The wagon finally came to a grinding halt after what felt like an eternity of heat, death, and volcanic roads. The sudden cessation of motion was disorienting. For days, the constant grinding of stone wheels against volcanic rock had become a background rhythm that Velrith's body had adapted to. Now, in the abrupt stillness, the world felt wrong and unstable.
The massive pulling beasts snorted and stamped their multiple legs, steam venting from their flanks in thick clouds. The overseers began moving with practiced efficiency, dismounting from their riding creatures and approaching the cage wagon. Their heavy boots struck the ground with authoritative thuds, each step a reminder of the power hierarchy that governed this world.
Through the iron bars, Velrith could see their destination. The structure was massive and circular, rising from the volcanic landscape like a malformed mountain. It was built from the same black obsidian as the cities they had passed, but this was no delicate tower. This was a fortress, brutal and functional, with thick walls that curved inward slightly, creating a sense of oppressive containment even from the outside.
The walls were easily a hundred feet tall, smooth and featureless except for narrow slits at regular intervals—probably for guards or archers. At the base, a massive gate stood open, revealing a dark tunnel that led into the interior. The opening was wide enough to accommodate the wagon with room to spare, and from within came the distant sounds of metal on metal, shouting voices, and something that might have been screaming or cheering. It was impossible to tell which.
This was the Arena. The place where expendables were sent to die for entertainment. The place that had killed countless slaves before her and would kill countless more after. The place that represented both her immediate danger and her only potential path to something beyond slavery.
One of the overseers climbed onto the roof of the cage and began unhooking the chains that connected the slaves to the central ring. The process was methodical and impersonal. Each chain was released with a metallic clink, and the slave attached to it was shoved roughly toward the gate at the wagon's side. Those who moved too slowly were encouraged with sharp kicks or whip cracks.
Velrith's chain was released. She felt the sudden slack, the brief illusion of freedom, before rough hands grabbed her upper arm and hauled her toward the gate. She did not resist. Resistance would earn punishment, and she needed to conserve her strength and gather information. She moved with the flow of slaves, allowing herself to be herded like livestock.
The surviving slaves—perhaps thirty-eight or forty now, after the deaths during the journey—were formed into a rough line outside the wagon. The volcanic rock beneath their bare feet was scorching hot, causing several slaves to hop and shift their weight in a futile attempt to minimize contact. Velrith's feet burned, the white skin of her soles turning red and beginning to blister, but she remained as still as possible. Any unnecessary movement might draw attention.
An overseer walked slowly down the line, inspecting each slave with cold, calculating eyes. This was not the same type of inspection as the sorting yard. This was administrative, a counting and categorizing process rather than an assessment of combat potential. The overseer carried a wooden board with parchment attached, and a stylus that dripped with black ink.
When the overseer reached Velrith, he stopped. His eyes traveled slowly over her body, taking in the white skin marked with blisters and bruises, the crimson hair matted with sweat and dust, the prominent curves of her chest and hips, the elegant black horns with their distinctive red and purple lines, and the iron collar welded around her neck with its engraved marking "Property of Arena Master Volgath—Expendable Class." His expression remained neutral, but there was a glint of something in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or interest.
The overseer consulted his board, running one thick finger down a list of names and numbers. He found what he was looking for and spoke in the guttural demonic tongue, his voice loud enough to carry despite the ambient noise from the Arena.
"Slave 447, designation Velrith."
The words were a declaration, not a question. They were assigning her an identity within the Arena's system. A number and a name. The number would be how the administration tracked her—a cold, impersonal integer that reduced her existence to a data point. The name was what others would call her, the identity she would carry in this place.
Velrith's body processed the sounds, the inherent language understanding working to decode the meaning. Slave 447. That was clear enough—her position in whatever roster or database the Arena maintained. But the name, Velrith, carried additional meaning that unfolded in her mind like a dark flower.
The demonic language, she was learning, was not simple or direct like human tongues. Words carried layered meanings, contextual implications that shifted based on tone and situation. Velrith was constructed from two root concepts. "Vel" meant shadow, darkness, the absence of light. "Rith" meant blood, specifically blood that had been spilled, blood that carried power or significance.
Shadow-Blood. That was what the name meant. Velrith. Shadow-Blood.
The irony was not lost on the part of her that was still, faintly, Joseph. She had dreamed of being reborn as a powerful demon, an anti-hero who commanded dark forces and inspired fear. Instead, she had been given a name that sounded powerful but was attached to the identity of an expendable slave, property of an Arena master, destined for violent death. Shadow-Blood. A name that promised strength but was currently a mockery, a cruel joke played by whatever forces had orchestrated her reincarnation.
