The cell was cold, damp, and devoid of any light save for a faint, eerie glow that seeped through cracks in the stone ceiling. Zorath's head pounded with dull, persistent pain. His meridians felt twisted, blocked in a way that left him weak and disconnected from his inner power. He shifted in the chains that bound him, their cold metal biting into his wrists.
It had been hours—days maybe—since he’d been thrown into this dungeon by the Red Dust Dwarves. His captors’ brutish laughter and vulgarities still echoed in his ears. The dwarves were notorious across the lands for their ruthlessness and depravities. They didn’t care for honour or glory, only profit and power. And in the underground colosseums they ran, power was won through bloodshed. Zorath spat onto the floor, the taste of iron still in his mouth from the brawl in the tavern. His thoughts drifted back to the strange figure who had subdued him, to the pulse of energy that had blocked his meridians. Whoever they were, they had more than the dwarves' brute strength behind them—there was something more sinister at play.
** The sound of heavy boots approached, the metallic clank of keys following closely behind. The door to his cell creaked open, and two stocky dwarves stepped inside, their faces obscured by helms of coal-stained steel. The Red Dust Dwarves were shorter than their mountain kin but no less fierce, their crimson beards marking them as part of the infamous clan. “You’re awake, elf,” one of them growled, his gruff voice thick with disdain. “Good. It’s time you earned your keep. ”Zorath glared at the dwarf but said nothing. His captor leaned closer, eyes glinting with malice. “You’ll be fightin’ in the Pit tonight. Might as well stretch those legs of yours.” He said with a tinged accent of a foreign kingdom.
Before Zorath could respond, the other dwarf struck him in the gut with the hilt of his axe. Pain flared through his body, and he gasped for air as they dragged him from the cell. His vision swam, but he forced himself to stay conscious. They led him through narrow tunnels that twisted and wound through the underground stronghold. Faintly, Zorath could hear the roar of a distant crowd—a sound that grew louder with each step they took. The colosseum was near. As they reached the end of the passage, the cavern opened into a massive underground arena. The Pit, as the dwarves called it, was a gruesome sight. Stone walls circled the bloodstained sand, and above, balconies carved into the rock were packed with spectators: dwarves, orcs, and even a few humans, all eager for blood.
The arena’s ceiling was a lattice of iron beams, making the faintest traces of light from the surface filter through, casting long shadows on the battlefield below. In the middle of the Pit stood a hulking figure clad in rusted armour. A brute of a minotaur, his muscles rippling beneath his fur, was waiting—one of the dwarves’ prized gladiators. The Red Dust dwarves didn’t care about fair fights. They wanted to put on a show. Zorath was shoved forward into the arena. The crowd’s roar intensified, a cacophony of jeers and cheers as the black-furred minotaur raised his axe high. The dwarves above began placing bets, laughing cruelly as they wagered on how long the elf would last. Zorath’s muscles tensed, but his blocked meridians left him sluggish, his movements feeling dull and distant. His dagger, his mind, his instincts—all felt far away. The horn sounded, signaling the start of the battle. The minotaur charged, his hooves pounding the sand as he bore down on Zorath. The elf’s body reacted on instinct, dodging the first strike by a hair’s breadth.
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He rolled across the scattered sand, coming up behind the minotaur and aiming a kick at the creature’s knee. The strike landed, but without his martial energy flowing through him, it barely fazed the beast with the power of flesh and energy. The minotaur roared and swung its massive axe, catching Zorath across the arm. Pain shot through him as blood trickled from the wound. He stumbled, barely able to keep his balance. “Pathetic!” one of the dwarves on the balcony shouted. “The elf can’t even fight without his tricks! ”Zorath gritted his teeth. I need to break through. He focused inward, feeling for his meridians, but they were knotted, locked tight by whatever foul technique his captors had used. A shadow moved in the corner of his vision.
Zorath’s sharp eyes caught sight of a figure standing in one of the higher balconies, hidden beneath a black cloak. The figure’s presence stirred something deep within him—a strange familiarity. The minotaur’s axe swung again, and Zorath barely ducked in time, the blade slicing through the air where his head had been moments before. The crowd’s laughter echoed in his ears, but Zorath’s focus was on the cloaked figure. Then, amid the jeers, he heard something else. Voices—dwarves speaking in hushed tones behind a grate just beyond the arena floor.“...the collaborator said it’s only a matter of time. The Kingdom of Oris is already preparing for the change. The balance... the balance won’t hold much longer.”
Zorath’s eyes widened. The Oris Kingdom? The balance between species? Another voice joined in, gravelly and smug. “Once our Tal’rin breaks into chaos, the Red Dust will finally have our place in a new order, and we will reshape Tal’rin for our own. The elf kin will be the first to bow. ”Zorath’s heart pounded in his chest. The Red Dust dwarves were in league with someone powerful, someone from within a kingdom preparing for something. And Tal’rin, the delicate balance between species, was in danger. He had to get out of this alive. The minotaur roared again, this time swinging downward with both hands. Zorath moved faster, adrenaline surging through him. His body ached, and the meridians still refused to unlock, but he wasn’t about to give these dwarves the satisfaction of watching him die. He sidestepped the blow, grabbing a fallen spear from the ground and spinning on his heel. With a grunt, he twirled and thrust the spear as hard as he could into the minotaur’s exposed flank. The beast howled in pain, staggering back as blood poured from the wound. The crowd gasped; their cheers suddenly silenced as the minotaur dropped to one knee. Zorath stood over the creature, breathing heavily. He could feel the eyes of the cloaked figure watching him, and the murmur of the conspirators behind the grate confirmed it. The Red Dust dwarves had plans, and he was not going to let them have their way.
The roar of the crowd returned, but Zorath’s mind was already spinning with the implications of what he’d overheard. He wasn’t just fighting for himself anymore— it was time he started to for himself and others, fighting for the fate of a world that would soon crash and he had already passed out from exhaustion.