Sunlight pierced through the gaps in the wagon's wooden slats, casting sharp lines across Daani's scales. She'd been counting the days by these patterns, watching them crawl across the floor as the wagon rumbled endlessly onward. Five days, maybe six - time had started to blur, marked only by the rising and setting of the sun, the periodic stops for the mercenaries to rest their horses, and the meager portions of stale bread and warm water tossed carelessly through the bars.
The wagon lurched to a sudden halt, pitching Daani forward against the rough wooden bars. Her scales scraped against splintered wood as she caught herself, her tail instinctively seeking balance. Through the thick air of unwashed bodies and road dust, she caught Haath's scent - that familiar mix of earth and warmth that had always meant safety. Her brother's presence steadied her, even now. Bailon huddled closer to them both, their youngest brother's trembling barely visible but impossible for her to ignore.
In the cramped space of the wagon, every small movement had become a careful negotiation. The other captives - mostly Drakel like herself, with a few trembling Mehrat huddled in the corners - had fallen into an uneasy rhythm of shifting and adjusting, each trying to find what little comfort they could without disturbing the others. The creaking of the wagon wheels and the occasional barked orders of the mercenaries had become a grim melody, the soundtrack to their shared misery.
Their captors had been thorough in their preparations. The ropes binding their wrists were wrapped in such a way that their claws couldn't reach them, and the wooden bars of the wagon had been reinforced with strips of metal - clearly, they'd transported Drakel prisoners before. Haath had tested the bars that first night, earning himself a vicious blow from one of the guards. Since then, he'd kept his strength in check, but Daani hadn't missed how his eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, measuring distances, noting weaknesses. It was what they'd been trained to do, after all. Now the sharp, unfamiliar smells of dust and distant sweat filled her nostrils, telling her they'd arrived somewhere---but where, she still had no idea. The ropes around her wrists had rubbed them raw, and every slight movement sent fresh pain shooting through her arms.
A voice barked outside, sharp and authoritative---the man she'd learned was called Domnall. She'd overheard his name during the journey, muttered by the mercenaries who treated him with both respect and fear. He was clearly in charge, though she still didn't know much about him beyond that. The woman with him---Cara---was quieter but just as dangerous, her watchful eyes seeming to miss nothing.
"Unload them!" Domnall shouted.
The gate creaked open, its rusted hinges groaning under the weight. The sound made Bailon flinch, and Daani wished she could reach out to steady him. Beyond the gate, she caught her first glimpse of their destination. High stone walls embraced a courtyard that spoke of violence in every detail - scorch marks painting the ground in dark streaks, training dummies bearing the scars of countless strikes, weapon racks standing like sentinels of steel and wood. Her warrior training recognized the purpose of each element, but this was different from the practice yards of home. Here, every mark seemed written in pain rather than progress.
The compound sprawled before them like a maze of stone and shadow. As they were marched through the main courtyard, Daani's trained eye caught details that spoke volumes about what awaited them. The training dummies weren't just scarred - they were strategically damaged, showing the most common strike points a warrior might target. Some were reinforced with metal plates, others wrapped in leather strips that hung in tatters. The weapon racks held an arsenal that went far beyond traditional arena weapons - she spotted exotic curved blades, weighted nets, and implements she couldn't even name.
Multiple training circles had been worn into the hard-packed earth, each surrounded by its own set of practice weapons and equipment. Some were small, barely wide enough for two fighters, while others spread out in larger ovals that could accommodate group combat. Dark stains marked the ground in places, too many to count, telling their own story of blood spilled in training.
Along the western wall, a row of wooden posts stood at varying heights, each scarred with deep gouges. As they passed, Daani noticed chains hanging from iron rings set into the stone above - punishment posts, most likely. Her suspicion seemed confirmed when she spotted dried blood on the chains.
The air carried more than just the scent of sweat and metal. There was an undercurrent of herbs - medicinal ones, if she wasn't mistaken - probably from wherever they treated the wounded. The sounds, too, told a story: the rhythmic clash of practice weapons, the sharp commands of trainers, and underneath it all, the occasional grunt of pain or cry of defeat. She was pulled roughly from the wagon, her legs buckling as they hit the ground. The mercenary behind her shoved her forward before she could steady herself, and she stumbled, her bare feet scraping against the gravel. Haath landed beside her with a thud, his black scales dulled by grime but his sharp eyes finding hers immediately. A silent message passed between them - the same look they'd shared countless times during this ordeal. Stay strong. Stay alert. Survive.
