image [https://img.wattpad.com/e4397247dd2683696aa221fc9cc3bfae4aef5228/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f6f3834736472425739344c5874673d3d2d313531373833333234332e313832336234366235306634386139383436333338343637343130312e6a7067]
Lukas barely heard the roar of the crowd. His focus was on the boy in front of him. Drayson was older, taller, and had the heavy-set build of someone who had fought for far too long. A veteran of this wretched place. His knuckles were wrapped, already stained with old blood, and his stance was practiced, weight shifting evenly between his feet.
They called him "Fire-Fist" in the ring. Drayson’s affinity made him a menace in close quarters. Lukas could already see the telltale wisps of steam curling from his fingers, his strikes getting faster, heat distorting the air around his fists.
Lukas exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers. His own body ached—bruises layered over old wounds, exhaustion buried under the need to survive. He could feel his essence stirring just beneath his skin, crackling like a barely contained current. He didn’t have much left. They didn’t let him rest between fights anymore. He was too valuable for that.
Drayson smirked, rolling his shoulders. “You don’t look so good, kid.”
Lukas didn’t answer. He couldn’t afford to. The moment he opened his mouth, he’d waste breath he couldn’t spare.
The match started with a snap of fingers from above. Drayson moved first, lunging forward with brutal efficiency. Lukas sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the punch meant for his ribs. He countered, slipping inside Drayson’s reach and striking fast—elbow to the gut, knee to the thigh. The older boy barely flinched, bringing his arm down like a hammer. Lukas darted back, but not fast enough. A fist clipped his shoulder, pain shooting down his side. He gritted his teeth. No time to process, no time to feel.
Drayson didn’t let up. He pressed forward, forcing Lukas back toward the edge of the pit. Lukas had fought him before. He knew Drayson liked to corral his opponents, make them panic, force them into mistakes. The trick was not letting him.
Lukas ducked under another swing, twisting to Drayson’s side, and brought his essence to the surface. Lightning crackled along his fingertips. He didn’t have enough for anything big, but he didn’t need much. Just enough to make Drayson hesitate.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
A short arc of electricity snapped out, striking Drayson’s side. He grunted, flinching away for the briefest moment. It was all Lukas needed. He surged forward, driving his fist into Drayson’s ribs once, twice, then followed up with a sweeping kick that sent the older boy crashing to his knees.
The crowd roared, but Lukas barely registered it. He had to end this now. His body was slowing down, limbs heavy, lungs burning. If Drayson got up again—
But he didn’t. The match was over.
A hand grabbed Lukas by the wrist and yanked it into the air. Victory. His heart pounded in his ears. The announcer’s voice was a blur. His vision swam at the edges. Someone shoved a rag into his hand to wipe the blood off his knuckles, but his fingers barely worked.
He let himself be led away, barely aware of the tunnel swallowing him into the depths of the ring.
Ambrose was waiting. The old man leaned against the rusted bars of Lukas’ cage, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You took too long,” Ambrose said.
Lukas swallowed, pulse still racing. He didn’t answer.
Ambrose sighed, stepping forward. He placed a hand on Lukas’ shoulder, squeezing—just hard enough to remind him of his place. “Get cleaned up. You’re up again in an hour.”
Lukas clenched his jaw, staring at the ground. His body screamed for rest, but rest was a luxury he hadn’t earned.
Not yet.
He turned toward the bucket of water in the corner of his cage and began washing the blood from his hands.
----------------------------------------
Lukas’s “room” was nothing more than four harsh walls resting on a cold dirt floor. Ambrose was kind enough to provide him with a single straw rug that barely covered the entryway, as well as a hard cot with a solitary pillow adorning it. While this may seem awful to some, this was actually the norm for Lukas, who had lived in run-down shack after run-down shack for most of his life.
All in all, it was better than he had back in Kenris—that’s for sure.
Here, at least, he didn’t have his awful parents sending him to beg on the streets as they burned another dose of Emberweed. He could sleep through the night without having to block out the sounds of his newest brother or sister wailing from constant neglect.
Martyr, he did miss his brothers and sisters, though. Each night, as he lay in his tiny stone prison, he would find himself thinking of little Lazrin’s infectious smile or the sweet words of comfort Mari would always have for him after a long day of begging or stealing.
He also often wondered if they met the same fate as he did. It had been over a year since his parents sold him to the Dragerian slaver—who knew how desperate they had gotten once they spent all that coin on more Emberweed? No, he told himself, he was the only person in his family “blessed” with a dual affinity in generations.
He still remembered the glint in his father’s eyes as the magi had told him. The wicked smile that covered his face from ear to ear on their walk home still made Lukas sick whenever he recalled it. All in all, Lukas was grateful that he escaped that place and those people. For even here—forced to fight, to grovel, to obey—he had a purpose, a goal. Becoming a champion meant that he was someone, anyone other than the pathetic child of Ember addicts.
Here, he could fight, earn a place for himself in the Realms.