The stench of rust, piss, and rot never changed in the gladiator chamber. It clung to the stone walls like a second skin, sour and stubborn. The only difference today was the silence. A strange hush had settled over the hall, and it wasn't because of sleep or weariness.
It was because of him.
At the far end, in a cell darkened by angle and neglect, Caelvir leaned back against the wall—silent, still, watching. His figure, once hollowed and worn thin, had filled out subtly. Less bones, more presence. His bruises—those once purple and cracked—had faded. The boy, who had vanished for three days, returned not just unbroken but somehow refined. His wounds had closed, and oddly, faintly, a clean scent lingered around him. The kind that clung to fine robes and perfumed halls.
Brusk noticed. They all did. And though no one dared say it aloud, they couldn't stop glancing in his direction—or trying not to.
Brusk, sharpening a blade without looking down at it, ground his teeth.
"Three days," he muttered to no one. "Three gods-damned days he disappears. And comes back smelling like a brothel."
One of his crew chuckled nervously. "That boy... he's not what we thought. Took down twenty. Twenty."
Another muttered, "He's already at twenty-two kills…"
Brusk stood. "He killed blind men," he spat. "You lot act like he's some hero out of a bard's tale. Boy's just good at butchering the lame, the weak, and maybe a few women while they weren't looking. Twenty-two corpses don't make a man."
But his voice betrayed the weight inside. Bitterness curled under the edge of every word.
Meanwhile, in Caelvir's cell—if it could still be called his—there was no weapon. No broken blade. No piece of iron snuck through the cracks. Seren's sword, once claimed by him, was gone. His fingers twitched subtly against the floor, remembering the weight of it.
Across the chamber, the sword rested with Valkira, its grip wrapped in cloth, leaning against her cell wall like a relic.
"You should give it back," Aelric said, calm and precise as ever.
Valkira raised an eyebrow. "Give what back?"
"The boy's sword."
She scoffed. "Seren's sword. It was never his to begin with."
"He beat her. Fairly."
"That doesn't make him worthy. He has no right to carry her will."
Aelric tilted his head. "Then what do the results say? A corpse doesn't protest a title."
She glared, annoyed. But her fingers brushed the blade's hilt almost subconsciously.
A horn cried through the chamber—lunch bell. Time for stale light and half-rotten meat.
The men filed out like insects escaping a hole. Caelvir remained behind, unmoving, still leaned against the wall. Once, he had slept under golden silk. Now, shit and iron welcomed him back.
Children swept through the halls, silent and weary. Boys and girls, carrying buckets of water, rags, trays. Slaves younger than ten. They stopped short of his cell, avoided it entirely. Forbidden.
He counted their faces. Some were new. Others—gone. Gone how, he didn't ask.
******
Outside, under a hazy patch of sun, Valkira's group ate. Aelric's bowl was clean, not a crumb left.
Valkira eyed it and smirked. "What happened to not eating meat, monk?"
"Old habits," Aelric replied with a dry chuckle. "They die young, here."
She rolled her eyes. "You've finally come around."
Aelric leaned back, peaceful as ever. "Speaking of coming around... you should give him that sword."
Again, she scowled. "You're still on that?"
Lysara, silent until now, spoke quietly. "A warrior's will is passed through steel. Through combat. The sword belongs to the one who earned it."
Valkira turned, almost betrayed. "You too?"
Aelric chuckled. "If you've made your mind, I won't press further. But I know why you kept it."
Valkira narrowed her eyes. "What are you trying to say?"
Aelric looked at her kindly. "You didn't take it for yourself. You took it to keep it safe. For someone."
—Three Days Ago—
The air was thick with sweat and blood as another fight in the pit came to a brutal end. One of Brusk's men—towering and grim-faced—stood victorious over a battered opponent who lay crumpled and defeated. The crowd's roar faded into a tense hush as the victor reached down and grasped a gleaming sword left behind in the dust.
Seren's blade.
The man raised it high, a cruel grin splitting his face.
With a flourish, he entered the dungeon hall, the weapon heavy and shining in the dim torchlight. The sword seemed to hum faintly, as if alive, but the others only saw a trophy claimed without honor.
Before he could even take a step further, a shadow moved like a whip. Valkira struck—swift, silent, and deadly. She lunged forward, twisting the sword from his grasp before he could gloat or brandish it.
The man stumbled, caught off guard, but snarled as he tried to wrest it back.
Valkira pinned him effortlessly. One hand pressed against his chest, the other held Seren's sword firmly against his throat.
"This blade is not yours," she said coldly, voice like steel.
Tension snapped through the hall. Brusk's crew tensed, hands twitching toward weapons. A clash seemed inevitable.
But Brusk raised his hand, voice rough but amused. "Let her have it," he said with a crooked grin. "Just a rusty blade from someone who couldn't beat fragile bones."
The words stung like venom, but Valkira held her ground.
The man on the floor spat but made no move to resist further.
The moment passed, the threat defused, but the message was clear: the sword was hers to hold—at least for now.
—Present—
Back in the yard, Valkira's lips curled. "So I was keeping it for someone?"
Aelric gave a small smile. "Send it to the one you meant it for."
"To Seren? What, you want me to stab the sky?"
She shook her head. "Stop this vague blabbering of monks.."
"Well, I am a monk," he said, laughing as he stood.
"Used to be," she corrected him.
He turned to leave.
"Where are you going now?"
"To nap. My spirit needs rest."
Valkira watched him walk off. "Since when does he get sleepy at noon?"
—That Night—
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Quiet, slow. Guards dozed in their chairs.
Valkira moved like a ghost, blade in hand.
She reached Caelvir's cell.
He was already awake. Watching her from the dark.
She stepped closer. "Still awake, huh?"
He crawled forward slowly, eyes darting to the blade in her hand.
She tilted it slightly, mockingly. "Afraid? Does Seren haunt you still?"
Caelvir said nothing.
"Impressive, though," she went on. "Twenty-two kills. You might be more than just bones and silence. Even if you've yet to fight a real opponent."
He blinked slowly. "Have you come to kill me, then? With her blade?"
Her eyes widened slightly. Then she smirked. "So you can put together words. And here I thought you were just a ghost with sharp eyes."
He shrugged. "I've been in worse places than this hole."
"I can tell," she said, circling a step closer. "You don't smell like the rest of us anymore."
"I was somewhere better."
"I won't ask where."
She eyed him, curious. "And I see you've quit eating flesh. You grow stronger still. Strange. What do you eat now? Do you pray and Gods send you sweet from Heavens?"
He didn't answer.
"Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets."
She turned the sword, grip first. "Take it. It belongs to you."
He hesitated. But only for a moment.
Their hands met through the bars. For a second, too close. Breath caught. The space between them thinned.
She coughed. "Take it, quickly. Before the guards wake up."
He pulled the sword through, grip tight in hand.
"Thank you," he said, quietly. "For your kindness."
She blinked. "Don't thank me. The sword belongs to the victor. It's not a gift."
Then her voice cooled. "Besides, it'd be a waste if you died now. I'd rather kill you myself."
She turned and vanished into the dark.
Caelvir stood in silence.
Then, blade in hand, he moved back into the center of his cell. No opponent. No crowd.
Only shadows.