The arena smells like wet stone and old blood.
Warm light falls through the stained-glass windows above me. It looks holy; it burns like noon. The crowd roars. They want a show. They always do.
A guard snaps my iron cuff to check the lock. I keep my eyes down, the way I always do when the light hurts. My red hair sticks to my cheek with sweat. I taste dust and iron.
A bell rings. The announcer's voice rises, smooth and cruel.
"Tonight—coin for courage! A clean victory wins silver! A glorious one wins gold!"
The crowd screams for gold.
I feel the cuff shift on my wrist, just a little. The guard's thumb lingers on the hinge. He leans close like he's only tightening it.
"Don't look up," he says softly. "Fix your eyes on the floor. The glass will make you dizzy."
His voice. Calm. Low. Human.
Kirella.
Other guards remind me I'm property. Kirella reminds me to breathe.
I nod once. He releases the cuff. The hinge is a touch looser. No one else would notice.
"Keep your winnings on you," he says, still low. "If they try to count your coin—tell me."
"Why?" I whisper.
"Because one day we walk out of here together."
The gate creaks open.
The crowd howls. I step into the circle.
Glass-light slicks over the sand like warm oil. It makes my head swim. I breathe and keep my eyes on the dirty pattern at my feet—white grains, red grains, a thin black thread.
My opponent shuffles into place. Huge—grey skin, tusks, heavy brow—but gentle eyes. A "good monster," as the city laughs. Big, soft creatures who fetch water, carry crates, apologize when they bump a cart. The arena gives them names like Brute and Beast and makes them fight for cheap beer and loud songs.
His hands tremble. He doesn't want to hurt me.
"I won't kill you," I say.
Surprise flickers. Then gratitude.
The horn sounds.
He swings wide, loud and slow. I slip under, move behind. Stained glass kisses my shoulder—heat washes through me like fever. My knees want to fold. I don't let them.
He turns again, clumsy with fear. I do not bite. I do not drink. In this city, not drinking is a choice you pay for with weakness, but it is still a choice. I pay it.
I strike the back of his knee, quick and clean. He drops to one leg. I tap the side of his neck with the hilt of my knife, not the blade. I can end this without blood.
The crowd boos. They want a kill.
Three fast steps. I let his weight carry him forward and sweep his other foot. He crashes onto the sand. Air leaves him in a heavy sigh. I press the dull edge of my knife to his throat and look at the judge.
"Down," I say.
Silence holds one beat. Then the bell rings.
Boos turn to confused applause, then jeers again, then laughter. The announcer saves it with a smooth lie: "Mercy with style! The lady paints with shadow!"
Hands throw coins, not flowers. The keeper nets most of them. A small cut is mine.
I step back through the gate. Behind the gate is always colder.
In the walk-through tunnel, Kirella meets me at the post. He pretends to check my cuff again. His gloves are off now. His palm is warm against my wrist.
"Hold still," he says.
"I'm fine."
He glances at my cheek. "You're pale."
"I'm a vampire," I say. "We tend to be."
He almost smiles. It dies quick.
"The sweep is tonight," he says, quiet enough that even the walls can't hear. "The owner's soldiers will count every coin. They'll call it a temple tax. Service to the Light."
"They'll take everything."
"If it's in your purse. Don't keep it in your purse."
He taps the seam inside my sleeve. "Stitch a pocket in the lining. Now. I'll stall the quartermaster."
My mouth goes dry. Not from thirst. From hope.
"Why do you do this?" I ask.
He looks at the torch. Flame licks iron and throws gold on his jaw.
"Because you don't fight to kill," he says. "You fight to live."
The nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
He pulls his glove on and steps aside. "Go. Five minutes."
I hurry into the locker room. A cracked mirror shows me a stranger—a girl with red hair, a split lip, eyes too calm for this place. I cut a thin slit in the inner lining and slide my coins inside: mostly copper, some dull silver, three warm gold pieces that feel like beating hearts.
I stitch the slit shut with black thread. My fingers shake.
Boots and laughter in the corridor. The owner. His laugh sounds like dry bones in a sack.
I dampen my hair, push blood from my face, pull my sleeve tight to hide the seam, and step out. The corridor is full.
The owner wears red velvet and a fat smile. His soldiers wear iron and boredom. Behind them, the quartermaster carries a slate and a brush.
"Line up," the owner sings.
