The arena smells like wet stone and old blood.
Warm light falls through the stained-glass windows above me. It looks holy, but it burns my skin like noon. The crowd roars. They want a show. They always do.
A guard snaps my iron cuff to check the lock. I keep my eyes down, the way I always do when the light hurts. My red hair sticks to my cheek with sweat. I taste dust. I taste iron.
A bell rings. The announcer's voice rises, smooth and cruel.
"Tonight—coin for courage!" he shouts. "A clean victory wins silver! A glorious one wins gold!"
The crowd screams for gold.
I feel the cuff shift on my wrist, just a little. The guard's thumb lingers on the hinge. He leans close like he's just tightening it.
"Don't look up," he says softly. "Fix your eyes on the floor. The glass will make you dizzy."
His voice. Calm. Low. Human.
Kirella.
Other guards like to remind me I am property. Kirella reminds me to breathe.
I nod once. He releases the cuff. The hinge is a touch looser. No one else would notice.
"Keep your winnings on you," he says, still low. "If they try to count your coin—tell me."
"Why?" I whisper.
He answers without looking at me. "Because one day we walk out of here together."
The gate creaks open.
The crowd howls. I step into the circle.
The glass light slides across the sand like warm oil. It makes my head swim. I breathe and keep my eyes on the dirty pattern at my feet—white grains, red grains, a thin black thread.
My opponent shuffles into place. He is huge—grey skin, tusks, a heavy brow—but his eyes are gentle. A "good monster," as the city calls them with a laugh. Big, soft creatures who fetch water, carry crates, apologize when they bump a cart. The arena gives them names like "Brute" and "Beast" and makes them fight for cheap beer and loud songs.
His hands tremble. He does not want to hurt me.
"I won't kill you," I say.
He looks surprised. Then grateful.
The horn sounds.
He swings wide, loud and slow. I slip under the swing and move behind him. The stained glass catches my shoulder—heat washes through me like fever. My knees want to fold. I don't let them.
He turns again, clumsy with fear. I do not bite. I do not drink. In this city, not drinking is a choice you pay for with weakness, but it is still a choice. I pay it.
I strike the back of his knee, quick and clean. He drops to one leg. I tap the side of his neck with the hilt of my knife, not the blade. I can end this without blood.
The crowd boos. They want a kill. They always want a kill.
I take three fast steps, let his weight carry him forward, and sweep his other foot. He crashes onto the sand. The air leaves him in a heavy sigh. I press the dull edge of my knife to his throat and look up at the judge.
"Down," I say.
Silence hangs for one long beat. Then the bell rings.
The boos turn to confused applause, then to jeers again, then to laughter. The announcer saves it with a smooth lie: "Mercy with style! The lady paints with shadow!"
Hands throw coins, not flowers. The keeper collects most of them in a net. A small cut is mine.
I step back through the gate. Behind the gate is always colder.
In the walk-through tunnel, Kirella meets me at the post. He pretends to check my cuff again. His gloves are off now. His palm is warm against my wrist.
"Hold still," he says.
"I'm fine," I say.
He glances at my cheek. "You're pale."
"I'm a vampire," I say. "We tend to be."
He almost smiles. It dies quick.
"The sweep is tonight," he says, quiet enough that even the walls can't hear. "The owner's soldiers will count every coin. They will say it's a new temple tax. They will call it service to the Light."
"They'll take everything," I say.
"If it's in your purse," he says. "Don't keep it in your purse."
He taps the seam inside my dress sleeve. "Stitch a pocket in the lining. Now. I'll stall the quartermaster."
My mouth feels dry. Not from thirst. From hope.
"Why do you do this?" I ask.
He looks away at the torch on the wall. The flame licks the iron ring and throws soft gold on his jaw.
"Because you don't fight to kill," he says. "You fight to live."
That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
He pulls his glove back on and steps aside. "Go. Five minutes."
I hurry into the locker room. A cracked mirror shows me a stranger—a girl with red hair, a split lip, eyes too calm for this place. I rip a thin slit in the inner lining with my knife and slide my coins inside: mostly copper, some dull silver, three warm gold pieces that feel like beating hearts.
I stitch the slit shut with black thread. My fingers shake.
From the outer corridor, I hear boots and laughter. The owner. I know his laugh. It sounds like dry bones in a sack.
I dampen my hair with the basin water and push blood from my face. I pull my sleeve tight to hide the new seam. When I step out, the corridor is full.
The owner wears red velvet and a fat smile. His soldiers wear iron and boredom. Behind them, the quartermaster carries a slate board and a brush.
"Line up," the owner sings.
We line up. Bodies on stone. Heads down. Voices gone.
