On the third day, the grim, grey walls of Arenjun rose on the horizon. Zarekh's caravan passed through the gates of the city, more famous for its thieves' dens than its markets. Brannok, covered in dust, his lips cracked and wrists raw, had survived. His grey eyes, feverish from the ordeal, gleamed with a cold, determined light.
Zarekh hadn't missed an ounce of his resilience. The child was an investment, and it was time to start making him work.
They filed into a stinking inner courtyard behind a large building that served as the circus's headquarters. It wasn't a performance space, but a pit of hard-packed earth, surrounded by rotten wooden bars. The air smelled of dried blood and fear.
"Unchain him," Zarekh ordered, lowering his heavy frame onto a stool, a goblet of wine in his hand. A guard complied, freeing Brannok from the chain linking him to the wagon but leaving the manacles on his wrists.
Zarekh looked at him with a crooked smile. "You're thirsty for revenge, little one? You've shown you're strong. But strength without control is nothing. Today, you learn."
He gave a signal. Two men approached, holding leashes attached to two mastiffs with yellowed fangs, lean and twitchy. Thick drool dripped from their muzzles. Their eyes were bloodshot. Rabid dogs, or at least, trained to act like it.
"You see these beasts?" Zarekh continued. "They haven't eaten in two days. They see you as a piece of meat. Your first lesson: survive."
Before Brannok could react, the men opened the gate to the pit and shoved him inside. The dogs were released behind him. The gate slammed shut with a grim finality.
Brannok found himself alone, hands shackled, facing the two starving predators. The dogs snarled, lips pulled back, positioning themselves on either side to encircle him.
His heart raced, but his mind, strangely, became perfectly calm. It was as if a part of him, the hunter's instinct, took over. The world around him slowed once more. He heard the beasts' ragged breath, smelled their fetid odor of sickness and hunger.
The first dog charged, a flash of muscle and fury.
Brannok didn't retreat. Instead, he pivoted, using the short chain between his manacles like a whip. The metal struck the dog square in the snout with a sharp crack. The beast yelped and scrambled back, shaking its head.
The second dog attacked from behind. Without even turning, Brannok felt it. He perceived the shift in the air, the smell growing closer. He dropped into a sudden crouch. The mastiff sailed over him, narrowly missing his neck.
It was a macabre, primitive dance. Brannok, with his hands bound, was at a disadvantage, but his senses and superhuman agility compensated. He wasn't trying to kill; he was dodging, parrying, striking with his fists or chains to repel the assaults.
Dust rose in thick clouds from the pit. The snarls of the beasts and Brannok's short breaths were the only sounds.
Zarekh watched, his face impassive, but his eyes sparkled. The child didn't fight like a human. He fought like an animal, with an economy of motion and uncanny prescience.
Finally, exhausted and wounded by Brannok's precise blows, the two dogs backed away, snarling but hesitant. They circled him but dared not charge again.
Brannok stood in the center of the pit, clothes torn, covered in slaver and dust, but upright. His grey eyes fixed on Zarekh through the bars. He didn't tremble. He breathed deeply, his chest heaving, but his gaze was that of a predator, not prey.
A long silence fell, broken only by the dogs' whimpering yelps.
Zarekh drained his goblet and stood.
"Bring him out.And give him water."
The guard opened the gate, wary. Brannok walked out of the pit, his gaze still locked on Zarekh.
"You survived, little one," said the circus master. "That's a start. But next time, it won't be dogs. And you won't have chains to defend yourself. You'll have a weapon. And you will use it."
Brannok didn't reply. He had understood the lesson. In this world, nothing was given. Every breath, every sip of water, every new dawn had to be torn away by strength, cunning, and will. The dog pit was just the prelude. The arena, and its fights to the death, awaited.
His childhood was over. The gladiator's life had just begun.