We line up. Bodies on stone. Heads down. Voices gone.
The quartermaster stops in front of me. Small, hungry eyes.
"Name," he says.
"Mirelle."
"Earnings declared."
"None."
He smirks and reaches for my belt purse.
"Don't," Kirella says—polite, sharp.
"You object?" the quartermaster sneers.
Kirella holds out a folded slip. "Recorded payout—ware fees deducted. Purse is empty. Check the board."
The slip looks official. Everything official looks the same—ink, stamp, smugness. He grunts and moves on.
The owner studies me with slow pleasure. "Pretty thing," he says. "Red on red. Mercy is bad business, girl. The people pay for joy."
I say nothing. My jaw locks.
"Tonight we honor the Light," he goes on, raising his hands like a choir waits. "A new decree—no more hoarding by slaves. Earnings serve the city. The city serves the Light. The Light serves pleasure."
Soldiers cheer. The crowd upstairs screams for the next match. Far down the line, someone coughs and doesn't stop.
The quartermaster finishes the sweep and nods. "All clear," he lies.
"Good," the owner says. "Then we pray."
He calls it prayer.
We bow our heads as a bell hums and glass-light warms the stone. The warmth crawls up my arms like nettles. My skin prickles. My stomach flips. I lock my knees and think of cold water and empty roads.
Long, quiet minutes. The owner closes his soft eyes. I count—one, two, three—until the bell stops.
"Back to work," he says, and the corridor empties like a drain.
Kirella waits near a service door. It looks like a door to a broom closet. Most doors to freedom do.
"Tonight," he says. "Not next week. Not after another match. Tonight."
"I need more," I say. "More coin for a real life. Ten years without fear. That's what I promised myself."
"You won't have ten years if they take it now," he says. "You won't have ten minutes."
He's right. I hate that he's right. It hurts like the glass-light.
He lifts his hand, palm open. A pale scar crosses his lifeline.
"Give me your word," he says. "I'll give you mine."
I set my palm to his. Heat moves from his hand into mine. Not magic. Not blood. Just a warm human hand in a cold stone hall.
"My word," I say. "Together."
His fingers close around mine for one second. Boots clatter at the end of the hall. We drop our hands like they burn.
"Later," he says. "When the bell rings for the big show, follow me."
He leaves. I lean my head against the wall and count my breaths again.
The "big show" is a terrible tradition. A mock sacrifice. A rehearsal for the real ones outside, where people pay extra to watch someone die beautifully. In the street, the posters call it the Pleasure of the Light. The prettier the death, the higher the price.
The city has learned to clap for cruelty.
I slip through the back door for air. The alley is thick with steam. Sunset bleeds down the bricks. In the puddles, stained-glass colors float like broken wings. A poster peels from the wall: a smiling woman with a ribbon around her throat, a priest behind her with hands lifted high, and below them a tidy list of prices.
My stomach turns. I look up. The first stars try to wake. The tower bells start a low, solemn beat.
Two soldiers pass the alley mouth. I melt into shadow and let them go. A child with green skin and soft ears peeks from a crate. I press a finger to my lips. He mimics me and vanishes into straw.
Boots again. The big show is soon. I slide back inside.
The sweep begins with a bell and ends with a lie. "No hoarding," the quartermaster says again, but his pockets jingle when he walks. The owner descends the back stair with three soldiers. They smell like perfume and metal.
I drift to the edge of the line where Kirella stands. He doesn't look at me. That is part of the trick.
"Stage right," he murmurs. "Service door opens on the bell. One chance."
A cough behind me. A girl with short hair and yellow eyes, another fighter, leans in.
"You winning so much, red?" she whispers. "Where do you hide it?"
I say nothing. She smiles without warmth and pinches my sleeve. The seam holds. She frowns and reaches for the hem, a metal hook in her hand.
I pivot and catch her wrist, gentle but firm. "Don't," I say.
She yanks back and raises her voice. "What are you hiding?"
Heads turn. The owner doesn't. Kirella does.
He steps between us with a bark. "Move," he snaps. "Or you fight again."
She curses and slinks away.
"On the bell," Kirella says, eyes front. "Don't be late."
The bell tolls.
The arena roars.
We move.
Kirella breaks from the wall and argues with a soldier about the ledger. Loud, stupid—on purpose. Arms wave; the quartermaster leans in; the owner smirks and watches men be men.