The quartermaster stops in front of me. His eyes are small and hungry.
"Name," he says.
"Mirelle."
"Earnings declared."
"None," I say.
He smirks and reaches for my belt purse.
"Don't," Kirella says, polite but sharp.
The quartermaster turns. "You object?"
Kirella holds out a folded slip. "I just recorded her payout—ware fees deducted. The purse is empty. Check the board."
The quartermaster takes the slip. It looks official. Everything official looks the same—ink, stamp, smugness. He grunts and moves on.
The owner studies me with slow pleasure. "Pretty thing," he says. "Red on red. Mercy is bad business, girl. The people pay for joy."
I say nothing. My jaw is a locked door.
"Tonight we honor the Light," he goes on, raising his hands as if a choir waits. "A new decree—no more hoarding by slaves. Earnings serve the city. The city serves the Light. The Light serves pleasure."
The soldiers cheer him. The crowd upstairs screams for the next match. Far down the line, someone coughs a dry cough and doesn't stop.
The quartermaster finishes the sweep and nods to the owner. "All clear," he lies.
"Good," the owner says. "Then we pray."
He loves to call it prayer.
We bow our heads as a bell hums and holy glass light warms the stone. The warmth crawls up my arms like nettles. My skin prickles. My stomach flips. I lock my knees and think of cold water and empty roads.
Long, quiet minutes pass. The owner closes his soft eyes. I count in my head—one, two, three—until the bell stops.
"Back to work," he says, and the corridor empties like a drain.
Kirella waits for me near the service door. It looks like a door to a broom closet. Most doors to freedom do.
"Tonight," he says. "Not next week. Not after another match. Tonight."
"I need more," I say. "More coin for a real life. Ten years without fear. That's what I promised myself."
"You will not have ten years if they take it all now," he says. "You will not have ten minutes."
He's right. I hate that he is right. It hurts like the glass light.
He lifts his hand, palm open. I stare at it. There is a scar across his lifeline, pale and thin.
"Give me your word," he says. "I'll give you mine."
I place my palm against his. Heat moves from his hand into mine. Not magic. Not blood. Just a warm human hand in a cold stone hall.
"My word," I say. "Together."
His fingers close around mine for one second. Then boots clatter at the end of the hall, and we drop our hands like they burn.
"Later," he says. "When the bell rings for the big show, follow me."
He leaves. I lean my head against the cold wall and count my breaths again.
The "big show" is a terrible tradition. A mock sacrifice. A dress rehearsal for the real ones held outside, where people pay extra to watch someone die beautifully. The posters in the street call it the Pleasure of the Light. The prettier the death, the higher the price.
The city has learned to clap for cruelty.
When I slip through the back door for air, the alley is thick with steam. Sunset bleeds down the bricks. In the puddles, the stained-glass colors float like broken wings. A paper poster peels from the wall: a smiling woman with a ribbon around her throat, a priest behind her with hands lifted high, and below them a tidy list of prices.
My stomach turns. I step away from the poster and look up. The first stars try to wake. The arena's tower bells start a low, solemn beat.
Two soldiers pass the alley mouth. I melt back into the shadow and let them go. A child with green skin and soft ears peeks from a crate lid and watches me with round eyes. I press a finger to my lips. He mimics me and vanishes into straw.
Boots again. The big show is soon. I slide back inside.
The sweep begins with a bell and ends with a lie. "No hoarding," the quartermaster says again, but his own pockets jingle when he walks. The owner descends the back stair with three soldiers. They smell like perfume and metal.
I drift to the edge of the line where Kirella stands. He doesn't look at me. That is part of the trick.
"Stage right," he says under his breath. "Service door opens on the bell. One chance."
A cough behind me. A girl with short hair and yellow eyes, another fighter, leans in.
"You winning so much, red?" she whispers. "Where do you hide it?"
I say nothing. She smiles without warmth and pinches my sleeve. The seam holds. She frowns and reaches for the hem, a metal hook in her hand.
I pivot and catch her wrist, gentle but firm. "Don't," I say.
She yanks back and raises her voice. "What are you hiding?"
A few heads turn. The owner does not. Kirella does.
He steps between us with a bark. "Move," he snaps at her. "Or you fight again."
She curses and slinks away.
"On the bell," Kirella repeats, eyes front. "Don't be late."
The bell tolls.
The arena roars.
We move.
Kirella breaks from the wall and argues with a soldier about the ledger. The argument is loud and stupid—on purpose. The soldier waves his arms; the quartermaster leans in; the owner smirks and watches men be men.
I tug my sleeve, tear the inner seam with a quick pull, and slip the coin pouch into my palm. Three gold beat against my skin. I tuck the pouch into the corset seam at my side and smooth the fabric down.
