They tested him without blades.
Heat first.
The air in his cell grew heavy, thick enough to taste. Sweat beaded across his skin, but his breathing remained slow. When the heat vanished, cold followed—bone-deep, numbing. He endured without complaint.
Poison came next.
A trace in his water. Enough to weaken. Enough to kill ordinary men.
Aren drank.
His stomach twisted. His vision blurred. He sat, waited, adjusted his breathing, and forced his body to remember suffering.
The poison passed.
The watchers took notes.
Days later, a different presence arrived.
Not guards. Not handlers.
A woman stepped into the corridor, her footsteps too soft for stone. She wore simple clothes, but the air bent subtly around her, as if reality leaned in her direction.
She stopped outside his cell.
"You don't belong here," she said.
Aren studied her reflection in the iron bars. "Neither do you."
A pause. Then a quiet laugh.
"I wanted to see if you were angry."
"And?"
"You're not."
"I was," Aren said. "It ended."
Her eyes sharpened. "That's the dangerous part."
She leaned closer. "The pit thinks it owns you. Others will think the same. When January ends, they will come with contracts, chains, and crowns."
Aren finally met her gaze. "What will you bring?"
The woman smiled—not kindly.
"A choice."
She turned and left before he could ask more.
That night, the gong did not sound.
But Aren felt it anyway.
Not in his ears.
In his bones.
Something beyond the pit had begun to pull.
And for the first time since the fire, Aren wondered not if he would leave—but what would break when he did.