I tear the inner seam and slip the coin pouch into my palm. Three gold beat against my skin. I tuck the pouch into the corset seam and smooth the fabric down.
Kirella drops something by "accident." A key. It slides to the base of the service door.
I don't look at him. I bend like I'm fixing my shoe and pick up the key. The door opens with a soft click.
A cold draft hits my face. I slip inside.
The passage smells of soap and damp rope. I walk fast but not like running. At the end: a small yard with stacked barrels. Night air tastes like rain.
Two soldiers lean against the far wall, bored. One kicks a stone. The other picks his teeth with a nail.
The door closes behind me with the sound of a small prayer.
The soldiers straighten.
"Where are you going?" one asks.
"Bathroom," I say.
"Out here?"
"On orders." I lift the key. "Quartermaster told me to wash blood from the steps."
A stupid lie. It works because they are stupid men.
They shrug and go back to being bored.
Footsteps whisper behind me. Kirella. He slips through the door and pulls it shut. He smells like metal and cedar. He does not touch me.
"Left," he says.
We move left, keeping the barrels between us and the soldiers. A small gate waits in the corner. Kirella fits the key, turns it, and sets it on the ground. He always leaves doors looking like they were never opened.
We slide into a narrow lane.
A shot of glass-light from a chapel spills over the stones like milk. It makes my vision pulse. I raise an arm, but it isn't enough.
Kirella strips off his dark cloak and throws it over my shoulders, pulling the hood low. We move as one across the light. My skin pricks; my breath stutters, but the cloak takes the worst of it.
"Almost there," he says.
"Where?"
"Anywhere that isn't here."
We cut through another lane and another. The city bends around us—tight corners, broken brick, whispers from shutters. Somewhere a woman sings a sad, simple song. Somewhere a man laughs like a knife.
We reach a crooked bridge over a black canal. The water slides slow and secret. On the far side, a street lamp burns with temple glass. In its glow: a small guard post, a wooden bar, a bored man with a list.
Behind us, a horn sounds. "Escapes!" a voice cries, faint but growing.
Kirella stops. The bridge is narrow. A human can pass another human if they turn sideways and breathe in. Two people together cannot. Three soldiers enter the lane behind us. The bored man at the post looks up.
"Options?" I ask.
"Left," he says, nodding at a slit between a wall and a drainpipe. "Rat run. Too narrow for two."
"The other?"
He looks at the lamplight, then at me under the hood. "I stay. You go."
"No," I say—fierce, surprising both of us.
"Then together."
We move to the slit. It looks impossible. It looks like a mouth that hates to eat.
"Cloak off," he says. "Turn your shoulder. Lead with your hip."
We turn, shoulder to stone, breath to breath. I slide in first. The wall scrapes my sleeve. My coin pouch presses sharp against my ribs. Kirella steps in behind me, chest to my back, hands braced on stone. We move like a slow machine—push, breathe, slide—while boots drum on the bridge behind us.
"Stop them!" someone shouts.
We don't stop. We don't look back. We inch forward until the slit opens into a dark yard that smells of wet flax and soap. I stumble free and pull Kirella after me.
"Gate," he says, pointing to a bent iron fence. "We can—"
"Don't bother," a voice says.
We turn.
A man stands at the mouth of the yard, tall and dry as a gallows. No armor. He doesn't need it. He holds a small iron key by a ribbon—a key I know. Same shape. Same color. The one Kirella dropped in the corridor.
Only this one hangs from his finger like a toy.
"Doors that open once," he says pleasantly, "open twice. If you know how to watch."
He walks closer. His boots make no sound. His smile does.
"I've been watching you," he tells Kirella. "And you, red girl. The owner sends his regards."
Kirella shifts to stand between us. The man's eyes flick and brighten with interest.
"Choices," he says, raising the key like a prayer bell. "My favorite part."
He tilts his head at me.
"Mirelle," he says, as if we're at dinner, not in a trap. "Gold or your life?"
The key glints. Boots thud on the bridge. The yard narrows. The air thins.
My coin pouch presses warm against my ribs. Heavy. Ten years of quiet, if I keep it. Or nothing.
I lift my chin. My skin still burns from the glass, but my voice does not shake.
"Neither," I say.
His smile widens. "Delightful."
The soldiers reach the fence. He twitches the key. The gate slides on old hinges with a sound like a sigh.
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