A cockroach moved through the cracks of the stone. Its legs clicked faintly over the cold iron bars, dragging its thin body into the dim light of the gladiator dungeon.
Brusk leaned on the wall, arms crossed over his thick chest. His eyes followed the insect, watching it scurry over dried blood and bones gnawed clean.
He shifted.
Crack.
The creature vanished under his heel.
"Been on my nerves," he muttered, lifting his boot and grinding it once more for satisfaction. "So satisfying."
His voice echoed in the quiet chamber, dry as dust.
Only three more. One three fights, and he'd be out of here. The number 97 hung in his mind like a bell toll—loud, endless. He had crushed his last opponent weeks ago, left him twitching in the red-soaked sand.
How long would they make him wait? The question drilled into his skull. Over and over.
His stare shifted to the lower cells. Newcomers—fresh meat, barely speaking, barely breathing. Eyes wide, knuckles white. Half of them wouldn't survive a week. Most had only one arm—the price thieves paid in Velrane. To Brusk, that just meant one less arm to break. Less fun, but still enough to keep him entertained.
Brusk saw them. Smelled them. A waste, he thought, that he wouldn't be around to crush their skulls.
He'd be long gone—off to Irene's Iron, the next arena. A place of real steel, real stakes, real coin. He'd heard it was cleaner, sharper, not this rotting hell of rats, broken men, and piss-stained stone.
He had enough of this place. Too many screams. Too many shadows. Too much silence.
His nerves were howling for blood.
"Three more," he whispered to himself. "Just Three."
The door opened.
Not the one they used for fights. The one for favors.
Four guards entered—chainmail dull under the torchlight, weapons drawn but not raised.
And behind them… two maids, each holding a silver tray. Steam lifted from roasted boar's meat, spiced and glistening. The scent filled the dungeon like perfume poured over rot. Men stirred from their cells like wolves catching a scent.
They moved forward.
"Back off," barked one guard, striking the bars with the butt of his spear. "It's not for you."
The growling subsided.
One maid stepped forward and placed the tray before Brusk.
The meat looked divine—crusted, tender, cooked with real fire. He would choose to eat only this kind of meal forever given the chance.
What an eternal bliss that would be.
The scent curled into his nose, and Brusk's mouth opened slightly, involuntarily.
He grinned. Stomach full, eyes glaze.
He'd eaten plenty today, but hunger wasn't just stomach-deep—it lived in his muscles, his blood, his bones. A warrior's need to consume was never-ending. Still, for once, he was content.
Until he saw the other tray.
The second maid stepped across the dungeon, guided by the guards, and laid the meal before another cell.
His cell.
The boy's.
Caelvir. That was the name. They called him the Blade King—a name spoken with nervous reverence, like a curse too close to prayer.
Four guards flanked the tray.
"No one gets close," one of them said, loud enough for the others to hear. "The boy eats. We need a proper fight to entertain the crowds."
He called into the cell. "Get up. Food's here. Crawl under and take it. That's the deal."
Brusk's smile vanished. His stare darkened. The heat of the food evaporated into bile.
He didn't touch his plate.
He stepped forward.
The four guards turned, nervous. Spear tips raised—uneven, trembling.
"Back off, Brusk," one said. "Let the boy eat."
Brusk laughed. Low. Cruel.
"Didn't know you bastards had empathy in you," he said, voice thick with mockery.
"We've got orders. Strict ones."
He tilted his head. "Strict? Orders?" His voice cracked like thunder. "Then tell your gods this—I'll eat what I please."
He charged.
Two of the guards were tossed like sacks, spears falling from their hands.
The other two lunged at him. One spear from the left. One from the right.
Brusk caught both. Wooden shafts gripped like twigs.
Crack.
He snapped the hafts with a twist of his wrists.
Both guards stumbled backward, falling.
One whimpered, "Stop! Please!"
But Brusk was already at the cell.
Caelvir had crept forward, arm reaching for the meat.
Seducing, it was. Not the meat, but the upcoming frustration in Caelvir's eyes.
Just one piece.
Crunch.
Brusk's boot crushed the boy's hand into the stone.
A scream. Sharp. High. Real.
Brusk didn't flinch. He lifted the tray, meat and all, and held it to his chest like a trophy.
He stood over Caelvir, foot still pressing into his bones.
Then he sat, cross-legged, just beyond the boy's reach.
He took a bite. A glorious one.
Juices dripped from his mouth.
"Fight back," Brusk said, tearing flesh from bone with his teeth. "Go on. Show me what the Blade King does in a cage."
Another bite. Another chew.
Then he hurled the stripped bone back through the bars, landing it at Caelvir's side.
"Look at you," Brusk said, mouth full. "You've bulked up. Good muscles now. Not starving like before. Who helped you, huh?"
He leaned closer. His breath smelled of meat and blood.
"Was it a guard? A rat? Or did you pray to the gods? Maybe the devil answered instead."
