The metallic clang of steel on steel jolted Daani from her fitful sleep, the harsh sound reverberating through her bones. Her tail lashed instinctively, scraping raw against the stone floor as consciousness flooded back. Every muscle screamed in protest from the night spent on cold ground, the meager straw beneath her offering no more comfort than the dirt itself. Her scales burned where grime had worked its way between them, a constant reminder of her captivity that no amount of scratching could ease.
"UP!" The command thundered through the chamber, followed by the rhythmic thud of boots on stone. A guard's spear butt slammed against her cell door, the iron bars singing with the impact. Daani didn't flinch—wouldn't give them that satisfaction—but her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped thing seeking escape.
Through the dim torchlight, she caught glimpses of Bailon huddled in his adjacent cell, his sapphire scales dulled by fear and exhaustion. He clutched his knees to his chest, making himself smaller, as though he could disappear into the shadows. Beyond him, Haath already stood at attention, his obsidian scales catching the flickering flames as he squared his shoulders. His eyes met hers through the bars—a silent promise of protection, even now.
Daani forced herself upright, swallowing a groan as her stiffened muscles protested. The cold stone had leached the warmth from her body, leaving her joints creaking like rusted hinges. A quick glance around showed the other captives stirring—the Mehrat especially, their whiskers twitching at every sound, their round ears swiveling to track the guards' movements.
One by one, the cell doors groaned open. The guards herded them into line with sharp prods and sharper words, their spears leaving no room for hesitation. The stale air of the corridor hit Daani's nostrils like a physical thing—the damp stone, the unwashed bodies, the lingering metallic tang of old blood. Her tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting the fear that permeated the air.
The transition from the dungeons to the courtyard was jarring. Morning light stabbed at her eyes, forcing them to narrow to slits as they adjusted. The contrast highlighted every detail of their new prison with cruel clarity: the scarred training dummies, the weapon racks bristling with steel, the dark stains that marked the packed earth. But it was the sounds that truly drove home their reality—the casual laughter of veteran gladiators, the clink of chains, the whispered prayers of the condemned.
The veterans lounged at their tables, enjoying a feast that made Daani's empty stomach twist with envy. Steam rose from bowls of thick porridge, fresh bread gleamed golden in the morning light, and ripe fruit piled high in wooden bowls. The sight of a grizzled Drakel gladiator tearing into a hunk of bread, letting crumbs fall carelessly to the ground, sparked a surge of hatred in her chest.
"MOVE!" A guard's shove sent her stumbling forward, her claws scoring lines in the dirt as she caught herself. The new slaves were corralled toward a smaller table, where baskets of stale bread waited like an insult. The bread was hard enough to crack teeth, covered in a fine layer of mold that spoke of days or weeks in storage. The water in the clay jugs was tepid and cloudy, carrying the bitter taste of old metal.
"Eat." Gallios's command cut through the morning air like a blade. The Lanista stood at the head of the courtyard, his scarred arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression carved from stone. "This is more than you deserve."
Daani hesitated, her pride warring with her hunger. Haath moved first, seizing a piece of bread and tearing into it without ceremony. The sight of her proud brother reduced to this broke something in her chest. She grabbed her own portion, forcing herself to choke down the stale, dusty chunks. Each swallow felt like surrender.
The silence of the new captives stood in sharp contrast to the easy conversation of the veterans. Daani's keen ears caught snippets of their talk—boasts of past victories, crude jokes, casual threats. Her eyes kept drifting to their table, where Ahti sat with her copper fur catching the sunlight. The Revia appeared relaxed, but Daani noticed how her ears stayed alert, how her tail moved with careful precision. Even in apparent comfort, the veteran maintained her guard.
"Listen well," Gallios's voice silenced all conversation. "I won't repeat myself."
The Lanista stepped forward, gravel crunching beneath his boots. His gaze swept over the line of captives like a physical weight, lingering on each face just long enough to make scales itch and whiskers twitch.
"You are not gladiators," he declared, voice hard as the iron bars that had caged them. "You are slaves. Worthless. Untrained. Expendable. If you die today, no one will mourn. If you die tomorrow, no one will remember."
Daani's claws curled into her palms, drawing pinpricks of blood that she barely felt. Her tail lashed once, betraying her anger, before she forced it still. Beside her, Bailon trembled. Haath remained statue-still, but she could sense the fury radiating from him like heat from sun-baked stone.
"But," Gallios continued, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, which somehow made it worse, "if you prove yourselves, if you survive what's coming, you might earn a place among the gladiators." His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "That's your goal. Survive the training, pass the final test, and you'll join the brotherhood. Fail..." He gestured toward the heavy courtyard gate. "And the mines will swallow what's left of you."