Bailon was the last to be pulled out, his sapphire-blue scales marked by scuffs and bruises. His small frame shook as he clutched at his arms, and Daani's chest tightened at the sight. He wasn’t for this, wasn’t a fighter.
They were lined up in the center of the courtyard, a dozen in total. Mostly Drakel, except for a handful of the small, rodent-like Mehrat whose ears twitched nervously as they huddled together. Daani felt their fear as if it were her own, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. Her tail flicked involuntarily, brushing against the dirt as she tried to suppress her own nerves.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. A man emerged from the shadows of the gate, his appearance both striking and unnerving. His dark curls framed a chiseled face, his features sharp and refined, but there was an edge to his expression---a calculation in his brown eyes that made Daani's scales itch. His crimson tunic and golden trim stood out sharply against the muted tones of the courtyard, a mark of wealth and power that seemed to mock their own battered state.
He stopped a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied them. Daani's gaze met his for a fleeting moment, and she felt as though he was looking straight through her, measuring her worth like cattle at market. She forced herself to stand straighter, her chin lifting despite the ache in her body. Beside her, she could feel Haath's tension, his muscles coiled and ready despite their exhaustion.
"So," the man said, his voice smooth and confident. "These are the new recruits?"
Domnall stepped forward, his broad shoulders blocking part of Daani's view. "As promised. They're strong. The Drakel will do well in the pits, and the Mehrat... well, they're quick. Useful in their own way."
The man's lips curled into a faint smile. "I'll take your word for it." He gestured vaguely toward the captives. "Are they... intact?"
Cara's voice cut in, sharp and clipped. "We delivered them as requested. Whether they survive the training is on you."
"Hmm." The man's gaze swept over them again, lingering on Haath for a moment before moving to Daani. She held his gaze this time, refusing to flinch. His smile widened, as though he found her defiance amusing.
"Welcome," he said at last, addressing the captives directly. "To my ludus."
The word meant nothing to Daani, but the way he said it---smooth and laced with authority---made her stomach twist. She stayed silent, listening as he continued.
"You are no longer farmers or laborers or whatever you were before. Here, you have one purpose: to fight. You will be trained, tested, and forged into something greater---or you will die trying. Those are the only options." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Disobedience will be punished. Escape will not be tolerated. And failure..." His smile turned sharp. "Failure will be forgotten."
Beside her, Bailon shifted nervously, his claws scraping against the dirt. Daani wanted to reach out, to steady him, but she didn't dare move. Haath's low growl was barely audible, but she felt it in her bones - a promise of protection, even here.
"Your training begins tomorrow," the man continued. "Gallios will prepare you. He is the Lanista, your trainer. Listen to him, and you may survive long enough to make something of yourselves. Ignore him..." He shrugged, as though the consequences were obvious. "Well, I wouldn’t recommend it"
With that, he turned and walked away, his crimson tunic trailing behind him. The courtyard fell silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.
A gruff voice broke the quiet. "Line up."
Daani turned to see a tall, scarred, dark skinned man approaching, his muscular frame and stern expression radiating authority. This, she guessed, was Gallios---the Lanista. His sharp eyes swept over them, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You'll do as I say, when I say it. The weak ones among you will be weeded out quickly, so pray you're not one of them. Now, move."
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The corridor they were led down was dimly lit, the stone walls cold and unwelcoming. Daani's feet ached as she followed the line of captives deeper into the ludus, her tail brushing against the floor with each reluctant step. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat, damp earth, and something metallic she couldn't quite place. Behind her, Bailon shuffled quietly, his presence a constant reminder of what she stood to lose.
The corridor opened into a larger space, a circular chamber lined with cells. Each cell was small and bare, separated by iron bars that seemed sturdy enough to withstand even the strongest Drakel. Daani's heart sank as she took in the scene. This was to be their home now---caged like animals.
"Stop here," Gallios barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The captives froze, their eyes darting nervously between one another. Gallios motioned to a small group of slaves who began unlocking the cells one by one.
"You'll stay here when you're not training," Gallios continued, his tone as hard as the stone walls around them. "You'll eat here. You'll sleep here. Get used to it."
The first captive, a bulky Drakel male with green scales, was shoved toward an open cell. He stumbled slightly but caught himself, his claws scraping against the stone floor as he stepped inside. The door locked behind him with a resounding clang.
