The clamor of the yard took a long time to subside. Frost, still standing, wobbled like a tree battered by a storm. Every breath was agony, his ribs screaming, his vision flickering at the edge of darkness. Yet his eyes remained fixed on the figure of Veyron retreating, flanked by his lieutenants.
That smile… thin, calculating. It wasn't a defeat for him. It was an invitation. A branding iron. Frost knew: he had just been chosen.
The crowd dispersed in waves, some prisoners casting him looks of respect, others of jealousy or hatred. A few murmured his name like a new rumor. The Redhead cut through the mass to reach him, his expression still unreadable.
— You just signed your death warrant, he whispered.
Frost gave a tight, bloody smile.
— Not yet.
The Redhead slid an arm under his shoulder and helped him back to the cells. Around them, the guards watched the scene without intervening, some barely concealing their amusement. One, mask tilted, noted something in a notebook. As if all of this were a planned spectacle, a statistic to record.
⸻
Back in the cell, Frost collapsed onto the cold floor, unable to stifle a groan. Every muscle, every bone throbbed in pain. The Redhead remained standing for a moment, arms crossed, before leaning forward.
— You have no technique. You hit like a trapped animal. But you absorbed it. And above all… you won.
Frost turned his head toward him, his breath ragged.
— That's all that matters.
— No, the Redhead replied, shaking his head. What matters is that now, Veyron will toy with you. He tests, he sharpens. When he deems the time right, he'll crush you in front of everyone.
A heavy silence settled. Frost's face tensed, memories resurfacing despite himself. His parents. Blood. Shadows too fast to follow. The bitter taste of powerlessness.
He closed his eyes, driving the images away.
— Then I'll have to be ready.
The Redhead studied him for a long moment, then gave a sly, almost cynical smile.
— You're really crazy. But maybe that's exactly what's needed here.
⸻
Night fell, heavy and suffocating. Frost couldn't sleep. His ribs burned, his jaw throbbed, and his mind looped endlessly around the fight. Garruk's fists still echoed through his body. Yet, something burned brighter than the pain: a spark, a newfound conviction.
He had survived. He had stood against one of Veyron's monsters. And the entire yard had seen it.
But behind this victory lay a chilling truth: he had climbed a rung, and at the top awaited an abyss.
For Veyron never smiled without reason.
The pain could have crushed him. His fractured ribs screamed with every breath, his muscles demanded rest, but Frost refused to stay down. The cold floor became his only ally. He placed his palms on the stone, trembling, then forced his body up into push-ups.
One. Two. Three. Each descent drew a groan from him. At the tenth, his right arm gave way, and his face slammed into the stone. Blood spilled from his split lip. But Frost did not stop. He rolled to the side and switched to sit-ups. The contractions tore at his abdomen, but he continued, as if breaking himself to rebuild immediately.
The Redhead watched him, leaning against the wall, his gray-green eyes unreadable. He said nothing at first. Then, after a long silence, he breathed:
— You're really sick.
Frost, panting, pressed on regardless. He wasn't listening to reply: he was listening to survive.
— You're bleeding, you're shaking, and yet you keep going, the Redhead continued. It's more than pride. It's raw rage.
Frost finally stopped, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell in jerks. His fists remained clenched, as if even at rest, his body refused to surrender.
A faint smile split the Redhead's lips.
— You want my opinion? You'll endure. Maybe not unscathed. But you'll endure.
Frost slowly turned his head toward him. His eyes, burning with sweat and fire, sought an anchor.
— You speak as if you already know how it will end.
The Redhead shrugged.
— Because I do. The weak die here, the brave too. But those who refuse to bend… they change the rules.
A silence fell. Then, abruptly, Frost asked:
— You've never told me your name.
The Redhead stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing the value of this confidence. Finally, he spoke, in a low but firm voice:
— Kaelen.
The name resonated in the air like a drawn blade.
— It's the only one I kept. The rest, I buried here long ago.
Frost repeated the name, anchoring it in his memory.
— Kaelen.
A faint smile passed over the Redhead's face.
— At least you'll hear it. The others don't even remember that I have a name.
He approached, crouched before Frost. His gaze, usually cold, grew intense.
— Listen carefully. What you did today, beating Garruk, it's not a victory. It's a challenge thrown at Veyron. And Veyron never forgives. So if you want to survive, if you really want to face him one day… it will take more than push-ups and rage. It will take a mind as sharp as his fists.
Frost cracked a pained grin.
— Then I'll learn. Even if it kills me.
Kaelen shook his head, somewhere between scorn and admiration.
— You remind me of someone. Someone who refused to bend. He's dead… but not forgotten.
He straightened, crossed his arms, and concluded in a grave tone:
— Very well, Frost. If you want to survive, I will help you. But know this: once you start walking this path… you cannot turn back.
Frost, still lying there, eyes blazing with determination, simply breathed:
— Then we move forward.
A heavy silence settled in the cell. But this time, it was not the silence of walls. It was that of two predators recognizing each other, for the first time, as allies.