A collective shudder passed through the gathered of captives. Even the Mehrat's whiskers drooped, their usual nervous twitching stilled by dread. Daani had heard stories of mines—of slaves worked until their bodies gave out, of darkness that drove minds to madness, of bones that were never recovered.
"Finish your bread," Gallios commanded. "Training begins now."
The morning sun climbed higher as they were marched to the center of the training grounds, its heat already beginning to bake the packed earth beneath their feet. Dust devils swirled around their ankles, stirred by their reluctant steps and the hot breeze that carried the metallic scent of old blood. The veterans gathered around the training circle like vultures, their expressions ranging from amused to predatory.
The circle itself was a crude thing—just a ring scraped into the dirt and lined with wooden rails, but to Daani it might as well have been an execution ground. Her keen eyes caught details that others might miss: dark stains that rain hadn't quite washed away, gouges in the wood where claws had sought purchase, splinters that spoke of bodies thrown against the barriers with brutal force.
Gallios took his place at the circle's edge, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the packed earth. "This is your first test," he announced, voice carrying to every corner of the yard. "Show me what you're worth—if anything. This isn't about victory. It's about survival. About proving you deserve the air you breathe."
He paused, letting his words sink in like poison. "You'll face the veterans. They won't kill you—probably. But they will hurt you. They will break you. And if you can't handle it..." His smile was all teeth. "Well, the mines are always hungry."
The air grew thick with tension as Gallios's gaze swept over them. "You," he said suddenly, pointing at Haath. "First."
Daani's heart clenched as her brother stepped forward, his obsidian scales catching the sunlight. He moved with the dignity of a warrior, even now, his head high and his steps measured. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his tail curved slightly—signs of wariness that only family would recognize.
"Zafar," Gallios called, and a ripple of anticipation passed through the watching veterans.
The wiry Chumen pushed off from where he'd been lounging against a weapon rack, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. His lighter fur seemed to shimmer as he stepped into the circle, but it was his eyes that made Daani's scales prickle—cold, calculating, filled with an intelligence that made his obvious strength all the more dangerous.
"This one looks promising," Zafar drawled, circling Haath like a shark scenting blood. "Good muscle tone. Strong stance." His grin widened, showing sharp teeth. "Breaking him will be fun."
Haath didn't respond, but Daani saw his claws flex slightly. He kept his eyes on Zafar, turning slowly to maintain the distance between them. It was what they'd been taught in the clan's training grounds—never let an opponent at your back, never show fear, never give them the satisfaction of a response.
"No weapons," Gallios announced. "This is about skill and will. Fight until one yields or can't continue." He stepped back, raising his hand. "Begin!"
What followed was a dance of violence that made Daani's breath catch in her throat. Zafar moved first, a blur of fur and muscle that seemed to defy his size. He feinted left, then spun right with frightening speed, his fist aimed at Haath's ribs. But her brother wasn't slow—he shifted just enough, letting the blow glance off his scales with a sound like stone on leather.
Haath countered with a strike that would have laid open Zafar's chest if it had landed, but the Chumen was already gone, dancing back with a laugh that held no humor. "Not bad," he taunted. "The lizard has some bite."
They circled each other, neither willing to commit fully to an attack. Daani recognized her brother's strategy—conservation of energy, careful observation, waiting for the perfect moment. But Zafar seemed to read him just as easily. The Chumen's attacks came in quick bursts, testing Haath's defenses from different angles, each strike precise and measured.
The fight shifted suddenly when Zafar ducked under one of Haath's swings and drove his knee into the Drakel's side. The impact knocked the breath from Haath's lungs in a harsh gasp, but he managed to grab Zafar's fur, using the Chumen's own momentum to throw him. Both fighters hit the ground, kicking up clouds of dust as they grappled.
For a moment, Haath seemed to have the advantage. His greater weight pinned Zafar, and his claws sought purchase in the Chumen's shoulder. But Zafar moved like water, twisting in ways that seemed impossible, and suddenly he was free. Before Haath could recover, Zafar's foot connected with his jaw in a kick that sprayed blood across the packed earth.
Haath staggered back, spitting red. His scales were dulled with dust, and his breathing came in harsh pants. But it was the look in his eyes that made Daani's heart sink—the dawning realization that he was outmatched. Zafar pressed his advantage with ruthless efficiency, each strike targeting vulnerable points with surgical precision. A jab to the throat. An elbow to the temple. A kick that connected with Haath's knee with a crack that made several watchers wince.
