A jolt of awareness. It wasn't the gentle pull from sleep, but the violent wrenching into consciousness. My head throbbed with a phantom pain where fangs had pierced my neck. The last clear memory was Sarah's scream, then the abyss.
Now I found myself in the abyss.
Cold damp stone pressed against my back. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, stale sweat, and the coppery tang of old blood. I lay on a rough-hewn stone slab in a small, windowless cell. The only light came from a flickering torch in the corridor beyond the thick iron bars of the door.
I was not alone. My body felt... different. Stronger, yet haunted by a deep, gnawing thirst. My senses were preternaturally sharp. I could hear the distant, muffled roar of a crowd, the clang of metal on metal, and the whimpering of another prisoner several cells down. I could see every crack in the stone, every rust stain on the bars, with perfect clarity.
My Leonin claws scraped against the stone as I pushed myself up. I was clad in simple, coarse linen trousers and a tunic, now stained and torn. No armour, no weapons. A heavy iron manacle was locked around my right ankle, connected by a short, stout chain to a ring bolted into the wall. It allowed me to move about the ten-foot cell, but no further.
From down the corridor, heavy bootsteps approached. A guard, a burly human with a scarred face and a bored expression, stopped in front of my cell. He carried a club at his belt and a ring of keys.
"Awake, are you?" he grunted, his voice rough.
"The Master said you'd stir around dawn. Got a big day ahead."
"The crowd loves a fresh monster."
He eyed my form, my claws, the unnatural red glint in my eyes that even the torchlight couldn't hide.
"They're calling you the 'Crimson Beast.' Try to live up to the name."
"Makes the betting more interesting."
He unlocked a small slot at the bottom of the door and slid a wooden bowl inside. It contained a lump of hard bread and a cup of what smelled like watered-down ale.
"Eat. You'll need your strength. First match is at midday."
"Don't try anything funny. That chain is Dwarven steel. You won't break it."
He turned to leave, his boots echoing back down the hall, leaving me in the oppressive silence of my cell, the distant cheers a cruel mockery of the life I once knew.
I took the bowl and cup. The bread was stale, almost rock-like, and the ale tasted of nothing but sour water. Yet, I ate and drank slowly, methodically, forcing it down. My body accepted the sustenance, but a deeper, more primal part of me recoiled. It was not hunger it wanted to sate; but thirst.
As I chewed, I focused inward. The memories were jagged shards: Sarah's face, the ambush in the moonlit garden, the vampire's cold smile, the piercing pain. Then... nothing. Until now.
My body told the rest of the story. My muscles were coiled springs of lethal power, far beyond my former peak as a warrior prince. I flexed a hand, and my claws extended with a whisper-sharp sink. They felt sharper, deadlier than ever before.
My senses were dialed to a painful intensity. I could hear the scuttle of a beetle in the far corner of my cell, the drip of water counting seconds somewhere in the stone, the ragged breath of the weeping prisoner three cells down. The world was painted in shades of gray through my dark vision as usual, but it was an even more clear, detailed gray. The torchlight from the hall was a blinding annoying glare.
And then there was the Craving. It sat in the back of my throat, a dry, aching hollow. It was not for food or drink. It was for blood.
Using the dented tin cup as a crude mirror, I was able to confirm that my firm and mane remained pure black but we're now marred by crimson streaks that ran through them and my formerly blue eyes were now glowing red with split pupils.
I closed my eyes and centered myself with trained breathing and martial visualization to prepare for combat, acknowledging the thirst and deciding to keep it controlled as a tool.
Later in the morning another guard brought a chunk of raw, bloody meat through the slot; the scent intensified my Thirst and I ate.
At midday the cell was opened by two larger guards; I was led through a torchlit corridor to a portcullis and shoved into the arena holding pen as the crowd noise became a physical force.
The bald guard informed me my opponent was "Granite-Fist" Goran.
The portcullis rose and I was forced into the Blood-Sand arena, a vast oval with raked sand, old bones and dark stains; high walls cast long shadows with a bright strip of sunlight across the center, though the sunlight did not seem to harm me it felt uncomfortable and wrong, like it was the last place I was supposed to be.
My opponent, Goran, was a seven-foot veteran giant gladiator who wielded a massive spiked iron ball on a long chain and wore only a loincloth and leather wrappings.
The Master of the Games announced me as the "Crimson Beast" to the ten-thousand strong crowd.
The moment he saw me Goran charged, stopping 30 feet away, then hurled the spiked ball at such a speed that I could barely react. A moment later the full force of it slammed into my side.
Grunting in pain I sprung steight into a dash closing the 30 feet to Goran in but a moment. I gave one loud daunting roar point blank in his face. I could almost feel his expression changing from smugness to fear. Without a moments hesitation I brought my claw up leaving a bloody gash in his side. My body seemed to absorb his blood, healing my wounds.
Unfortunately it seemed that fear had the opposite effect on Goran than what I had hoped. Instead of giving me a large enough windows of opportunity the giant roared and smashed his giant fist into my chest. The force of the blow sent me sprawling several feet away coughing blood and collapsing to the arena floor.
As my consciousness faded I could hear the Master of the Games and the crowd react loudly.
For a moment, all was right. Sarah stood before me, and I longed to remain with her.
Yet, she urged me to get back up, to fight, claiming that Lavenia still needed me.
"Get up, Corvus, my love. You must. Lavenia is still out there alone. Get up."
As Goran's spiked ball came crashing down to ensure my death, I forced myself to roll aside. Using the force of the impact from Goran's spiked ball against the ground to blast me off the ground, I lunged straight at his throat, biting deep with my fangs and ripped out a large chunk thereof.
Once more I felt his blood flood into my body and rapidly healing it.
Goran looked down, feeling his throat, looked at the blood on his hand once, shock evedant on his face then collapsed onto the arena sand.
The crowd erupted, the Master of the Games declared me victorious and ordered me to see the doctor.
I decided it best to play my role for the time being and put up a show for the crowd:
I gave a loud victorious roar. Then proceeded to drag Goran's corpse by the ankle following the same two guards as they cautiously escorted me back through the gate to the holding pen, and prepared to feed in order to replenish myself.
Inside the pen, I sank my fangs into Goran's throat and drank. His blood rushed through my system, satiating my thirst and rapidly healing my wounds.
After a moment's consideration, the guards allowed me my trophy, then led me to my cell and reattached the manacle to my ankle.
Finally I took a few hours of rest. Though I could no longer sleep, the deep state of meditation I entered seemed to allow my body to heal the last few cuts and bruises on my body.
When I opened my eyes after my meditation, several hours had passed, and it seemed to be deep night. During the long, quiet remaining hours of the night, I trained physically, focusing on refining my combat maneuvers within the ten-foot radius allowed by my ankle chain. I practised claw arcs, pivots using the chain, the 'Bloodthirst lunge and grapple' (as I decided to call it), and flexibility, along with leaping maneuvers. Finishing before dawn, I stood motionless in the middle of my cell. A young guard passing by then noticed me and, muttering "creepy beast" to himself, quickly averted his gaze.
At dawn, I silently observed the surrounding cells. To my left, I heard a prisoner sobbing and, farther down, the loud snores of another inmate. To my right, I detected the scrape of metal on stone as someone sharpened a weapon, while two voices whispered strategically. Across from me, a hunched figure, curled in a blanket, appeared to be barely moving and carved a line into the stone with a bony hand.