Dawn filtered through the bars, a pale light that brought no warmth. The salt air clung to the skin like a second layer of sweat, and every breath carried the taste of rust. Frost opened his eyes, still broken from the day before. His ribs ached, but his body demanded movement.
Kaelen was already awake, crouched down, elbows resting on his knees, watching his companion with the calm of a predator.
— Still standing? he asked.
Frost pushed himself up slowly, wincing, then nodded.
— As long as I breathe, I keep going.
A thin smile touched Kaelen's lips.
— Then come. Today you'll learn to strike like something more than a wounded beast.
⸻
The courtyard roared with the shouts of prisoners. Improvised training bouts, minor brawls, whispered wagers… all blended into a cacophony the wardens ignored. From their iron catwalks above, they observed—impassive silhouettes, like perched crows. Not one moved, not one spoke. Sometimes they jotted notes, sometimes they simply watched, letting the violence play out as if it were no concern of theirs.
Frost and Kaelen had claimed a corner where the stone was still damp with morning dew. Kaelen took a low guard, hands open.
— First rule: don't just take hits. Read. Watch. You can't beat someone stronger than you by charging headfirst.
Frost nodded, setting his stance awkwardly. His arms were stiff, fists clenched.
The impact came fast. Kaelen stepped in and slammed a dry palm into Frost's chest. Frost stumbled back, nearly falling.
— Too stiff. Too slow. You're handing yourself over.
Kaelen struck again, this time a low hook. Frost tried to dodge but his legs were swept out from under him. The ground hit him hard.
A low laugh came from behind. Three figures approached—the Trine. Identical in their movements, their sharp gazes like thin blades.
— Interesting, one of them murmured. Playing teacher, Kaelen?
Kaelen didn't even glance back.
— Get lost.
But another of the brothers crouched, eyes fixed on Frost.
— This kid… he took down Garruk, didn't he? Not bad. But he won't keep it up without help.
Frost, panting, lifted his chin.
— I don't need your advice.
The three exchanged a smile.
— Wasn't an offer, the third said. Just an observation.
Finally Kaelen looked up at them, cold.
— You play mind games. But if you try to get your claws on him, you'll have to go through me first.
The silence grew taut, stretched like a rope ready to snap. The Trine shared another cryptic smile, then withdrew.
— We'll talk again, one whispered. Soon.
⸻
By afternoon, the noise swelled in the yard. No announcement, no official call. Here, fights needed no permission: they broke out because blood's hierarchy demanded it. The wardens, impassive on their catwalks, watched the masses stir. Like farmers watching their cattle tear each other apart, they never lifted a hand.
Three men stepped forward, pushed on by murmurs. Frost recognized them—Veyron's lackeys. Brutish colossi, each scarred with hate. But they weren't circling him.
Their target was Kaelen.
— You. Ginger man. You've looked down on us too long. Today, you fall.
Kaelen sighed, slowly shrugging off his coarse jacket. He threw Frost a look, one that said: Watch closely. Then he stepped into the circle.
The first man charged, a fist like an anvil swinging. Kaelen pivoted, seized the wrist, and cracked the joint across his shoulder. A sharp snap echoed, followed by a scream. The man crumpled.
The second threw a hook. Kaelen ducked, pressed his shoulder into the man's chest, and with a sharp lift slammed him down, the thud resounding across the stone. Before the man could breathe, Kaelen's knee crushed into his ribs.
The third hesitated, wary, then lunged anyway. His strikes were wild, heavy. Kaelen gave ground, slipping just out of reach, letting him exhaust himself. Then, suddenly, Kaelen struck: a palm to the throat, an elbow crashing into the temple. The man staggered, groaned… and collapsed.
The courtyard went silent. Only the groans of the broken men broke the stillness. Kaelen straightened, wiping blood from his knuckles with indifference. His breath was steady, his gaze merciless.
Frost's heart pounded. He had seen it all—the precision, the economy of motion, the cold efficiency. Nothing wasted.
Above, the wardens didn't stir. No words, no signals. Their blank masks tilted toward the scene, recording it like data.
Kaelen turned his eyes to Frost.
— That's the difference between you and me, Frost. I don't fight to last. I fight to end.
The silence pressed heavy over the yard. In the prisoners' eyes, something had shifted. Frost and Kaelen were no longer just names among many. They had carved their presence into stone and flesh alike.
⸻
Night dropped over the prison like a slab of iron. The day's cries had died, replaced by the scrape of chains and the hiss of sea wind through the bars. In the halls, the wardens' metallic footsteps echoed now and then, but never lingered.
Frost lay on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the cracked ceiling. His mind replayed Kaelen's fight on an endless loop. The flow, the mastery, the way he had reduced three men to nothing with no wasted motion. This wasn't survival brawling—it was art. Frost had felt the difference like a blow to the face.
Beside him, Kaelen sat cross-legged, eyes shut. His slow, measured breathing contrasted with Frost's restless thoughts.
— How did you learn that? Frost asked, breaking the silence.
Kaelen cracked one eye open, a flicker of mockery glinting in the dark.
— By losing. And by never staying down.
He closed his eyes again, as if the matter was finished.
Frost stayed thoughtful. Losing—yes, he knew that well. But what he'd seen today was nothing like his own clumsy swings, driven more by rage than strategy.
He shut his eyes, trying to imagine his own movements carrying Kaelen's precision. But the image shattered at once, replaced by Garruk, by Veyron… and by the masked shades of his past. Too fast, too untouchable.
A sound broke the quiet. Footsteps. Soft. In perfect sync.
The Trine.
They appeared at the cell door, their shapes lit by the flicker of torches. Their faces mirrored one another, three identical masks, three unreadable stares.
— Impressive, Kaelen, one whispered. Even we would hesitate to face three men at once.
Kaelen didn't open his eyes.
— Then you're smarter than those brutes.
Three identical smirks curved their lips.
— The kid, another added, jerking his chin toward Frost. He doesn't have your technique. But he has something else. A spark. We saw it yesterday, against Garruk.
Frost clenched his fists, feeling their gaze pierce through him.
— What do you want?
The Trine traded a knowing smile, as if they'd expected that reaction.
— An alliance. Or at least… an understanding. Prison isn't a survival ground, Frost. It's a chessboard. And every piece has value. You've just proven you're no pawn.
At last, Kaelen opened his eyes, his sharp stare pinning them in place.
— You're not looking for allies. You're looking for an opening. And you'll get nothing from me.
A heavy silence followed. Then the third brother leaned closer, his eyes locked on Frost.
— Think on it, Frost. You don't yet have the weapons to face Veyron. And Kaelen… he's already chosen his path. Maybe yours will be different.
The Trine stepped back slowly, swallowed by the shadows as easily as they had come.
Frost's heart hammered, sweat slicking his back.
Kaelen resumed his measured breathing, as if nothing had happened.
— Don't listen to their words. They feed on cracks. Give them an opening, and they'll shatter you.
Frost nodded, but his thoughts stayed tangled.
He felt pulled between two poles: Veyron's brutal, merciless force… and the Trine's cunning, venomous enigmas.
Prison wasn't just a pit of violence. It was a web. And Frost was starting to understand that if he wanted to survive, he'd have to learn not just how to strike… but how to play.