When Haath finally fell, it wasn't with a roar of defiance but with a quiet groan of pain. He lay in the dust, blood trickling from his mouth, his proud frame trembling with exhaustion. Zafar stood over him, barely winded, his cold smile never wavering.
"Yield," the Chumen said softly, pressing his foot against Haath's throat.
Daani saw the struggle in her brother's eyes—pride warring with survival, defiance battling pragmatism. Finally, in a voice rough with pain and shame, he whispered, "I yield."
The veterans erupted in cheers and jeers, but Daani barely heard them. She watched as Haath pushed himself to his hands and knees, dark blood dripping from his mouth to stain the earth. Their eyes met briefly, and she saw something in his gaze that scared her more than any beating—uncertainty.
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"Next," Gallios barked, his voice cutting through the noise. His eyes fell on Bailon, and Daani's heart stopped. "You."
Her clutch brother stepped forward on trembling legs, his sapphire scales dulled by fear. He looked so small in the circle, so fragile. This wasn't right. He wasn't a warrior—he was a scholar, a dreamer, someone who should be surrounded by scrolls and ink, not blood and dust.
"Ahti," Gallios called, and Daani's fear twisted into something closer to hope.
The Revia stepped into the circle with fluid grace, her copper fur catching the sun like flame. There was something different in her stance, a subtle shift that Daani couldn't quite read. When Ahti's eyes met Bailon's, there was no cruelty there, no hunger for violence. Instead, there was something almost... gentle.
"Relax," Ahti said softly, her voice carrying clearly in the tense silence. "Tension will only get you hurt."
Bailon swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He raised his hands in what was probably meant to be a fighting stance but looked more like a plea for mercy. His tail curled close to his legs, betraying his fear more clearly than any words could.
The fight, if it could be called that, was both better and worse than Daani expected. Ahti moved with deliberate restraint, her strikes pulled just enough to sting rather than seriously harm. She could have ended it at any moment—that much was clear to everyone watching—but instead, she turned it into something closer to a lesson.
"Watch my footwork," she said quietly as she circled him. "Feel the rhythm of the movement." Each time Bailon stumbled or flinched, she gave him time to recover, her patience a stark contrast to Zafar's calculated cruelty.
But in its own way, this gentle destruction was just as painful to watch. Every moment highlighted Bailon's inadequacy, every pulled punch emphasized his weakness. When Ahti finally swept his legs out from under him and pinned him with a hand at his throat, his surrender came as a mercy.
"Yield," Ahti said softly, and Bailon nodded frantically, tears leaving clean tracks through the dust on his scales.
The veterans' reaction was more subdued this time, perhaps sensing that mockery would spoil whatever point Ahti was making. As Bailon stumbled back to the line, Daani caught Ahti's eye and saw something there—not quite sympathy, but understanding.
"Next," Gallios's voice rang out, and Daani's heart began to pound. She knew before he pointed, before he spoke. This was her moment, her test.
"Jabir," Gallios called, and any hope of mercy died in Daani's chest.
The massive Chumen stepped into the circle like he owned it, his dark fur bristling with barely contained violence. He towered over her, muscle rippling beneath his fur, his eyes glinting with cruel anticipation. When he smiled, it was all teeth and promise of pain.
"Little lizard," he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. "Let's see if you break as easily as your brother."
Daani forced herself to breathe steadily, calling on years of training that suddenly felt inadequate. She could feel Haath's eyes on her, could sense Bailon's fear, could taste the metallic anticipation in the air. Her tail moved in slow, controlled sweeps behind her, helping her maintain balance as she settled into a fighting stance.
The fight exploded into violence without warning. Jabir moved with shocking speed for his size, closing the distance between them like an avalanche. His first strike would have taken her head off if it had connected, but Daani was already moving, ducking under the blow and darting past him. Her scales scraped against his fur as she passed, and she caught his scent—sweat and leather and old blood.
She spun, her tail whipping out to maintain balance, and managed to rake her claws across his side as he turned. Blood welled up in thin lines, and Jabir's laugh turned into a snarl. "First blood to you," he growled. "Last blood will be mine."
What followed was a brutal dance of survival. Jabir's attacks came like thunder, each blow carrying enough force to shatter bone. Daani couldn't block them—trying would be suicide. Instead, she moved constantly, using her smaller size and greater agility to stay just out of reach. She darted in to strike when she could, her claws leaving bloody furrows in his fur, but it was like trying to bring down a mountain with needles.
