At dawn, I silently observed the surrounding cells. To my left, I heard a prisoner sobbing and, farther down, the loud snores of another inmate. To my right, I detected the scrape of metal on stone as someone sharpened a weapon, while two voices whispered strategically. Across from me, a hunched figure, curled in a blanket, appeared to be barely moving and carved a line into the stone with a bony hand.
Other ambient noises included dripping water, vermin, and servants above preparing the arena. The young guard then returned with a gruel cart, slid me a bowl, and warned that the master had arranged another match for midday, "something quicker than Goran." I consumed the gruel with the same efficient detachment as before. I placed the bowl, now empty, back by the slot, and resumed my still, centred vigil long before the young guard returned with his cart to collect them.
Upon reaching my cell, he paused, looking first at the empty bowl, then at me. He appeared even more nervous than before, his hands fidgeting with the cart's handle.
"He wants to see you," the guard blurted out, not meeting my eyes. "The Master. Before the match. "Th-that's not normal." He fumbled his keys, unlocking my cell door but leaving the ankle manacle chained to the wall. "Come to the bars. I need to put the wrist irons on."
The door swung open. Down the corridor, I could hear the sharpening stop. The whispering had ceased. All the prisoners were now listening.
"Very well."
My voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the stone itself. It carried not just threat, but the absolute certainty of it. The effect was immediate and profound. The guard flinched as if struck. His eyes darted to mine for a split second - to the glowing red slits in the darkness - and then fixed desperately on the irons in his shaking hands.
He approached me as one would approach a sleeping dragon. His movements were jerky, overly careful. He fastened the heavy, cold iron manacles around my wrists with clumsy fingers, making sure the chain between us was secure, but his touch was feather-light, terrified of provoking me.
"J-just… "Just come with me," he stammered, not looking at me. He led me out of the cell, leaving the door open behind him. As we walked down the corridor, I sensed the other prisoner watching. The sharpening had stopped completely. The weeping had hushed. I could feel multiple pairs of eyes tracking me from the shadows.
The guard led me not towards the arena gate, but down a narrower, cleaner side-passage I hadn't seen before. The walls here were dressed stone, not rough-hewn rock. He muttered, almost to himself, "Don't know why he wanted to see you. "Usually only talks to the champions after they've won a dozen fights." Or the ones about to die in the special matches." He glanced back at me, fear and morbid curiosity warring in his face. "He called you 'an interesting investment.'"
He stopped before a heavy, polished oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a demonic face. He raised a fist to knock, then hesitated, looking at me with pure dread. "Please… just… "Don't make him angry."
He knocked. A smooth, neutral voice from within responded, "Enter."
The guard opened the door, ushering me into a large, opulent study that felt utterly alien when contrasted with the grime of the cells.
The Master's Study
The room was warm, lit by glowing magical orbs that hovered near the ceiling. Thick carpets swallowed sound. One wall was dominated by a large window of one-way glass, overlooking the empty arena floor far below. Shelves were lined with books, scrolls and strange artefacts. A massive mahogany desk sat in the centre.
Behind it, shrouded in dark robes, sat the Master of the Games. His hood was up, his face in shadow, but I could feel his attention fixed on me. Long, pale fingers steepled before him.
"Leave us," he told the guard, who practically fled, clicking the door softly shut.
The Master regarded me in silence for a long moment. The only sound was the faint hum of the orbs.
"You fought with… "Precision," he finally said, his magically enhanced voice now a quiet, intimate tenor. "Not the blind rage of a beast, but the calculated violence of a soldier." "A prince, perhaps, fallen on hard times." He leaned forwards slightly. "Goran was a blunt instrument. My next offering for you is of a different nature. Faster. More… venomous. "I wish to see how you handle a blade you cannot merely overpower."
He gestured to a side table, where a simple, unadorned short sword and a leather bracer lay. "You will be armed for this match. Consider it a token of my… interest. Win, and more such tokens may follow. Lose…" He let the implication hang. "Do you have anything to say before you are returned to your cell to await the call?"
I stood manacled in the centre of the luxurious room, the Master's hidden gaze upon me. The offer of a weapon was both a boon and a test.
I strode to the side table, the chains between my wrists clinking softly. I picked up the short sword, testing its balance with a deft twist of my wrist. It was serviceable - well-forged, sharp, but plain. I slid it through my belt (as best as I could with manacled hands) and then strapped the leather bracer onto my forearm.
I turned back to the shrouded figure, my glowing eyes meeting the shadow beneath his hood. My voice was the same low, rumbling threat, though I knew it would not intimidate him here, in his sanctum.
"Next time," I said, "I'd like a larger blade."
For a moment, only silence prevailed. Then, a soft, dry sound emanated from the darkness of the hood. It might have been a chuckle. It might have been the rustle of cloth.
"Confidence," the Master murmured, his voice tinged with clear amusement. "I purchase that commodity at a high price." Very well. "Win this fight, and we shall discuss the size of your… cutlery." He made a dismissive gesture with one pale hand. "Return him to his cell. The match is at mid-day. "Do not be late."
The door opened, and the nervous guard stepped back in. He led me back through the clean corridors to the grim holding block. As I passed the other cells, I could sense the prisoners watching my return - armed. The whispering resumed, louder this time.
Back in my cell, the guard removed my wrist irons but left the ankle manacle secured. He locked the door behind him without a word. I now had a weapon. A tool. The Master was watching, not just as a ringmaster, but as a potential patron. The next fight was certainly going to be different.
Time passed.
The portcullis before me was the same. The roar of the crowd was the same. But I was different. I had a short sword at my hip and a bracer on my arm. The bald guard was there again, looking at the sword with a raised eyebrow.
"Master's favour, eh?" he grunted, not unkindly. "Don't get used to it. Your opponent today is Aymon the Viper. Uses twin daggers. Poisoned, usually. Fast. Don't let him nick you." He nodded towards the arena. "Sun's right overhead. No shadows to hide in out there today."
The Master's magically amplified voice boomed, introducing the "Crimson Beast" once more, but the cheers were more focused, more expectant. They knew me now.
"AND HIS OPPONENT! A BLADE IN THE DARK THAT NEEDS NO SHADOWS! """THE SWIFT, THE MERCILESS, THE VIPER - AYMON!"
The portcullis rose. Across the bright, sun-drenched arena, a slender, wiry humanoid figure clad in dark, form-fitting leather stood poised. In each hand, a dagger gleamed with a sickly green sheen. Aymon didn't roar or posturise. He simply watched me, his head tilted like a bird of prey, utterly still.
The Viper moved like liquid shadow. The moment the portcullis was fully up, he was in motion, a blur of dark leather crossing the sand with eerie silence. He didn't charge directly at me. Instead, he angled to the side, and in one fluid motion, one of his green-glazed daggers flew from his hand.
The blade sank into my shoulder. A burning, numbing sensation spread instantly from the wound. I was poisoned. I could feel the venom coursing through my veins, a cold fire trying to lock my muscles.
Aymon closed the remaining distance, his remaining dagger held low and ready, a cruel smile on his thin lips. He was now within 10 feet of me.
The poison burnt, but my will was iron. As Aymon stepped into my range, I lunged forward, ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder, and attempted to grapple him with my free hand.
My clawed hand snapped out and closed like a vice around Aymon's wrist, the one holding his remaining dagger.