Celeste and Mars boarded a rickshaw bound for the Pit.
The driver was an old, sinewy man with milky eyes and a cheerful disposition that did not match his profession or his surroundings. The creature pulling the rickshaw was another matter entirely.
It stood over seven feet tall, a chimeric aberration stitched from human, equine, and reptilian parts, its sinews taut and its skin glistening like oiled mixed in water. Its face was warped and half-familiar, with one human eye and one that blinked sideways like a lizard's.
"That used to be my boy," the driver said proudly, patting the beast's flank. "Died young. Brought him back with new legs. Never gave me trouble since. Harmless as a dove."
Celeste and Mars exchanged a glance. Neither said anything.
The journey took them through several winding avenues and shadow-drenched alleyways, the city alive with its peculiar chaos, bone vendors peddling skeletal wares, hooded priests chanting dirges to deathless gods, and children with hollow eyes playing marbles with eyeballs. Everything smelled faintly of incense, blood, and damp stone.
The Pit was hard to miss.
It rose like a monument sunken into the earth, built from the same dark stone that composed most of Necropolis, volcanic black, veined with green and silver like dried blood and moss. Though partially embedded in the earth, its height and breadth were impressive, shaped like a crater carved by natural violence, then given meaning by men.
A crowd had gathered around its massive gates, dense and loud. Voices shouted over each other. Barkers announced the names of champions and challengers. Merchants hawked charms and restorative draughts. Cloaked fixers whispered offers for contracts, bribes, and blood-bound wagers.
"I hate this place," Mars muttered under his breath as they stepped off the rickshaw. He glanced warily at the writhing mass of people and things, unsure who was breathing and who was simply animated.
Celeste gave a low laugh. "It's an acquired taste."
The crowd was thicker than even the city gates, and with good reason. The Pit was entertainment, sacrifice, and social mobility all wrapped into one blood-soaked spectacle.
"Where do we start?" Mars asked.
"We just wing it," Celeste said flatly, striding toward a squat stone booth draped in greasy banners and ward-charms. The man behind the desk looked like he'd been carved from gristle and apathy, a scarred face, yellowed teeth, and a permanent sneer that deepened when he spotted them approaching.
His eyes lifted without moving his head. One stained hand reached for a half-finished ledger, the other gestured toward a looming thug who leaned against a pillar nearby, smoking something acrid and red.
"You don't look like the betting type," the man said. His voice was gravel soaked in cheap wine.
Mars grinned, holding up empty hands. "Oh, I'm a betting man. It's the money I don't have."
The man didn't smile. "Then what do you want?"
"Fight," Celeste said bluntly. "We want in."
The man raised an eyebrow. "We?"
He glanced from Mars to Celeste, then back again, as his thug ambled over, tall, hunched, and half-ghoul by the looks of it. Reinforcement arrived, just in case.
"Which one of you wants to bleed for the crowd?" the bookmaker asked, his grin curling now into something almost interested.
"Both of us," Celeste replied. "Me. Him. And one more."
Mars blinked, mid-protest. "No. Nope. Absolutely not. I do not volunteer as tribute."
"Three entries?" the man echoed, ignoring Mars completely. "No name, no sponsor, no backing? You'll be dead before your blood hits the sand."
"Then you'll make money off our deaths," Celeste said, unbothered.
The bookmaker leaned back, arms folded, considering. His eyes narrowed, then drifted to Mars, sizing him up with obvious doubt. "You don't look like killers."
"I'm charming," Mars said with a dry smile. "Not suicidal."
"That one's optional," the thug muttered behind him.
Celeste stepped forward, fingers drumming on the desk. "We need a match. One. Enough to get eyes on us. Then we'll talk sponsorship. Or corpses, if it goes badly."
The man stared at her for a moment longer, then pulled out a piece of paper and began scratching something into it with a ink-tipped stylus. "Names?"
"What's yours?" she shot back, arms crossed.
