The morning haze clung to the arena like a shroud. The torches had long burned out, but the stench of sweat, blood, and dust never faded. Honey sat on the edge of her cot, lacing up the worn leather straps around her wrists. Her body bore scars from fifty-seven battles, yet her eyes were sharp, awake, and alive.
The iron door creaked open. Rufar, the man who had raised her within this place since she was seven, stepped inside. His shoulders were broad, his hair streaked gray, and his face was carved by years of watching men and women fight and die under his command. He carried with him a weight of authority that not even the cruelest guards dared question.
"Honey," he said, his voice rough like gravel.
She glanced up. "You're early."
Rufar leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I needed to speak with you before the day begins. Things are… changing."
Her brows furrowed. "Changing how?"
He looked at her then, not as a master speaking to a fighter, but almost as a father might when preparing to deliver hard truth. "You don't need to go anywhere, girl. No more traveling fights. No distant pits. The fights will come to you now."
Honey tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"The king's guards brought in a new shipment of prisoners last night," Rufar said. His voice dropped lower. "Criminals, rebels, deserters… doesn't matter. The guards want to be entertained while they wait for their orders. They've demanded blood sport. They want you to fight the prisoners—one by one."
For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room. Honey's stomach tightened. Fighting warriors in the arena was one thing—each bout was a test of skill, strength, and endurance. But prisoners? They would be desperate, unpredictable, some barely fighters at all.
Her jaw tightened. "That's not a fight. That's slaughter."
Rufar's eyes softened, though his tone remained firm. "The world isn't fair, Honey. You know that better than anyone. But listen to me: these men aren't innocents. Many of them would have killed you in an alley without hesitation. The guards want a show, and the only way to keep you alive—and keep this arena's favor—is to give it to them."
Honey stood, pacing the small cell. Her muscles were coiled springs beneath her scarred skin. "Fifty-seven matches. I've never lost. And now they want me to tear through prisoners like some kind of… beast?"
"You've always been more than a beast," Rufar said quietly. He stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "But survival comes first. Do this, and the guards will keep feeding you opponents. Fail, and they'll throw you in the pit as just another prisoner."
Honey met his gaze, amber eyes burning. "So it's fight… or be fed to the crowd."
Rufar gave a slow nod. "Exactly."
---
The roar of the arena returned that afternoon, louder than ever. The crowd—soldiers, guards, and a handful of merchants—cheered from the stands carved into rough stone. At the center of the pit, Honey stood, armed with only her short blade and the leather armor she had worn for years. The ground beneath her feet was stained from countless battles, though none had ever felt quite like this.
The iron gate clanged open. From the shadows, the first prisoner stumbled out. Shackles still clung to his wrists, though they had been loosened just enough for him to raise the jagged sword he carried. His eyes were wild—bloodshot with fear and rage.
"Fight," the announcer bellowed.
The man lunged, screaming. Honey sidestepped, her blade flashing. The strike was clean, precise. The prisoner fell, clutching his chest, his cry silenced in seconds.
The crowd roared its approval.
Honey breathed steady, her heart cold. This was no victory. It was necessity.
The second prisoner came within moments. He was larger, shoulders thick, muscles straining against the ragged tunic he wore. He charged like a bull, swinging a heavy club. Honey ducked, rolled beneath the strike, and slashed at the back of his leg. The man howled, stumbling, before her final strike brought him down.
Again, the crowd cheered. Again, Honey stood in silence.
One after another, the prisoners came. Some screamed in fury, others cried in desperation, but all fell to her blade. Each kill weighed heavier than the last, yet Honey's face remained carved from stone. She was undefeated, unbroken, but inside, a part of her trembled at the hollowness of it all.
---
By the time the final body hit the dirt, the sun was sinking behind the arena walls. Honey's chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, her blade dripping crimson. The guards shouted, clapping, wagering coins among themselves. To them, it had been entertainment.
To Honey, it had been survival.
She sheathed her blade, her hands steady despite the storm inside her. As the iron gate creaked open again, Rufar stepped into the pit. He looked at the fallen men, then at Honey.
"You did what you had to," he said.
Honey wiped the blade on her armor. "It didn't feel like fighting. It felt like butchering."
Rufar placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back toward the tunnels beneath the arena. "That's because you still know the difference. Don't ever lose that, Honey. The day you stop knowing it… is the day you truly become the beast they want you to be."
Honey glanced back one last time at the blood-soaked sand. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty—her victories were growing, but so were the shadows in her heart.
And deep down, she wondered how much longer she could keep fighting without losing herself.