The belly of the colosseum groaned with the sound of iron and men. Stone walls pressed close, cracked and sweat-stained, lined with barred cells like teeth in a broken jaw. Torches spat out smoke and flickering light, casting long shadows through the corridor where gladiators wandered in the lull between battles.
Some sat sharpening blades. Others played games scratched into the floor with bones. They talked, shouted, fought. A few laughed too loudly. It was noisy—alive, in a bitter sort of way. Each had a cell to sleep in, but during the day, they walked the halls freely, brushing shoulders and exchanging threats like greetings. The place stank of old blood, rust, and something worse.
Down one corner, darker than the rest, was the cell no one visited.
Always in the shadow, even when the torchlight reached it. The smell hit before the cell itself came into view—worse than anything else in the dungeon. A mix of shit and rot and something sour, like spoiled meat in the sun.
A figure sat in there. Or leaned, maybe. No one could quite tell where his limbs began or ended—just bones wrapped in loose skin, ribs like knives under stretched flesh. He didn't move. Didn't speak. His face had vanished into the dark days ago. No name had ever been spoken. Only whispers.
A few pretended not to care. Most spat in his direction. Some, though, liked having something to laugh at.
Brusk stomped down the hall like he owned it—because down here, he did. Towering, thick-necked, scar across one cheek. The kind of man who flexed just by walking.
Branded deep into the thick flesh of Brusk's chest was a sigil both savage and regal—a flying green snake, its wings outstretched in a twisted elegance, coiling tightly around a longsword that pierced upward through its spiraled body. The snake's fanged maw gaped wide just beneath the sword's hilt, as if biting into the very weapon that bound it
A dirty cloth hung from his waistband, and a crooked grin tugged at his lips.
"Still breathing, rat?" he said, pausing outside the cell.
A few others trailed behind him—less muscle, more smirk. Brusk faced the bars, turned his back, and unfastened his pants.
"Here. Let me help with the smell."
He pissed slow and long, dragging out the sound, letting it splash just outside the rusted bars. His boys cackled. The puddle ran thin and yellow across the stone, tracing the edge of the cell before soaking in.
Then he squatted. His face twisted with theatrical effort, and the smell got worse. One of the others gagged, laughed anyway.
Inside the cage, the figure didn't move. Not even a twitch.
"What, too full from your last meal?" Brusk said. "Should've left some room, monster."
No answer. Just the soft drip of water down the far wall. The crowd around Brusk lingered, watching for a reaction. There was none. Eventually, they wandered off, satisfied in their own stink.
Some distance away, leaning against a support pillar with crossed arms and a stiff jaw, stood Valkira.
She hadn't laughed. She hadn't said a word. Her eyes had locked on the cell, sharp and steady. Her knuckles were pale around the hilt of her blade.
She didn't walk alone. A few others stood near her—quiet ones, rough around the edges but loyal. Her presence pulled space around her, not with noise, but with weight. Like a drawn bow. Even Brusk had glanced her way when he passed, though he said nothing.
She said even less.
Just watched the darkened cell, breathing slow and steady, a heat in her stare that no torch could match.
Whatever she saw in there—it wasn't just a starving boy. And it wasn't pity either.
A long, deep horn rang through the stones—low and full, like it came from the bones of the colosseum itself. Every gladiator froze for a half second, then began to move without needing to speak.
Meal time.
Boots shuffled. Bones cracked.
The air shifted.
The great iron gate at the far end of the chamber scraped open, lifted by chains groaning somewhere above. Sunlight cut through the gloom, falling in golden lines across the dirt floor. For a moment, the smell of blood and piss was buried under warmth and open air.
Guards stepped in first—faces bored, armor dented. Spears in hand, keys on belts. They didn't need to shout. Everyone already knew.
The fighters filed out through the opening, past the torches, past the reek of bodies. Like cattle, some said. Like kings, others joked. But they moved fast, with the reflex of habit. The rhythm of survival.
Outside the pit, the world looked cleaner. Not fresh, but brighter. Gravel paths and shaded corners. Rows of benches and stone basins of water. The slaves had already laid out bowls along a long table—steam rising, meats cooked, grains warm, the kind that filled your gut and made you last the week.
Not everyone would eat the same.
Gladiators were ranked, and everyone knew their number. Win ten matches, you moved from floor straw to a bed. Win twenty, you got proper armor and clothes. At fifty, you ate hot meals every day. At a hundred, you left this hall entirely—upgraded to the next tier of fighters. Cleaner rooms. Fresh air. A small private cell with windows and running water. By the time someone reached the fifth tier, they were treated more like prized bulls than men.
There were ten levels total.
The last meant freedom.
But none of them here had made it past sixty fights. Most were in the single digits. Green, hungry, and rough.
Slaves moved between them, scrubbing walls, collecting bowls. Some looked barely older than children. The guards watched them all. They didn't speak much, but their hands stayed near the hilts of their weapons.
Disease kills crowds faster than swords. The games were only as good as the fighters looked. The nobles didn't come to see corpses stumble. They wanted blood from bodies that could dance. So food was made to fill, not delight. Just enough to keep the crowd entertained the next match.
Back in the dark hallway, behind the torchlight, the last cell stayed shut.
No one reached for its lock. No guard looked that way. No food was placed near it.
Inside, the figure leaned in the same spot, ribs showing through skin. His eyes didn't follow the light as it slipped across the floor and vanished. His head didn't lift. His arms didn't move.
The others had a path. A count. A ladder to climb.
He was forgotten, like a mistake no one wanted to admit had been made.