The air outside the pit still smelled of blood when Honey woke the next morning. Sleep had been little more than a flicker between shadows. She lay staring at the ceiling, every heartbeat replaying the faces of the prisoners she had killed the day before.
When Rufar opened her door, she was already sitting upright, dressed and ready.
"Someone wants to see you," he said. His tone carried no warmth, only the weight of duty. "The captain of the prisoner guards."
Honey followed him through the underground passageways that twisted beneath the arena. The deeper they went, the stronger the scent of iron and damp stone became. Finally, they reached a chamber where a man in black leather armor stood waiting. He had a sharp jaw, cold gray eyes, and a sword at his hip polished so brightly it caught every flicker of torchlight.
"Honey," Rufar said, gesturing. "This is Captain Draeven. He's the one who delivered the prisoners yesterday."
Draeven gave her a long look, like one sizing up a weapon rather than a person. "So this is the girl who's kept the pit alive with her unbeaten streak."
Honey crossed her arms. "You brought those men. I want to know why."
Draeven tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Why? Because they deserved worse than death, and you gave them what they earned."
Her eyes narrowed. "They were chained. Half of them could barely hold a weapon. That didn't feel like a fight."
He stepped closer, his boots echoing on the stone. "Those men were not innocents, girl. Every single one of them was marked for execution. Rapists. Murderers. Thieves who butchered families in the night. The king's law had already condemned them. All I did was make their deaths useful—entertain the soldiers, sharpen your skills."
Honey studied him, searching his expression for even a flicker of doubt. She found none. Draeven spoke as though the matter were decided long before her blade ever touched them.
"So I'm just the tool," she muttered. "The hand that carries out what you've already written."
Draeven's smirk widened. "Better you than an axe on the block. At least this way, they scream before the end. At least this way, the crowd learns to fear you more with every kill."
Her fists clenched at her sides. "You think fear is all I am?"
He met her glare without blinking. "Fear keeps you alive. Fear is why you've never lost. Don't waste your conscience on scum who'd have slit your throat for a coin. They had no honor. You gave them justice."
Honey turned away, the torchlight casting her shadow long against the wall. Justice. The word burned in her chest like an ember she couldn't decide to feed or snuff out.
Rufar cleared his throat. "That's enough, Captain. You've said your part."
But Draeven wasn't finished. He stepped past Honey, pausing at the door. "There will be more. Every week, we'll send prisoners here. Consider it your duty—and your privilege. You're cleansing the kingdom of its filth, one corpse at a time."
With that, he left, the sound of his boots fading into the distance.
---
Silence lingered after he was gone. Honey leaned against the wall, her arms trembling though she forced them still.
"Rapists. Murderers," she whispered.
Rufar watched her carefully. "You don't believe him."
She shook her head. "I don't know what to believe. They looked desperate, yes. Dangerous, maybe. But I don't know their stories. All I know is that they died by my hand. I didn't even ask their names."
Rufar's expression softened. "Names won't change what they were, Honey. Don't torment yourself with questions you'll never get answered."
"But if Draeven's wrong? If even one of them was innocent—" She stopped herself, biting down hard. The thought was poison, and yet it rooted itself deep.
Rufar put a hand on her shoulder, steady and firm. "I raised you to survive. Not to carry the world's sins. You did what you had to do."
Honey closed her eyes. She remembered the faces—the rage, the fear, the silence at the end. Were they all as wicked as Draeven claimed? Or was that just the story told to make her blade feel cleaner?
---
That evening, the pit echoed with laughter and wagers again. Soldiers crowded the stands, shouting Honey's name. "The Wolf of the Arena!" they cried. "The girl who never bleeds!"
Honey walked into the pit, blade in hand, the crowd's adoration washing over her like cold rain. She felt their hunger, their desire for blood, and for a moment, she hated them all.
When the gate creaked open and another prisoner stumbled forward, she lifted her sword slowly, almost mechanically.
Draeven's words echoed in her head: Rapists. Murderers. They deserve it.
Her own heart whispered back: What if they don't?
And so, even as she fought, even as the crowd roared her name, Honey's greatest battle began—not against the men she killed, but against the creeping doubt that threatened to unravel everything Rufar had built to keep her alive.