A cockroach moved through the cracks of the stone, its legs clicking faintly over the cold iron bars as it dragged 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 as it scurried 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.
Only three more remained. Three more fights, and he'd be out of here. The number 97 lingered in his mind like a tolling bell, loud and endless. He had crushed his last opponent weeks ago, leaving him twitching in the red-soaked sand.
The question of how long they would make him wait drilled into his skull, repeating endlessly.
His stare shifted to the lower cells. Newcomers had arrived—fresh meat, barely speaking and barely breathing. Their eyes were wide, knuckles white. Half of them wouldn't survive the week. Most had only one arm, the price thieves paid in Velrane. To Brusk, that simply meant one less arm to break. It was less fun, though still enough to keep him entertained.
Brusk saw them, smelled them, and thought it a waste that he wouldn't be around to crush their skulls.
He'd be long gone, heading for Irene's Iron, the next arena. A place with real steel, real stakes, and real coin. Word had it that it was cleaner and sharper, nothing like this rotting pit of rats, broken men, and piss-stained stone.
He'd had enough of this place. Too many screams, too many shadows, and far too much silence.
His nerves howled for blood.
"Three more," he whispered to himself. "Just three."
The door opened.
It wasn't the one they used for fights, but the one they used for favors.
Four guards entered, their chainmail dull under the torchlight, weapons drawn though not raised.
Behind them came two maids, each holding a silver tray. Steam lifted from roasted boar's meat, spiced and glistening, and the scent filled the dungeon like perfume poured over rot. Men stirred in 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 and tender, clearly cooked with real fire. Given the chance, he would have chosen to eat only this kind of meal forever.
What an eternal bliss that would be.
The scent curled into his nose, and Brusk's mouth opened slightly, involuntarily.
He grinned, stomach full and eyes glazed.
He had eaten plenty that day, but hunger wasn't only in the stomach. It lived in his muscles, his blood, and his bones. A warrior's need to consume was never-ending. Still, for once, he felt 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 title spoken with nervous reverence, like a curse whispered too close to prayer.
Four guards flanked the tray.
"No one gets close," one of them said, loud enough for the rest 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 as his stare darkened, the heat of the food turning in his gut to bile.
He didn't touch his plate.
He stepped forward.
The four guards turned, nervous, spear tips raised and trembling.
"Back off, Brusk," one said. "Let the boy eat."
Brusk laughed, low and cruel.
"Didn't know you bastards had empathy in you," he said, his 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 guards were tossed aside like sacks, their spears clattering to the ground.
The other two lunged. One from the left, one from the right.
Brusk caught both wooden shafts as if they were twigs.
Crack.
He snapped the hafts with a twist of his wrists.
Both guards stumbled backward and fell.
One whimpered, "Stop! Please!"
But Brusk was already at the cell.
Caelvir had crept forward, arm reaching for the meat.
It was seductive. Not the meal, but the anticipation of frustration in Caelvir's eyes.
Just one piece.
Crunch.
Brusk's boot crushed the boy's hand into the stone.
A scream followed, sharp and high and 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 bone, then sat cross-legged just beyond the boy's reach.
He took a bite.
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."
He took another bite, then another, before hurling the stripped bone back through the bars where it landed at Caelvir's side.
"Look at you," Brusk said, his mouth full. "You've bulked up. Good muscles now. You're not starving like before. Who helped you, huh?"
He leaned closer, breath thick with 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 and 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 and 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, trapped behind those bars."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"If I hadn't come to humiliate you, someone else would've stolen it anyway."
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, his voice dropping low.
"The Blade King isn't 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.
"You should put a flaming sword outside his cell next time. It keeps the beasts away."
He laughed, hard and loud, mockingly.
Then glanced back over his shoulder toward Caelvir.
"Seems only we two got the meal today."
His grin widened, eyes dark and alive.
"Perhaps we'll meet in the arena later."
Then he laughed again, loud and 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 was off.
A fragile shape hunched over his untouched plate, gnawing at the leftovers like a starving rat. The figure was thin and ragged, with 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, darkening the dungeon floor like a stormcloud.
The man froze mid-bite, lips slick with grease, mouth still chewing as terror flooded his eyes. His trembling hand clawed at another chunk of meat, trying to eat faster, frantically, as though devouring borrowed seconds of life.
Brusk's nostrils flared, eyes wide with fury, muscles tensing.
"What... are you doing," he growled, voice low and lethal.
The man didn't answer. He swallowed hard, his face wet with tears, but still forced another bite into his mouth.
Brusk raised his fist, veins bulging, ready to crush the man's skull into the stone.
Then steel sang through the air.
A sword, sharp and cold, pressed between Brusk's fist and the thief's trembling head.
Valkira.
She stood there, blade unwavering, gaze burning with fire.
Brusk's rage shifted to her. "You again," he spat. "You just have to always interfere."
"You already stole another one'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 going to 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 as fury bubbled.
"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. "It's against the rules."
Brusk laughed bitterly. "And what if I was going to? Strength is the only rule here."
"Exactly," Valkira said, tilting her sword almost lovingly. "And that's why I, the stronger one, am telling you to screw yourself."
Brusk's jaw locked, his breath 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 a horn cut through it all.
Low and commanding, the arena's call.
Boots clattered down the corridor as guards arrived in pairs. One group moved to Caelvir's cell and unlocked the gate. The boy stepped out, expression blank.
The other group approached Brusk. "You're up," they said.
Valkira lowered her sword, her smirk returning. "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 and 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.