The pit stank of blood, old sex, and something deeper — like secrets buried beneath a thousand unmarked graves.
They threw me into the sand with the same care you'd toss meat to starving dogs. My wrists were still raw from shackles. My ribs ached. My mouth tasted like metal, but I smiled anyway.
Not because I wasn't afraid.
Because fear had stopped mattering weeks ago.
That's what they called me here — Ghost. Rat. Pretty boy.
Never Kael. Never my name.
Names were for the living.
Above, in the gilded gallery, nobles leaned forward in their silks and feathers. Betting slips passed hands. Laughter echoed, cruel and casual.
A woman in black lace sat alone in the highest seat, her legs crossed, her mouth half-curled in amusement.
Lady Veira. The Widow of Redgate. Known for collecting things that bled well.
She looked at me like I was already part of her collection.
"Your last shot, boy," rasped Pitmaster Graav. Half his face was melted. The other half looked like it was trying to catch up. He leaned on a rusted spear and spat into the sand. "Win, or die and be useful to someone's ritual."
I rolled my shoulder slowly, cracked my neck, and offered him a lazy grin.
"If I win, I get a bath this time?"
He grunted. "If you win, she might fuck you before skinning you." He gestured to Veira.
I glanced up. She met my eyes. Smirked. Licked the tip of her gloved finger.
I grinned wider. "Then I'm dying hard either way."
The gate opposite me groaned open.
ZANN. The pit's favorite beast. Built like a god's bad idea. Seven feet tall, half-scar, half-muscle, all kill. His chest was bare, his eyes gleamed dull red under the torchlight, and his blade was longer than my entire body.
I didn't blink.
He saw me. Smirked. His voice was gravel soaked in wine.
"They really sent you out here to die pretty, huh?"
"Jealous?" I replied. "You could've been pretty, if not for your face. And the rest of you."
Laughter from the cages. Even Veira laughed — once.
Zann's eyes narrowed. The bell rang.
And then he came.
He moved like a charging horse, fast and heavy, sand exploding under each stomp. I dodged left, ducked low, rolled. His blade whistled past my ear.
The sand was hot, coarse. My dagger — barely sharpened, bent from last match — was already in my hand. I didn't remember grabbing it.
Zann turned and came again.
This time, I didn't dodge. I slid under his arm, slashed across his ribs — shallow but bleeding.
He hissed. Swung. I leapt back.
"You fucking flea—!"
"Too slow, muscle-boy."
He charged.
His shoulder smashed into my gut, lifting me off the ground. I slammed against the wall, stars bursting behind my eyes. I tasted blood.
He came for the kill.
Blade up. Swing down.
I barely rolled. The blade crashed into stone. Sparks flew.
I scrambled, panting. Sand stuck to the blood on my chest. My fingers closed around something buried in the dirt.
Cold. Sharp.
Not my blade.
A bone.
A rib?
No. Not a bone.
A relic.
And then…
It whispered.
Not with sound.
With presence.
From below the arena. From the pit's bottomless throat. From a corpse no one remembered but every soul here stood on top of.
"Take me."
Time stopped.
"Feed me."
My spine arched. Fire licked through my nerves. Something inside me bent. Broke. Shifted.
"Dominate."
And I laughed.
Out loud. Into the silence.
Zann paused, confused.
I stood slowly. Blood dripping. Hair wild. Smile wide.
He blinked.
And then I moved.
Faster than before.
My blade — or whatever it was — tore across his leg. Then again. Then again. I spun behind him, leapt up, wrapped an arm around his throat.
He flailed. I gripped tighter.
I whispered into his ear, lips brushing his skin:
"Time to scream for me, baby."
Then I drove the blade into his spine.
He collapsed.
Convulsed.
Then stopped moving.
Silence fell.
The gallery didn't cheer.
They watched.
Veira stood.
Slowly, deliberately, she descended the stairs. Her boots clacked like judgment.
She walked into the pit, stepping over blood, over Zann's corpse, until she stood in front of me.
Her eyes sparkled.
She ran a finger down my chest.
"You'll do."
Then she turned to Graav.
"He belongs to me now."
That night, I wasn't sent back to the cages.
I was taken to her chambers.
Bathed in perfume and milk by twin handmaidens with serpent tattoos. My cuts were wrapped. My hair was combed.
Then I was brought into the bedchamber.
Veira reclined on silk, wine in one hand, thigh exposed. Her black lace robe hung open, barely concealing her breasts.
Her eyes drank me.
"You're prettier cleaned up," she murmured. "But I liked the blood on you."
"I can always get more," I said, stepping closer. "From you, if I must."
She laughed. "Oh, I like you."
I climbed onto the bed.
She reached for me.
But I grabbed her wrists and pinned her down.
Her lips parted — not in protest.
In hunger.
I fucked her like vengeance.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
She clawed my back. Bit my shoulder. Moaned like worship.
I whispered filth into her mouth and made her beg. When she came, she screamed. Not in pain. In submission.
And afterward, I didn't cuddle.
I stood.
Looked down at her dazed, sweat-slicked body.
And smiled.
"You're mine now."
Later, in the silence of her tower, the voice returned.
"She is the first."
Visions danced behind my eyes.
A throne of flesh.
A crown of shadows.
Lovers screaming. Enemies kneeling.
A kingdom of rot and lust and glory.
And at the center of it all—
Me.