The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the training circle into a furnace. Sweat dripped between Daani's scales, making her movements treacherous. Her muscles burned with exhaustion, but her mind remained sharp, catching the subtle patterns in Jabir's attacks. He favored his right side slightly, his massive frame betraying his intentions a heartbeat before each strike.
The revelation hit her like a splash of cold water—she didn't need to overpower him. She just needed to make him fall.
Jabir's next attack was a feint, a sweeping blow that transformed into a grab. But Daani had seen it in the shift of his weight, the twist of his torso. Instead of retreating, she darted forward, ducking under his guard. Her claws found purchase in the soft spot beneath his ribs, drawing a roar of pain that shook dust from the wooden rails. Before he could counter, she was gone, leaving ribbons of crimson in his fur.
Blood matted his dark coat now, and his breathing had grown labored. But his eyes had changed from cruel amusement to murderous rage. When he spoke, his voice was a guttural snarl that made her scales prickle.
"Enough games."
He came at her with renewed fury, abandoning technique for pure brutality. His claws raked across her shoulder as she tried to spin away, leaving deep furrows that sent fire racing through her nerves. The impact threw her off balance, and his follow-up strike caught her squarely in the chest. Air exploded from her lungs as she hit the ground hard enough to taste dust.
"Stay down," Jabir growled, stalking toward her. "Or I'll break something you'll miss."
But Daani was already moving, rolling to her feet despite the protests of her battered body. She saw her opening—the slight limp in his step, the way he telegraphed his next strike. Instead of retreating, she surged forward, dropping low at the last instant. Her shoulder slammed into his knee just as he shifted his weight, and she felt something give way beneath the impact.
Jabir's roar of pain shook dust from the wooden rails. He staggered, his injured leg buckling, and Daani seized her chance. She spun behind him, capturing his arm in a lock that pressed her claws against the vulnerable tendons above his elbow. One sharp movement would sever them, leaving the limb useless.
"Yield," she hissed, tightening her grip until she felt him flinch. "Or lose the arm."
The courtyard fell silent except for their ragged breathing. She could feel Jabir's pulse hammering beneath her claws, could smell the mix of blood and fury rolling off him in waves. For a moment, she thought he might refuse—might force her to make good on her threat.
The crack of Gallios's whip split the air like lightning. Pain exploded across Daani's back as leather bit into scales, the force of it breaking her hold on Jabir. She stumbled forward, and the second strike dropped her to her knees. The third drew a cry she couldn't suppress, her vision blurring as fire raced along her spine.
"You forget your place." Gallios's voice cut through the haze of pain, cold and precise as a surgeon's blade. Each word was punctuated by another lash of the whip. "You are nothing. Less than nothing. A slave who dares to threaten a gladiator?"
The blows continued until Daani's world narrowed to nothing but pain and the taste of blood in her mouth. Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw Haath straining against the guards holding him back, his face twisted in helpless rage. Bailon had pressed himself against the wooden rails, his scales pale with horror.
When Gallios finally stopped, the silence was deafening. Daani stayed where she was, kneeling in the blood-specked dust, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her back felt like it had been laid open to the bone, each shallow breath sending fresh waves of agony through her body.
"Remember this," Gallios said, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtyard. "You are not here to win. You are here to learn your place." He paused, letting the words sink in. "And your place is in the dust, grateful for every breath we allow you to take."
He turned away, gesturing for the guards to continue with the remaining matches. Jabir limped back to the veterans' side, his expression a mix of pain and vindictive satisfaction. Daani felt hands pulling her roughly to her feet, dragging her back to the line of captives. Her legs could barely support her weight, but she forced herself to stay upright. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her collapse.
Daani's vision had begun to clear, the pain in her back settling into a dull, throbbing rhythm, when Gallios's voice cut through the haze. "Next: Reza and Mirela against..." His sharp gaze swept over the group of captives like a predator assessing prey. "You two." He singled out a pair of young Drakel with verdant scales.
The green-scaled pair stepped forward hesitantly, their claws twitching nervously, their tails lashing the ground in matching arcs of uncertainty. They looked young—too young. Their movements betrayed their lack of training. They were craftsman, likely still apprentices, not fighters.
Across the circle, the Mehrat twins entered with practiced grace, their movements so perfectly synchronized it was unsettling. Where the new captives radiated fear, Reza and Mirela exuded a deadly confidence that seemed at odds with their small stature. They took their positions with the fluid precision of experienced performers who knew exactly how their show would end.
