The crowd roared like a starving beast, their voices a wall of noise that meant nothing to Kael Aranthos.
He stood in the center of the blood-sanded pit, a sword in his hand, his bare feet pressing into the grit of crushed bone. The sun burned overhead, but he didn't blink. He didn't sweat. He barely breathed.
Across from him, his opponent—a hulking brute from the northern wastes—sneered and raised his axe.
"You're the one they call 'Ghost,' eh?" the man spat. "You don't look like much."
Kael said nothing.
The gong sounded.
The northerner charged, axe swinging in a deadly arc. Kael didn't move. At the last second, he sidestepped, his blade flicking out like a serpent's tongue. A red line opened across the man's throat.
The crowd gasped. The northerner choked, clutching his neck, then collapsed.
Kael turned away before the body hit the ground.
The slavemaster, Gorrick, grinned as he tossed Kael a rusted iron coin—his payment for the kill.
"Quick as ever," Gorrick chuckled. "You're costing me money, boy. No one bets on a fight that lasts two seconds."
Kael caught the coin and pocketed it. He had no use for money, but he took it anyway.
"Next match, you'll drag it out," Gorrick ordered. "Make 'em scream a little."
Kael's gray eyes flicked to him. "No."
Gorrick's smile vanished. "You don't say 'no' to me, slave."
Kael didn't reply. He just walked past him, toward the iron gate leading to the cells.
Behind him, Gorrick snarled, "One day, I'll throw you to the beasts. See how quiet you are then."
Kael didn't care.
His cell was a stone box, three paces wide, with a pile of straw for a bed and a bucket for waste. He sat against the wall, staring at the opposite stone.
Somewhere in the arena, another fight began. The crowd cheered. Someone died.
Kael closed his eyes.
Memories flickered—unwanted, unstoppable.
His father's head rolling across marble steps.
His mother's screams as the flames took her.
His sister's hand slipping from his grip as the slavers dragged her away.
He opened his eyes. The memories didn't fade. They never did.
A rat scuttled across the floor. Kael watched it, envying its simple, purposeless life.
The clank of the cell door woke him—though he hadn't been asleep.
A woman stood there, cloaked in gray, her eyes sharp as daggers. Lysara Veyne. He'd seen her before, watching his fights from the high seats.
"You're the Ghost," she said.
Kael didn't respond.
She stepped inside, unafraid. "I have a proposition for you."
"No."
"You haven't heard it."
"Don't care."
She exhaled, then crouched in front of him, her voice lowering. "I know who you are. Kael Aranthos. Last heir of a dead kingdom."
His fingers twitched—the only sign her words had struck.
She pressed on. "I can get you out of here. But I need your help."
"Why?"
"Because the Empire of Solmire is digging up something they shouldn't. And you're one of the few people alive who can stop them."
Kael almost laughed. "Not interested."
Lysara leaned closer. "What if I told you your sister is still alive?"
Silence.
Kael's chest tightened, but his face remained stone. "Liar."
"She was sold to a noble house in the Iron Reach. She's a servant now. But she's alive."
Kael stood abruptly, looming over Lysara. "If you're lying, I'll kill you."
She didn't flinch. "If I'm lying, you're welcome to try."
For the first time in years, Kael felt something stir in his chest.
It wasn't hope.
It was rage.
That night, the arena slept.
Kael slipped the iron coin from his pocket and pressed it to the lock of his cell. A whisper of old magic—blood magic, the kind his family had once wielded—flared in his veins. The lock clicked open.
Lysara was waiting outside, two guards dead at her feet. "Took you long enough."
Kael stepped over the bodies. "Where now?"
"The stables. Then north."
"Why help me?"
She glanced back, her eyes glinting in the dark. "Because the world's ending, Kael. And whether you care or not, you're one of the few who can do something about it."
Kael said nothing.
But for the first time since his kingdom fell, he had a purpose.
Even if it was just killing the men who took everything from him.
As they vanished into the night, the wind carried the distant sound of horns.
The Empire was coming.
And Kael Aranthos was no longer a ghost.
He was a storm.