardian like Nightmare—the bone-ribbed wraith who had broken forty fighters—felt unreal. He didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it. Silence was sometimes the sharpest blade.
Drake clapped his hands together as if the deal was sealed. "We'll get you to the fiftieth floor. Think of it as us paying you back for allowing Matt to join." His grin returned, a merchant's smile that never stopped counting.
"Thank the Lords." He turned to the side where Matt was stretching, his shadows quivering at his heels like hunting dogs. "Okay! You ready for your next match, Matt?"
Matt rolled his shoulders and gave the faintest nod. His expression never gave much away, but Kai could see the coil of focus in him, the predator's quiet that came before the pounce.
From beyond the barred gates, the crowd's roar thundered. Kai glanced up, catching snippets of voices drifting back like scraps of gossip carried on the wind.
"You know that shadow-born? Have you noticed you forget about him when you look away?" one spectator muttered, loud enough for the others to chuckle uneasily.
Another agreed, tone sharp with awe. "I did notice that! You blink and—gone. Nightmare found Stray, I'm pretty sure he owns Nightmare, which makes him strong."
Kai felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The crowd was piecing together things best left unsaid. Matt's burden twisted memory itself—already dangerous, already unstable. Add Nightmare to that, and the whispers would grow into myths.
He turned to Matt, studying the lines of tension across his face. The younger fighter stood calm, but calm like deep water hiding a riptide. Kai wondered if Matt knew what the audience saw: how their eyes slid off him, how even their memory tried to forget him the second he wasn't in view. A curse disguised as camouflage.
The gate rattled. The announcer's voice, slick with excitement, boomed across the arena. "From Room Seven—the Young Masters! The Stray and the Shadowborn!"
Drake gave Kai's shoulder a companionable pat that carried more weight than warmth. "Don't worry. Every match brings us closer. Just keep surviving."
Kai stepped forward, his pulse steady, his mind circling the whispers. Ownership. Forgetting. Nightmare. Every rumor had teeth. And in this tower, even shadows had ears.
---
We were onto floor forty-eight now. So close. Only two more and the fiftieth would open before us like a gate to freedom—or another kind of cage.
The room buzzed with tension. Even Matt, usually unreadable, leaned back in his chair with his jaw tight. His shadows curled lazily at his boots, restless as dogs waiting for a hunt.
It was my turn to fight.
I stood, rolling my shoulders as if to shake off the weight of the tower. For once, I wasn't thinking only about survival. I wanted to try something new—something with Velnix. My guardian had been silent most of the climb, watching, waiting. Now the urge to test our bond pressed hard against my chest.
Drake was perched on the table, flicking through betting slips, his grin as sharp as always. He was a master by law, but the longer we climbed the less it felt that way. He was using us, sure—but we were using him too. A partnership carved out of desperation. Oddly enough, it worked.
"I'm off. Wish me luck." My voice was steady, though my palms itched.
Drake actually raised a hand in a lazy half-salute. "Luck's expensive. But I'll give you a discount. Don't die, Stray."
Matt looked up from the floor, eyes shadow-rimmed. "Don't hold back this time."
The gate groaned open. Sand, iron, and the stink of blood rolled in from the arena. The crowd thundered, a wave of voices all hungry for spectacle.
I stepped forward, Velnix whispering at the edges of my mind. Not words—never words—but a pull, a rhythm, as if the guardian's heartbeat was syncing with mine.
Tonight, floor forty-eight would see something different.