She thought the observation bitterly, the emotion cold and sharp in her mind. The name was beautiful in its darkness, but it was wasted on her current state. What good was a name like Shadow-Blood when she was weak, collared, branded as expendable, and standing barefoot on scorching rock awaiting further dehumanization?
The overseer made a mark on his parchment, noting her number and name, and then moved to the next slave in line. The process continued down the row, each slave receiving their number and having their designation confirmed or assigned.
Once the counting was complete, the line of slaves was herded through the massive gate and into the dark tunnel. The temperature dropped immediately upon entering, the thick obsidian walls blocking the direct assault of the sun. The relief was profound but brief. The tunnel was narrow and the floor sloped downward, leading deeper into the structure. Torches mounted at irregular intervals provided minimal light, casting dancing shadows that made it difficult to judge distance or identify obstacles.
The slaves moved in shuffling single file, their chains clinking softly. Guards lined the walls at intervals, watching the procession with bored expressions. This was clearly routine for them, just another batch of expendables being processed.
The tunnel opened into a larger chamber, circular and roughly carved from the volcanic rock. This was a processing area, functional and brutal in its design. The floor was stained dark with old blood that had soaked into the porous stone and could never be fully cleaned. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, metal, and something organic and rotten.
At the center of the chamber stood a large iron brazier, perhaps four feet in diameter, filled with glowing coals that radiated intense heat. Several long iron rods protruded from the coals, their tips glowing a vicious orange-red. These were branding irons, and their purpose was immediately and horrifyingly clear.
Around the brazier stood several arena functionaries—demons who were larger and better equipped than the slaves but clearly not of the same status as the overseers. These were the workers, the ones who performed the dirty, repetitive tasks required to maintain the Arena's operations. They wore leather aprons stained with old burns and blood, and thick gloves to protect their hands from the heat.
The slaves were formed into a line facing away from the brazier. Instructions were barked in demonic, the words sharp and commanding. Velrith's body parsed the meaning: stand still, remain silent, face forward. Those who failed to comply would be beaten into compliance.
One by one, slaves were pulled from the line and forced to kneel. Their upper bodies were pushed forward until their chests nearly touched the ground, exposing their backs and shoulder blades. A functionary would select one of the glowing iron rods from the brazier, examine the tip to ensure it was hot enough, and then approach the kneeling slave.
The process was quick and brutal. The functionary would position the brand carefully on the left shoulder blade, ensuring proper placement, and then press down with significant force. The sound was a sickening sizzle-hiss, the noise of flesh burning and moisture instantly vaporizing. The smell of cooking meat filled the chamber, nauseating and unmistakable.
The screams were immediate and agonized. Even the slaves who tried to remain silent, who bit down on their lips or tongues to avoid making noise, could not completely suppress the sounds of pain. The screams echoed in the chamber, overlapping and creating a chorus of suffering.
Each brand took perhaps five to ten seconds of contact to ensure the mark was deep and permanent. Then the iron would be pulled away, revealing the burned flesh beneath—charred black at the edges, angry red in the center, already beginning to weep clear fluid and blood. The numbers were large, easily two inches tall, designed to be visible and legible even from a distance.
Velrith watched this process repeat for the slaves ahead of her in line. She counted them. Watched their reactions. Noted which ones collapsed afterward and which ones managed to remain kneeling. She observed the functionaries' technique, the angle of the brand, the duration of contact. This was reconnaissance, even in the face of her own impending torture.
Her turn came too quickly. Rough hands grabbed her arms and pulled her from the line. She was forced to her knees, the volcanic stone floor grinding painfully against her kneecaps. More hands pushed her upper body forward, bending her until her forehead nearly touched the ground. Her arms were pulled forward and pinned, preventing any defensive movement. Her hair was roughly swept aside, exposing the entirety of her back and the smooth white skin of her left shoulder blade.
She could feel the heat from the brazier even at this distance, a radiating warmth that promised exponentially worse pain to come. She heard the functionary approach, boots scraping on stone, and then felt the presence of the branding iron hovering near her back. The heat intensified, focusing on a specific point on her shoulder blade. The functionary was positioning it, making sure the numbers would be straight and clear.
Then the brand made contact.
The pain was immediate, overwhelming, and beyond anything she had experienced yet in this brutal new existence. It was not a sharp pain like a cut or a blow. It was a deep, penetrating burn that seemed to reach through skin, through muscle, down to the very bone beneath. Every nerve ending in the area fired simultaneously, sending a tsunami of pain signals to her brain that threatened to cause immediate unconsciousness.
