The market streets of the town above the pit were alive with noise that morning. Merchants shouted over one another, peddling salted fish, woven cloth, and baskets of dried herbs. Children darted through the crowd, chasing each other between the stalls. For most, it was just another day.
For Honey, it was a fragile reprieve from the clamor of the arena.
She walked with a leather pouch of coins at her hip, given by Rufar so she could buy supplies: bandages, oil for her blade, and whatever food might strengthen her for the days ahead. The sun was warm on her skin, yet the memory of the pit still clung to her—every face she'd struck down, every body she'd left in the dust.
Her hand brushed the scar on her shoulder, a habit she'd never managed to break. Rapists. Murderers, Draeven's voice echoed in her head. You gave them justice.
But what if he'd lied? What if they were just men thrown into chains for defying the wrong lord, or for stealing to feed their children? She had killed them all without asking.
"Honey?"
The voice was thin, wavering with age. Honey turned to see an old woman hunched over a cane, her gray hair tied back beneath a faded scarf. Her eyes, though weary, carried a sharpness that cut through the bustle of the market.
"Yes?" Honey asked cautiously.
The woman stepped closer, peering at her as if confirming a rumor. "Is it true?"
Honey frowned. "Is what true?"
"That the prisoners—those filthy men—were sent down to the pit. That you fought them."
Honey hesitated. The market noise seemed to dull around her, all eyes turning though no one dared speak. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. It's true."
The old woman's lips pressed into a thin line. She tapped her cane hard against the stones. "Good. They deserved it."
Honey blinked. "You… think so?"
The woman's eyes glistened with grief that had not dulled with time. "One of them… one of those monsters you cut down… he killed my granddaughter."
The words landed heavier than any blade. Honey's throat tightened. "Your… granddaughter?"
The woman's hands trembled as she gripped her cane. "She was only sixteen. A kind girl, worked at the mill. That man lured her outside the walls, promised her a coin for helping him carry a bundle. When they found her body—" She stopped, her voice breaking. For a moment, the cane was the only thing holding her upright.
Honey's heart clenched. She lowered her gaze. "I'm… sorry."
The woman shook her head fiercely. "Don't you dare be sorry, girl. You did what the king's axe could never do. You gave her peace. You gave me peace. When they dragged him in chains through this very street, I thought I'd never see justice. But now? Now I can sleep again."
She reached out, her wrinkled hand brushing Honey's arm. "Don't carry guilt for killing demons. Carry pride. You rid the world of filth."
For the first time in days, Honey felt the knot in her chest loosen. She met the woman's eyes, and in them, she saw not bloodlust, but relief. Gratitude.
"I thought maybe…" Honey began slowly, "maybe they weren't all as bad as the guards said. Maybe some didn't deserve—"
The old woman's grip tightened. "If you saw the faces of the families they hurt, you'd never doubt again. Those men deserved every drop of blood they spilled in that pit."
Honey stood silent, letting the words settle. Around them, the market carried on, merchants shouting, children laughing, life spinning as if nothing had changed. And yet, for her, something had.
She nodded once. "Thank you for telling me."
The woman smiled faintly, though sorrow lingered in her expression. "Thank you for doing what had to be done."
With that, she shuffled away into the crowd, swallowed by the rhythm of the market.
---
Honey remained still, the noise of the square rushing back around her. For the first time since Draeven's explanation, she felt clarity. The prisoners were not nameless shadows. They had left scars—on mothers, on fathers, on old women who mourned their granddaughters. If her blade had cut them down, perhaps it had cut through some of the darkness they left behind.
When she returned to the pit later that day, Rufar raised an eyebrow. "You look different," he said.
Honey wiped the dust from her hands. "I spoke with someone. She told me one of the men I killed had taken her granddaughter's life."
Rufar's gaze softened. "And now you understand."
Honey nodded slowly. "I do. Maybe Draeven was right. Maybe those men truly were the filth of the kingdom. Maybe this is justice, after all."
Yet deep within her, another voice whispered: But will it always be?
She silenced the thought for now, gripping her blade with steadier hands. The crowd would call again tomorrow, and she would answer—not only as a survivor, but as the hand of justice for those who could not fight for themselves.
For the first time, Honey didn't just fight because she had to. She fought because she believed it meant something.