The man glanced up, mildly annoyed. "They call me Fenn," he said after a beat, voice clipped and dry.
Celeste gave a single nod. "I'm Celeste. That one's Mars."
Fenn's eyes flicked to Mars, who offered a half-hearted wave and a raised brow.
"And the third?" Fenn asked.
"Yvain," Celeste replied.
Fenn scribbled the names down with rapid practiced scratches onto the thin sheet. "Come along," he muttered, rising to his feet. He was shorter than expected, though the authority he carried made up for it.
Without another word, he turned and led them through a side passage carved into the base of the Pit's arena, narrow and dark, the air damp with sweat and blood. The walls were pocked with deep gouges and old graffiti, some still colorful beneath the grime.
"This place smells like shit," Mars muttered as they descended the steps.
Celeste smirked. "Then you'll feel right at home."
They reached a heavy door, which Fenn shoved open with his shoulder. Inside was a low-ceilinged room with a sparring ring in the center, iron-banded and chalk-marked. A rack of weapons lined one wall, blunted blades, chains, wooden staves, and a rusted mace that might have faltered before a wooden mallet.
"What's this?" Celeste asked, eyes narrowing.
"Screening," Fenn said flatly. "The Grey Rose doesn't allow dead weight into the sand. You fight first, or you don't fight at all. So, who's up?"
He thumbed toward the brute beside the ring.
Celeste barely hesitated. "He will," she said, pointing to Mars without a blink.
Mars turned to her, stunned. "Wait—what?"
She was already stepping aside, clearing the space for him.
"Don't be a coward," she whispered with a grin.
Fenn folded his arms, looking between Mars and the thug. "You've got sixty seconds. Impress me."
Mars looked at the weapon rack, then at the sneering brute cracking his knuckles. He sighed.
"This is why I hate field trips," Mars muttered under his breath as he rolled up his sleeves. He crossed to the weapon rack, fingers brushing over the worn handles before settling on a narrow, slightly curved blade. It was well-balanced despite the rust along its spine.
He turned to the brute, holding the sword with a relaxed grip. "You're not going to take a weapon?"
The thug cracked his knuckles and grinned, a wide, toothy thing full of misplaced confidence. "Don't need to."
Mars shrugged. "It's your funeral."
He barely finished the sentence before the man came barreling at him like a bull let loose from its pen. Mars stepped to the side at the last second, boots scraping against the dusty floor as he stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding a heavy punch that would've broken something if it landed.
"You're not bad," Mars admitted, keeping his tone light but his eyes sharp. He studied the man's movement, the flare of breath around his limbs. Crude, unrefined, but there. The thug had awakened breath, no question. Rudimentary as it was, it made him dangerous.
Mars exhaled slowly. He twirled the blade once, then abruptly, let it fall from his hand with a clatter.
"Alright," he muttered, stepping forward. "Let's keep this even."
The brute grinned wider, mistaking Mars' gesture for arrogance or suicidal bravado. He charged again, arms wide for a grab.
Mars met him head-on.
This time, he let the breath fill him, subtle and sharp, threading through his muscles like quicksilver. His limbs moved with unnatural speed and grace, and as the brute swung, Mars slipped under the arc of the punch and coiled his own fist.
Then he struck.
A single punch, clean and centered beneath the thug's chin, suffused with breath.
The impact echoed like a thunderclap in the small room.
The brute's eyes rolled back, his legs folded beneath him, and he dropped like a felled tree.
Silence.
Mars flexed his fingers and stepped back, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. "Told you it was his funeral."
Fenn raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed despite himself. "Alright," he said after a pause. "You're on the roster."
Mars gave a curtsey.
Fenn turned to Celeste. "Are you a knight as well?"
She shook her head. "Vitalist."
His eye widened. "And this Yvain?"
"A necromancer."
"Good, very good," he muttered. "Two days from now. I'll get you on the roster."