She screamed. There was no preventing it, no containing it. The sound tore from her throat involuntarily, a raw, primal expression of agony that she could not control. Her body convulsed, trying instinctively to pull away from the source of pain, but the hands holding her were strong and unyielding. She could not move. She could only endure.
The sizzling sound continued, horribly loud, accompanied by the smell of her own flesh burning. She could feel the heat spreading outward from the point of contact, setting her entire shoulder on fire. Tears streamed from her eyes, running down her cheeks and dripping onto the stone floor. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. An eternity compressed into a handful of heartbeats. Then, finally, the pressure released. The brand was pulled away, taking with it the source of the burning but leaving behind a deep, throbbing agony that did not diminish.
Velrith collapsed forward, her forehead striking the stone floor. The pain in her shoulder was so intense that it dominated her entire awareness. She could feel nothing else, think of nothing else. Her vision swam with colors—red, white, black—and her hearing seemed muffled, as if she was underwater.
Rough hands grabbed her arms again and hauled her upright. She was dragged a few feet away and released, left to slump against the chamber wall while the next slave was brought forward. She pressed her back against the cold stone, then immediately regretted it as the contact with the brand sent fresh spikes of pain through her shoulder. She shifted forward, hunching over, trying to find any position that might offer relief. There was none.
She forced herself to breathe, to focus, to push through the pain and assess the damage. She could not see the brand directly, but she could feel it. The numbers 447 were now permanently burned into her left shoulder blade, the flesh charred and destroyed, the mark deep enough that it would scar horrifically even if it somehow healed properly.
But proper healing was not going to happen. She knew this with cold certainty. There would be no medical treatment, no salves or bandages, no careful cleaning to prevent infection. The Arena did not care about the health of expendable slaves beyond their immediate utility. The brand was functional—it marked ownership and identification—and that was all that mattered.
Within hours, the infection began. The burned flesh, exposed to the filthy air of the processing chamber and then to the dirty conditions of wherever they would be housed next, became a breeding ground for bacteria. The clear fluid that had been weeping from the wound turned cloudy and yellow-tinged. The edges of the brand, which had been red and angry, darkened to a deeper, more ominous color.
The pain, which had been a localized burning sensation, began to spread. It crept outward from the brand, a deep, throbbing ache that radiated down her arm and across her back. The shoulder became hot to the touch, the skin tight and swollen. When she moved her left arm, the tissue pulled and stretched around the brand, sending sharp jolts of agony through her torso.
By nightfall—she estimated the time based on a general sense of exhaustion and the dimming of the light filtering through distant openings in the Arena structure—the fever had set in. It started as a general feeling of being overheated, a discomfort that might have been attributed to the ambient temperature of the demon realm. But it quickly escalated into something more serious.
Her body began to shake with chills despite the warmth of the air. Her skin alternated between burning hot and icy cold. Sweat poured from her, soaking her hair and running in rivulets down her torso, but it brought no cooling relief. Her head felt heavy and stuffed with wool, her thoughts becoming slow and muddled.
The fever was her body's response to the infection, an attempt to fight off the bacterial invasion of the burned tissue. But without treatment, without antibiotics or even basic cleaning, the infection had the advantage. It spread through her bloodstream, turning the local wound into a systemic threat.
Velrith was herded with the other branded slaves into a holding area—a large, low-ceilinged room carved from rock, with minimal light and no comfort. They were left there, chained to rings set into the walls, given a small amount of water and no food. The slaves collapsed into exhausted heaps, their own brands weeping and infected.
Velrith lay on her side on the cold stone floor, trying to find any position that did not put pressure on her branded shoulder. The fever intensified throughout the night. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind unable to maintain focus. The pain became a constant, background roar that never diminished.
In her fevered state, fragments of thought and memory surfaced. Joseph's life, already distant and fragmented, became even more confused. She remembered reading about infections in fantasy novels, how they were always cured by magic or healing potions. She remembered the casual violence of the stories she had loved, how suffering was always temporary and served to make the protagonist stronger.
But this was real. This pain was real. The infection burning through her body was real. There was no magic, no convenient healing, no narrative structure that would resolve this suffering. There was only the cold stone, the hot fever, the throbbing brand, and the slow, brutal process of either recovery or death.
She survived the night, but barely. By morning, when harsh voices and clanging metal announced a new day and new torments, Velrith was still alive but severely weakened. The infection had not killed her, but it had stolen much of her strength. Her body was fighting a war inside itself, and the outcome was far from certain.
Slave 447. Designation Velrith. Shadow-Blood. The name and number were now permanently marked on her flesh, a declaration of ownership and a promise of death. She had survived the branding, but the infection was a continuing threat. This was the Arena's first lesson: survival was not granted, it was fought for, moment by agonizing moment, against enemies both external and internal.