After several winding turns, a balcony came into view and below it, the vast hollow of an arena stretched out before me.
It was enormous, so large it could have been a city within a city. Tiered rows of seats rose in a wide V-shape from the floor to the upper walls, each level divided by four staircases.
At the center stood the ring—circular, slightly elevated, gleaming under the stark light that fell from above. The noise of the crowd rolled upward in waves: laughter, arguments, bets shouted across aisles. The air vibrated with it.
The man guiding me turned right, leading me down a narrow stairway that curved beneath the stands. The sound of the crowd dimmed, replaced by the echo of our footsteps. When we reached the bottom, he pushed open a small iron door, revealing a cramped chamber lit by a single hanging bulb.
Behind a counter sat another man, bent over a ledger. He was scribbling down names of Knights, as they called them here, each one another entry in a list of people willing to bleed for glory.
When my guide left, the man didn't bother with introductions. "Take off your shirt," he said flatly, eyes still on his book. "And tell me your name."
Instead, I lowered my hood. But that was it. "I want to speak to the boss of this place."
That made him look up. His hair was blond and tied back neatly, though a few strands fell loose across his forehead as he met my gaze, a sign of his cracking composure, his pen freezing mid-air. For a heartbeat, he didn't move, his eyes twitching slightly, some recognition or unease flickering behind them.
Then, as if reminding himself to breathe, he set down the pen. He decided wisely not to judge a book by its cover.
He lowered his head, the gesture slow, almost tired, recognizing the familiar arrogance of yet another nobody demanding to see the boss.
"That's not how it works," he said, voice flat but edged with habit. "You fight first. The boss notices you. Then you meet him. Not the other way around. Unless you're some powerful figure." He paused, almost scoffing. "But even then, no one just walks in to meet him."
I said nothing for a moment, then quietly replied, "Write whatever name you want. But I won't be taking anything off my body."
He frowned slightly but didn't argue. The scratch of his pen filled the small room again.
—
Elsewhere, in a dim wooden bar carved from old oak, laughter rattled through the smoke-heavy air. Wooden cups clinked together, tables creaked under elbows, and somewhere near the back, a man roasted meat over a small iron pit.
The scent of charred spice and sweet fat drifted through the room, settling over the noise like a spell.
In the corner sat a man apart from the others, staring down at four empty cups before him. He trailed a thick finger around the rim of one, again and again, lost between thought and the blur of the crowd.
He was massive, broad shoulders stretching the seams of his shirt, a body carved from old battles. His hair was a deep, burning red, tied loosely in a tail that hung down his back.
Scars ran across him like stories: one cutting from nose to ear, another deep along his neck, and a brutal line slicing across his left eye, leaving it closed and blind. Yet the other eye sharp and alive held the kind of silence that made laughter falter nearby.
He lifted one of the cups and tilted it lazily, the motion catching the light. Behind the counter, the barkeep noticed and called out to a woman. "Go serve him another," he said.
Two men entered through the door and made their way to the same table. One was elderly, thin as wire, leaning hard on a cane. He padded Orryn's broad shoulder with a half-smile.
"Oh, Captain Orryn Draelith," he said, his voice gravelly with drink. "You're going to sleep here again tonight? Haven't you had enough for the day?"
The second man, Taro Cleyn, a few years older than Orryn, reached across the table and slid the four empty cups out of reach. "You've been here three days, Orryn," he said, shaking his head. "You don't eat. You barely talk. You just drink. How about you stop for tonight and go home?"
Orryn lifted his head slowly, the movement heavy, his one good eye clouded with exhaustion and something deeper, regret maybe. "I'm no one's captain," he muttered.
The woman arrived and began refilling the cups. Once she was done, Taro raised a hand sharply. "That's enough. Don't serve this table again tonight."
She hesitated, then nodded and stepped away.
The old man and Taro exchanged a glance and sighed, deciding they'd drink in his place instead. A moment later, two more men entered, the scent of smoke and rain clinging to their coats. They were Murz Clacus and For Grain, both familiar faces, both carrying the same weariness that hung in the air like a ghost.
They joined the table without a word. For a while, no one spoke. Only the low hum of laughter and the creak of chairs filled the space as they all looked a Orryn.