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
He finished the last bite with a loud slurp, licking his fingers, wiping his mouth on his wrist.
He stood.
"Now I'll go enjoy my meal too. The one they brought me."
He turned to the guards, still huddled, still afraid.
"See? No one dares to steal mine. No guards protecting that!"
He looked back at Caelvir, still crouched, hand trembling under the pain.
"You're rotting in there," Brusk said. "Even if you scare the rats and guards, that's all you'll ever do—from behind those bars."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"If I didn't come to humiliate you," he added, "someone else would've stolen it. Naturally."
The guards whispered, panicked.
"What do we tell the officers?"
"What if the higher-ups—?"
Brusk turned.
"Lie," he said coldly. "Like you always do."
He stepped closer, voice dropping low.
"The Blade King's not going to die. Boy's had a rat stealing food for him for a while now, hasn't he?" He raised an eyebrow, daring them to deny it. "You just didn't catch it. You never do."
He pointed at Caelvir's cell.
"Say he wasn't hungry. Say a rat stole it. Say shadows fed him. Say he drinks moonlight if you want—but stay silent."
He bent lower, voice tight as wire.
"Or I'll crush your skulls next time."
He turned to leave.
Paused.
"Maybe put a flaming sword outside his cell next time. It keeps the beasts away."
He laughed. Hard. Loud. Mockingly.
And glanced back over his shoulder toward Caelvir.
"Seems only we two got the meal today."
His grin widened. Eyes dark, alive.
"Perhaps we'll meet in the arena later."
Then he laughed—loud, cruel, echoing off the dungeon walls like the first crack of a coming storm.
Brusk marched back toward his own cell, licking meat from his fingers and muttering curses under his breath. His smirk faded fast.
His stride slowed.
Something wasn't right.
A fragile shape hunched over his untouched plate, gnawing at what was left like a starving rat. Thin. Ragged. Skin clinging to bones. The man had no left arm.
Brusk's jaw clenched.
A few whispers echoed from the other cells.
"Hey... that's Brusk's."
"Does that guy want to die?"
"Someone stop him before—"
Too late.
Brusk's shadow loomed over the one-armed man, falling like a stormcloud across the dungeon floor.
The man froze mid-bite, lips slick with grease, mouth still chewing despite the terror flooding his eyes. His trembling hand clawed at another chunk of meat, trying to eat faster, frantically, as though feeding on borrowed seconds of life.
Brusk's nostrils flared. His eyes went wide with fury. His muscles tensed.
"What... are you doing," he growled, voice low and lethal.
The man didn't answer. He swallowed hard, face wet with tears, yet still forced another bite in.
Brusk raised his fist, veins bulging, ready to crush the man's skull into the stone.
But steel sang through the air.
A sword. Sharp. Cold. Pressed between Brusk's fist and the trembling head of the thief.
Valkira.
She stood there, blade unwavering, gaze burning with fire.
Brusk's rage turned on her. "You again," he spat. "You just have to always interfere."
"You already stole Caelvir's food," Valkira said, her voice like iron. "Now you want to kill a man for eating yours?"
"He's a thief," Brusk snapped. "I wasn't gonna kill him. Just... teach him a lesson."
He leaned closer, mocking. "Or maybe you're upset because I took Caelvir's food. Didn't know you had a soft spot for the boy."
Valkira's smirk cut sharper than her sword. "That boy killed Garrik and Hask. Your right and left hand. Slaughtered most of your crew."
She stepped forward, eyes gleaming. "You're a lone vulture now, Brusk. Picking scraps from corpses you didn't make."
Brusk's fist twitched. Fury bubbled. But he held it in—barely.
"Move, Valkira. This doesn't concern you. I'll deal with this rat and be done."
"You're not in any position to kill another fighter in the cells," she said, still smiling. "Against the rules."
Brusk laughed bitterly. "And what if I was going to? Strength is the only rule here."
"Exactly," Valkira said. She tilted her sword, almost lovingly. "And that's why I, the stronger one, am telling you to screw yourself."
Brusk's jaw locked. His breath came sharp.
"What did you just say?"
"You want to pick a fight?" she said, calm as ice. "You'll lose."
The air tensed like drawn steel. The one-armed thief froze, eyes darting between them. Even the guards stood stiff, unsure whether to intervene or flee.
Then, the sound cut through it all.
A horn.
Low and commanding—the arena's call.
Boots clattered down the corridor. Guards arrived in pairs. One group moved to Caelvir's cell, unlocking the gate. The boy stepped out, expression blank.
The other group approached Brusk. "You're up," they said.
Valkira lowered her sword. Her smirk returned. "Looks like you're that boy's next prey," she said. "Better prepare."
Brusk turned, eyes narrow. "Just watch. I'll tear that son of a bitch apart. And then... whether it's this arena or the next... I'll come for your head too."
He walked off, fire in his steps, fists clenched.
Behind him, the one-armed man still clutched the last scraps of meat, breathing in silence. Valkira gave him a glance, then turned away.