Daani was next. The cell was cramped, barely wide enough for her to spread her arms. A thin pile of straw sat in one corner, its musty scent making her nose wrinkle. The door slammed shut behind her, and the metallic click of the lock felt like the finality of a sentence. She turned toward the bars, catching a glimpse of Haath being led to a cell further down the row. Their eyes met briefly - another silent promise passing between them.
From across the chamber, a voice broke the silence---smooth and calm, but with an edge that demanded attention. "You're lucky Gallios didn't throw you straight into the pits."
Daani turned her head sharply, her eyes finding a sight she'd only seen in merchants' sketches and story-scrolls - a Revia, her crimson-tinted fur gleaming like polished copper in the torchlight. Tales spoke of their ancient temples and deadly grace, of warriors who moved like living shadows through their forest kingdoms. This one stood with that same fluid poise, but her amber eyes held a different kind of wisdom - hard-earned in this stone cage.
The Revia offered a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm Ahti," she said, her voice measured. "If you're smart, you'll learn quickly. Gallios doesn't tolerate dead weight."
A deep rumble from another cell pulled Daani's attention to an imposing sight. A Chumen warrior stood gripping his cell bars - massive even by the standards of his people, if the stories were true. His dark fur over muscles built for war, and the tribal scars visible on his arms spoke of battles won and blood spilled. The merchants who passed through her homeland had whispered of Chumen war-chiefs who could break stone with their bare hands, and this one looked capable of doing just that.
"Jabir," Ahti said, her tone carrying a note of warning. "Don't you have better things to do than intimidate new arrivals?"
But it was the smaller Chumen beside the warrior that made Daani's scales prickle with unease. Where Jabir was all brute force and obvious threat, his companion moved with a coiled energy that reminded her of the venomous serpents that sometimes slipped into their training grounds back home. His lighter fur was marked with different scars - thinner, more precise - and his eyes held a calculating gleam that seemed to catalog every weakness, every fear. When he smiled, it never reached those eyes.
"Fresh meat," Jabir said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I give you a week. Maybe less."
Daani's tail lashed behind her, but she forced herself to stay calm. She met his gaze evenly, refusing to let him see the fear twisting in her gut.
"I’m Zafar," the smaller Chumen said, introducing himself with a predatory grin as he leaned forward, his wiry frame shifting as he rested his hands on the bars. "Two days," he muttered, his smirk widening. "No more than that." There was something unsettling about his voice - too smooth, too practiced, like a blade hidden in silk.
In the cells, the hierarchy among the established gladiators revealed itself in subtle ways. When Ahti spoke, others listened - not out of fear, like with Jabir, but with a respect earned through something more than just fighting prowess. She moved with the practiced grace of someone who had survived far worse than threats and posturing.
The relationship between Jabir and Zafar was more complex than it first appeared. While Zafar seemed to defer to the larger Chumen, there were moments when his eyes held a calculating gleam that suggested he might be the true danger of the pair. He watched everything, his attention darting between conversations like he was collecting secrets for future use.
"The rules here aren't what you think," Ahti said, her voice low enough that only the nearest cells could hear. "It's not just about who's strongest or who fights best. The Lanista has his favorites, but even they can fall." Her amber eyes flicked meaningfully toward an empty cell across the chamber. "Verus was champion for three seasons. Nobody's seen him for two weeks."
A quiet murmur rippled through the cells. Even Jabir's usual swagger seemed subdued at the mention of this name.
"What happened to him?" Bailon asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Zafar's laugh was sharp and cold. "He got slow. Comfortable. Started thinking he was untouchable." The smaller Chumen's eyes glittered in the torchlight. "Nobody's untouchable here."
"Except you, right?" Another voice joined the conversation - a Drakel gladiator two cells down from Daani, his scales a weathered black. He wasn’t from Borollai. And Daani wondered where his clan came from. He spoke with the bitter edge of someone who had seen too much. "Tell them how you survive, Zafar. Tell them about your special arrangements with the guards."
Jabir growled, taking a threatening step forward in his cell, but Zafar's hand shot out, stopping him. The smaller Chumen's smile never wavered. "We all do what we must," he said smoothly. "Some fight. Some... negotiate. The smart ones do both."
"Enough." Ahti's voice cut through the tension. "They don't need to learn about politics their first night. They need to rest." She fixed Daani with a meaningful look. "Tomorrow will test every scale on your body. Save your strength."
