The Pit was already overflowing by the time they arrived, a roiling sea of bodies pressed together under the weight of collective bloodlust. And still, more kept coming. Stragglers climbed over barricades, pushed through gaps, and clawed their way to the edge of the arena, desperate to find a vantage point. The air was thick with shouting, jeering, and the occasional crack of knuckles meeting bone, scuffles sparked by too many humans crammed into too little space.
If anyone was truly enjoying themselves, it was the bookmakers. Grinning like hyenas, they waded through the chaos, collecting last-minute bets from wide-eyed addicts and hardened gamblers alike.
Celeste found Fenn near a guarded door tucked beneath the bleachers, leading down into the Pit's understructure, a narrow corridor used only by fighters and their handlers. Most of those handlers, incidentally, doubled as bookmakers themselves, ever eager to profit from blood in whatever way the rules, or lack thereof, allowed.
"Welcome, friends," Fenn said with a theatrical grin as soon as he spotted them. He was leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, twirling a coin between his fingers.
Celeste elbowed her way through the crush of bodies, her voice raised over the noise. "What's with this crowd? It wasn't nearly this bad the last time."
Fenn shrugged, eyes twinkling. "It's the Annual Death Games," he said, like announcing the solstice. "Draws out half of Necropolis, sometimes more. One of the most lucrative events of the year."
"You didn't tell us that," Mars said, narrowing his eyes.
Fenn gave a sheepish chuckle. "Didn't I? Huh. Could've sworn I mentioned it. Well." He clapped Mars on the shoulder. "No use fretting now. I'm sure you'll all do just fine."
Mars looked like he wanted to throw him into the crowd.
Fenn's eyes flicked over to the new faces trailing behind Celeste. His grin sharpened. "And who might these fine additions be?"
Celeste gestured to her right. "That's Yvain. He'll be fighting too."
Yvain gave a short, perfunctory nod. "Will this take long?"
Fenn raised an eyebrow. "In a hurry to be elsewhere?"
"You could say that," Yvain replied evenly.
In truth, he had a meeting with Ivie later. An investigation she wanted him on. Not something he could afford to miss, especially since she was more or less his employer.
Fenn clapped his hands. "Well then, let's not dawdle."
He turned and started down the tunnel. The others followed. The path sloped gently downward into the belly of the crater, into the Pit's hidden veins. For a place carved into an impact site, the substructure was surprisingly elaborate, narrow halls of smoothed black stone, reinforced with old bone lattice and streaked with iron veins. The air smelled of sweat, incense, and old blood.
As they descended, Fenn kept talking. "The Death Games draw more than stragglers and gamblers. Do well enough, and you might catch the eye of a sponsor. If that happens, it's smooth sailing from there. Better pay, better fights, and, if you survive long enough, some measure of influence."
"Who runs the Pit?" Yvain asked, his voice low as they passed through a corridor lit by flickering torchlight.
Fenn paused, then glanced over his shoulder. "How much do you know about the city?"
"Not much," Yvain admitted.
"Thought so," Fenn said with a knowing nod. "You've got the look of someone new. See, Necropolis isn't ruled. Not since the mad Nephilim dynasty was overthrown. What's left is... well, a kind of organized chaos. No king. No council. But it's not exactly lawless either, not if you know who not to piss off."
They took a sharp turn. The hallway narrowed, lined with half-rotted murals and skeletal remains behind glass.
"There are four powers in Necropolis," Fenn went on. "Cross any of them, and you'd better have a grave already dug."
He ticked them off on his fingers.
"First: the Knights Chevalier. Technically still around, though more bark than bite these days. Still, troublemakers with old weapons and older grudges."
"Second: the Grey Rose. Crime syndicate with roots in every vice this city has to offer. They run the lower markets, the smuggling rings, the pit fights, on the quiet."
"Third: the Ossuary Annex. That's the local branch of the Sealed Vaults. Think of them as a kind of bank for the dead and damned. Private, and completely uninterested in morality."
"And last, the Guild of Embalmers. They're the real power here. Control the flesh markets. Regulate undead exports. You want to buy, sell, or reanimate anything? You go through them." He let that hang in the air. "They're also the loosest faction. But don't mistake that for weakness. Every corner of Necropolis bends, in some way, to their influence."
Yvain didn't respond, but his expression grew more thoughtful.
Fenn halted at a massive stone archway that opened into the heart of the arena. The lightfrom above flickered across the sand-stained floor, revealing the pitted and scarred expanse where countless fights had been won, and lost. On the far side of the Pit, another arch mirrored theirs, a shadowed tunnel from which the opposing fighters would emerge.
Along one wall, just inside the entrance, stood a weapons rack, crooked and barely upright. It held a mismatched collection of arms and armor: chipped swords, blunted axes, dented helms, rust-flecked shields, and a few pieces of armor with dried blood still staining the joints.
"Get yourselves ready," Fenn said, already turning to leave. "I'll go inform the announcer."
With a careless wave, he sauntered off, leaving the three of them to their own choices.
Celeste approached the rack and plucked two short daggers from it, weighing them in her hands. The edges were dull, the hilts sweat-slick and worn smooth from years of panicked grips.
"You couldn't flay a deer with this," she muttered, testing one on her palm before slipping them into her belt anyway.
Mars stood beside her, arms crossed, his own sword already sheathed at his back. He gave the selection a cursory glance and gave a wry smile. "They're not meant to last," he said. "Neither are the people using them."
Yvain said nothing. He studied the rack a moment longer before choosing a long, iron-tipped spear. Its haft was dark and polished with use, and though the point had seen better days, it still carried weight. It was a weapon of distance and precision, favored by his ancestors, dragon hunters, not pit brawlers. But still deadly in the right hands.
From outside, a booming voice echoed through the arena, distorted by some crude amplification spell.
"Entering from the east tunnel, by way of the Bleeding Reaches, give it up for the one, the only... Gnaaash!"
The crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers, boos, and clattering mugs. A figure emerged from the opposite arch: scrawny, scaled, with elongated limbs and twitching movements. He looked like a lizard that had crawled into a human's nightmares. Leathered skin, too many teeth, and eyes that glinted with erratic hunger.
Then the announcer's voice came again, dripping with theatrical malice. "And from the west, a challenger new to our sands... the Bonewright!"
Celeste turned to Yvain, one eyebrow raised. "That's you."
Yvain exhaled slowly, then gave her a withering look. "Nice pick," he muttered.
"You're welcome," she said with a smirk.
He briefly considered turning around, but it was far too late for that, this had been his idea. Instead, Yvain put on a bone mask and stepped forward into the tunnel, the spear resting across his shoulders. As he crossed beneath the archway, the roar of the crowd swelled around him. Cheers, jeers, the pounding of fists on stone, and the ever-present demand:
"Blood! Blood! Blood!"
The Pit was hungry.
And now, it had a new name to chew on.