Kirella drops something on the floor by "accident." A key. It slides to the base of the service door.
I do not look at him. I bend like I'm fixing my shoe and pick up the key. The service door opens with a soft click.
A cold draft hits my face. I slip inside.
The passage is narrow and smells of soap and damp rope. I walk fast but not fast enough to look like running. At the end is a small yard with stacks of barrels. Night air tastes like rain.
Two soldiers lean against the far wall, bored. One kicks a stone. The other picks at his teeth with a nail.
I freeze. The door closes behind me with a sound like a small prayer.
The soldiers straighten.
"Where are you going?" one asks.
"Bathroom," I say.
"Out here?" the other says.
"On orders," I say. I lift the key. "Quartermaster told me to wash the blood from the steps."
It is a stupid lie. It works because they are stupid men.
They look at each other, shrug, and go back to being bored.
Footsteps whisper behind me. Kirella. He slips through the door and pulls it shut. He smells like metal and cedar. He does not touch me.
"Left," he says, hardly moving his lips.
We move left, keeping the barrels between us and the soldiers. A small gate waits in the corner. Kirella fits the key, turns it, and sets it on the ground. He always leaves doors looking like they were never opened.
We slide into a narrow lane.
A shot of holy light from a chapel window spills over the lane like milk. It makes my vision pulse. I raise an arm, but it is not enough.
Kirella strips off his dark cloak and throws it over my shoulders, pulling the hood low. We move as one body across the light. My skin pricks and my breath stutters, but the cloak takes the worst of it.
"Almost there," he says.
"Where?" I whisper.
"Anywhere that isn't here," he says.
We cut through another lane and another. The city bends around us—tight corners, broken brick, whispers from shutters. Somewhere a woman sings a sad, simple song. Somewhere a man laughs like a knife.
We reach a crooked bridge over a black canal. The water below slides slow and secret. On the far side of the bridge, a street lamp burns with temple glass. In its glow stands a small guard post: a wooden bar across the way, a little table, a bored man with a list.
Behind us, a horn sounds. "Escapes!" a voice cries, faint but growing.
Kirella stops. The bridge is narrow. A human can pass another human if they turn sideways and breathe in. Two people together cannot. Three soldiers enter the lane behind us. The bored man at the post looks up.
"Options?" I ask.
"Left there," he says, nodding at a slit of space between a wall and a drainpipe. "A rat run. Too narrow for two."
"What's the other?" I ask.
He looks at the lamplight, then at me under the hood. "I stay. You go."
"No," I say. It comes out fierce. It surprises both of us.
"Then we try together," he says.
We move to the slit. It looks impossible. It looks like a mouth that hates to eat.
"Cloak off," he says. "Turn your shoulder. Lead with your hip."
We turn, shoulder to stone, breath to breath. I slide in first. The wall scrapes my sleeve. My coin pouch presses sharp against my ribs. Kirella steps in behind me, chest to my back, hands braced on the stone. We move like a slow machine—push, breathe, slide—while boots drum on the bridge behind us.
"Stop them!" someone shouts.
We do not stop. We do not look back. We inch forward until the slit opens into a dark yard that smells of wet flax and soap. I stumble free and pull Kirella through after me.
"Gate," he says, pointing to a bent iron fence. "We can—"
"Don't bother," a voice says.
We turn.
A man stands at the mouth of the yard, tall and dry as a gallows. He wears no armor. He doesn't need it. He holds a small iron key by a ribbon—a key I know. It is the same shape, the same color. It is the one Kirella dropped on purpose in the corridor.
Only this one hangs from the man's finger like a toy.
"Doors that open once," he says pleasantly, "open twice. If you know how to watch."
He walks closer. His boots do not make sound. His smile does.
"I have been watching you," he tells Kirella. "And you, red girl. The owner sends his regards."
Kirella shifts so he is between the man and me. The man's eyes flick to the movement and brighten with interest.
"Choices," the man says, raising the key like a prayer bell. "My favorite part."
He looks at me and tilts his head.
"Mirelle," he says, as if we are at dinner and not in a trap. "Gold or your life?"
The key glints. Behind him, boots thud on the bridge. The yard narrows. The air thins.
I feel my coin pouch against my ribs. Warm. Heavy. Ten years of quiet, if I can keep it. Or nothing at all.
I lift my chin. My skin still burns from the glass, but my voice does not shake.
"Neither," I say.
His smile widens. "Delightful."
The soldiers reach the fence. The man twitches the key. The gate slides on old hinges with a sound like a sigh.
And the chapter ends with that sigh.