---
The corpse of the Godling twitched once, then fell still. Its holy flame guttered out with a hiss as blood pooled in the glowing glyphs. The arena went silent for three heartbeats. Then erupted.
Kael stood, blade slick with divine ichor, his breathing slow and measured. Every fiber of his body begged him to give in—to let the Hollow Sigil devour what was left of him and rise higher. Stronger. Unbound.
But he clenched his jaw and forced it back down. He would not become a monster for their amusement.
The arena master, a bloated figure draped in flayed silk and golden chains, raised a severed head on a pike.
> "WARRIOR KAEL OF THE PITS! A GODLING HAS FALLEN!"
The crowd roared back, stamping their feet, demanding more blood. But Kael ignored them. He watched the corpse of the stitched god burn into ash—and something moved in that ash.
A hand.
Small. Weak.
A girl—no older than ten—crawled free from the wreckage. Her skin glowed faintly, carved with runes. Her eyes were white, blind, but she reached toward Kael.
> "The mark," she whispered. "You carry it. The hollow flame... you're real."
Before Kael could speak, two pitguards stormed the sands, black-armored and masked, their whips sizzling with magic.
> "Back, slave," one barked. "The Offering Child is not yours."
Kael backed away, eyes narrowing. Offering Child. So that's how they made Godlings now—by feeding children to divine remains.
He wanted to kill them both.
But he stayed silent.
He sheathed his blade and let them drag the girl away.
---
🔥 Later That Night: The Pit-Cages
The stink of old sweat, piss, and iron clung to the stone beneath Kael's cell. They had chained him in the dark again, though the chains were mostly for show. The sigil on his chest was a stronger prison than any steel.
He traced the old scars on his arms—runes etched in by pain, each one the price of survival. Around him, other pitfighters groaned or wept. Some prayed. One nearby was whispering a song in a dead language.
Then the cell door creaked open.
A robed figure entered—silent, blindfolded, face wrapped in gray silk. The scent of incense and rot followed.
> "Kael Varn," the figure whispered. "You are seen."
Kael stood slowly, muscles tense.
> "Who sent you?"
> "We are the Silent Choir. We heard the chains sing. We know what you are."
Kael stepped closer.
> "And what's that?"
The figure tilted its head.
> "The Hollowed. The last of them. You bear the mark that calls flame to flesh and death to gods. You are not a man. You are a beginning."
Kael spat.
> "I'm a slave."
The robed one reached into its cloak and pulled out a shard of obsidian, humming with energy. On it was carved a single word—in the old tongue.
> "Ashborn."
Kael flinched.
That word—he hadn't heard it since he was a child, screaming while the brand was seared into his chest.
> "The world will burn," the Choir whispered. "And you will set it ablaze."
Then the figure vanished, as if swallowed by shadow.
---
🔥 The Escape Plan
An hour later, a rusted pipe near Kael's wall shifted. Someone was crawling through the old blood drains beneath the pit.
A face appeared—thin, gaunt, streaked with ash.
It was the Offering Child.
> "You didn't let it take you," she whispered. "That's how I know. You're not like the others."
Kael stepped closer.
> "You should be dead."
> "I should be many things. But I'm alive, and I remember everything. They fed me to a god, but it wasn't strong enough to eat me. And I know how to get out."
> "Why tell me?"
The girl looked up, eyes blank and glowing.
> "Because the mark on your chest matches the one in my dreams. You're supposed to burn the Empire. I'm supposed to light the match."
Kael laughed bitterly.
> "You think I'm some hero?"
> "No," she said. "I think you're angry enough to destroy everything."
She reached out with a small, filthy hand.
> "Come with me. Or rot here until they break your soul open and drink what's left."
Kael hesitated. Then gripped her hand.
> "What's your name?"
> "Asha."
> "Then lead, Asha. And I'll follow."
To be continued