"There are four cups," For said with a grin, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the table. "Surely you two aren't planning to drink them all yourselves. Old man Grew'll get wasted before you even start."
The old man chuckled, the sound rough but warm. "You're right, For," he said, easing himself down onto the bench. "My drinking days are behind me. Now I can barely handle a single cup without feeling it in my knees."
Orryn crossed his arms on the table, his head lowering to rest on them. His voice came muffled, heavy with fatigue. "You two just got back from the border?" he asked. "How did it go?"
Murz's expression changed immediately; the color drained from his face beneath the short shimmer of his brown hair. "We couldn't get through this time," he said quietly. "Crossing the south on foot's getting harder." He lifted his cup and emptied it in one gulp, as if the words had burned on his tongue.
Old man Grew frowned, deep lines carving into his forehead. "If you never made it past the border, what took you a whole month to return?"
Murz exhaled through his nose, resting the cup on the table with a soft thud. "It's winter down south. Road transport's impossible this time of year. The snow eats the roads." His golden eyes snapped briefly toward Orryn, who had been groaning quietly through their exchange, half listening.
Murz leaned forward, peering at him. "And you? How have you been, Captain?"
Orryn didn't lift his head. He just groaned again, half sigh, half growl and let silence be his answer.
The others exchanged glances, the unspoken truth passing between them like smoke. Orryn wasn't the same for a reason they all didn't want to mention.
Suddenly, the door burst open with a violent swing. A young man stumbled inside, shouting above the hum of voices, his panic sharp enough to slice through the noise.
"There's fire! There's fire! The people from the West did it!" His words tumbled over each other, wild with fear. "They've finally shown their true colors, they want this town under their control!"
Every head turned, even Orryn lifted his gaze, his single eye narrowing. The man roasting meat froze mid-turn of the skewer, and those who had been walking stopped, listening.
"They're eliminating powerful figures," the young man went on, voice cracking. "Anyone who could stand against them, they're burning them alive!"
For a moment, the bar held its breath. Then, one by one, the patrons looked away. Chairs creaked, cups clinked, someone even laughed softly.
And just like that, the panic dissolved into the low, indifferent hum of the room. Even those who had paused mid-step went back to their seats, as if the words had never been spoken.
Murz leaned back in his chair, sighing through his nose. "How about we go watch the knight matches instead," he said.
For grinned, slamming a hand against the table. "Now that's an idea! Been ages since I watched those idiots kill each other." His laughter erupted, deep and booming, echoing off the wooden walls. "Hah! Hilarious!"
He clutched his stomach, still laughing, while the young man stood by the door, eyes darting across a room that had already forgotten him.
Taro watched silently with a soft smile as he sipped his drink.
The young man who had burst through the door moments ago stepped further inside, his pace slowing, hands folded loosely behind his head. His voice dropped to a lazy mutter.
"Ah… these folks never get tired of pretending not to care, even when they're being cornered."
He let his gaze drift across the room, then raised his voice, letting it echo over the chatter.
"I wonder when you'll stop! All of you grown-ups are cowards, every last one of you! People are losing their homes, their lives, and here you sit drinking and laughing like none of it matters!"
His anger rose with each word, shaking the air around him.
"That's why the people from the South are stronger than us! Because you're blind, too ignorant to fight back! How long will you keep fearing them?"
The room quieted again. Chairs turned, eyes met his for a heartbeat, then looked away.
There was pity in some faces, amusement in others. None of them cared enough to answer. It was the same dull stillness as before, as though a musician had started a song no one wanted to hear.
The young man's shoulders tensed. He realized no one would listen.
In a sudden burst of frustration, he grabbed a nearby shelf and yanked it down, sending pots and jars crashing to the floor. The sound snapped through the bar, loud, sharp, and fleeting.
He shouted, barked, cursed the whole room, then stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
For a moment, every head turned toward the door. Then, one by one, they turned back again. Cups lifted, laughter resumed, the music of indifference continued.
The minister, the emperor, the king, whoever had burned in that fire it didn't matter to them.
Being ruled and crushed by the powerful was something these people had long accepted. For those living at the bottom, survival had replaced rebellion.