The fight began with Gallios's command, and the green-scaled Drakel hesitated. That single moment of uncertainty was all the twins needed. Reza darted left while Mirela circled right, their speed a blur that seemed to defy natural law. The twins moved like a storm, their attacks coming from all angles in perfect coordination. The Drakel pair swung wildly, their inexperience clear in every clumsy strike.
Reza ducked under a poorly aimed swipe, his claws raking across the taller Drakel's thigh. As the green-scaled captive roared in pain and stumbled back, Mirela seized the opening, springing forward to slash at his exposed side. Her brother followed immediately, their movements so perfectly timed they might have shared a single mind.
It wasn't a fight—it was a dance, one the twins had clearly performed countless times before. Each attack flowed seamlessly into the next, the Drakel captives overwhelmed by a strategy they couldn't hope to counter. Within moments, the first Drakel crumpled to the ground, clutching his side and gasping for breath. The second tried to fight on, his strikes growing more desperate, but it was hopeless. Reza swept his legs out from under him, and Mirela was there in an instant, pinning him to the ground with one clawed hand at his throat.
"Enough!" Gallios's voice cut through the air, halting the match. The Mehrat twins stepped back in perfect unison, their expressions unreadable as they surveyed their fallen opponents. The defeated Drakel lay motionless on the ground, their breathing ragged, their scales smeared with dirt and blood.
The veteran gladiators erupted into laughter and jeers. "Pathetic!" one called out. "Didn't even last a minute!"
Through the rails, Daani caught a glimpse of understanding. The twins weren't just fighters—they were performers, their synchronized violence a carefully choreographed show designed to delight the crowds and demoralize their opponents in equal measure. Every movement, every strike, even the way they played to the veterans' reactions—all of it calculated for maximum effect.
The morning continued in its parade of violence. More fights, more blood in the dust, more lessons in humility beaten into flesh and bone. Daani watched through a haze of pain as her fellow captives were systematically broken, their spirits crushed as thoroughly as their bodies. The remaining Mehrat fought with desperate speed but fell to practiced brutality. The other Drakel lasted varying lengths of time, but the outcome was always the same—defeat, pain, submission.
When the last match ended, Gallios gathered them once more. The sun had climbed high, baking the blood-stained earth beneath their feet. The captives stood in various states of injury and exhaustion, while the veterans lounged in the shade, sharing water and laughing at particularly memorable moments of brutality.
"This was your first lesson," Gallios announced, his voice carrying no hint of emotion. "Remember it well. Tomorrow, we begin your real training. Those who survive might become gladiators. Those who don't..." He shrugged, the gesture eloquent in its dismissal.
The walk back to the cells was a march of shame and pain. Daani's wounds had begun to stiffen, making each step an exercise in agony. The cool darkness of the underground chamber was almost a relief after the merciless sun, but the clang of cell doors closing held a different kind of finality.
She sank onto the thin straw of her bedding, trying to find a position that didn't send fresh fire racing along her back. Through the bars, she could see Bailon curled into himself, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Haath sat rigidly in his cell, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes held a darkness she'd never seen before.
The sound of soft footsteps drew her attention. Ahti appeared outside her cell, a small bundle held carefully in her hands. The Revia's copper fur seemed to glow in the torchlight as she crouched beside the bars.
"Here," she said quietly, passing a cloth wrapped package through the iron bars. "Herbs for the wounds. Clean them well, or infection will finish what the whip started."
Daani took the bundle with trembling hands, surprised by this small act of mercy. "Why?" she managed to ask, her voice rough.
Ahti's amber eyes met hers, holding a wealth of understanding. "Because survival isn't just about strength," she said softly. "It's about knowing when to bend instead of break." She glanced at the other cells, her voice dropping lower. "And about protecting what matters, even when you can't fight back."
With that, she melted back into the shadows, leaving Daani alone with her pain and her thoughts. The herbs smelled sharp and clean, a contrast to the dank air of the cells. As she began the painful process of treating her wounds, her mind turned to the day's lessons—not just in combat, but in survival.
They would have to adapt, all of them. Haath would need to temper his warrior's pride, Bailon would have to find strength he didn't know he possessed, and she... she would need to learn patience. The kind of patience that looked like submission but hid steel beneath its surface.
In the quiet of the cell block, broken only by the occasional clink of chains or muffled sob, Daani made herself a promise. They would survive this—not just with their bodies, but with their spirits intact. It would require a different kind of strength than what they'd known before, but they would find it. They had to.
As night settled over the ludus, bringing with it a blessed coolness, Daani whispered a phrase she'd heard her clan's elders use in times of hardship: "The strongest scales are forged in fire." She didn't know if she believed it anymore, but she would hold onto it anyway. It was all she had left.