The chamber fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the distant sound of boots on stone and the occasional clink of chains. Daani leaned back against the cold wall of her cell, but her mind was racing. There was more happening here than simple survival. Alliances, rivalries, secrets - a whole web of relationships and power plays she'd need to navigate.
Through the bars, she caught glimpses of other gladiators watching from their cells - some with curiosity, others with predatory interest. A male Revia with a missing eye who seemed to communicate with Ahti through subtle gestures. In one of the better-kept cells, a pair of Mehrat moved in an intricate dance of contained energy, their movements so perfectly mirrored they might have been reflections. Unlike the trembling Mehrat who'd arrived with Daani's group, these two radiated a deadly confidence.
"The twins," Ahti said, noticing Daani's attention. "Reza and Mirela. Don't let their size fool you - they've survived two seasons."
As if hearing their names, both Mehrat paused their movements. They were small even by their species' standards, their fur a rich brown marked with intricate patterns of lighter spots. Gold rings glinted in their ears - old ones, by the look of them, probably family treasures they'd managed to keep. Their tails moved in perfect unison as they approached their cell bars, quick eyes taking Daani's measure.
"New blood," one of them - Reza - said, his accent musical despite the predatory edge to his smile. His sister's expression matched his exactly, creating an unsettling mirror effect. "Always interesting to watch the first few days."
"The way they break," Mirela added, picking up her brother's thought as naturally as breathing, "or survive." Her whiskers twitched as she studied the new arrivals. "These ones might be different though. The scales don't always crack the way you expect."
Jabir snorted from his cell. "Mehrat wisdom. Always talking in riddles."
"Better riddles than brute force," Reza shot back, his smile never wavering. "How many matches did you lose to us last season, Jabir?"
"The crowds love it," Mirela continued, her tail swaying in a hypnotic pattern. "The mighty Chumen warrior, outsmarted by two little rats." She giggled, the sound like bells but with a sharp edge. "They bet against us every time. Makes for excellent profit."
The twins moved in their cell with the fluid grace of practiced performers, and Daani noticed how they always maintained perfect awareness of each other's position. She'd heard stories of Mehrat fighting pairs - how they trained from childhood to move as one, using their small size and quick reflexes to overwhelm larger opponents. These two had clearly mastered that art. "They're caravan-born," Ahti explained quietly to Daani. "Their family was famous for combat dancing - mixing performance with deadly skill. The ludus master paid a fortune for them after seeing them fight off a group of bandits at a market fair."
The twins seemed to take pride in the attention, their movements becoming more elaborate as they demonstrated their synchronization. Daani noticed how their eyes never stopped scanning, never stopped measuring. Even their casual movement was a form of performance - showing enough to intimidate, but certainly not everything they could do.
"Keep watching them," Ahti advised. "They survive because everyone underestimates them. And they thrive because they know how to make that profitable." She paused, considering. "In the arena and out of it."
The cell block itself told a story of status and favor. Some cells had extra blankets or small comforts - signs of successful fighters or those who had earned special treatment. Others were bare save for the moldering straw, their occupants clearly out of favor or too new to have earned any privileges.
Even the positioning seemed deliberate. The stronger fighters were kept apart, their cells spaced to prevent any possibility of cooperation. The newer or weaker gladiators were clustered together, perhaps to make them easier to watch.
The iron door screeched open again, and the steady sound of boots echoed through the chamber. Gallios entered, followed by another man whose cold eyes and steady grip on his whip spoke of countless punishments delivered.
"You are alive," Gallios announced, his voice filling the chamber. "That's the only thing that separates you from the corpses left behind." His words hung in the air like a challenge. No one dared respond.
"Tomorrow," he continued, "you begin your new life. You'll learn to fight - really fight. Not the honorable combat you might know, but the kind that keeps you breathing when everything else wants you dead." His eyes swept over them, lingering on each face. "Sleep while you can. Dawn comes early in the ludus."
With that, he turned and left, the other man following close behind. The iron door slammed shut with finality, leaving them in semi-darkness broken only by flickering torchlight.
Daani sank down against the wall of her cell, her body aching with exhaustion. Through the bars, she could just make out Haath's form in his distant cell, his black scales catching the dim light. Bailon was closer, curled into himself in the cell beside hers. Her family was here, but separated - close enough to see, too far to protect.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. Whatever came next, they would face it together, even if iron bars kept them apart. They had to. There was no other choice.