"Who are you?" the woman said harshly. "You're not-"

Hassani crossed the distance in a few sprinting steps. Her knife pressed against the woman's throat before she could finish the sentence. "You're going to take me to my things."

To her credit, the woman didn't intimidate easily. "You're Fatma's pet Inviolate."

"You're reliable and smart enough that she trusts you with her affairs, so you know what I did to the Small Masters. I'm going to rely on your desire to avoid their fate while you're going to have my things fetched here." Hassani spoke calmly, but fatigue, stress, and her desperation to know where they kept Avani strained against her control.

The woman smirked and flicked her gaze over Hassani's shoulder.

She turned to see three hulking guards rise from a long bench placed against the far wall. The leather armor they wore looked to be designed for intimidation more than practicality: all spikes and dangling bones. They carried heavy cudgels stained with dried blood and clumped here-and-there with wiry hair. Either they'd beaten someone to death and never cleaned their weapons or they'd placed the gruesome bits there intentionally. Whichever option might prove true, they implied much about the thugs' purpose and hopefully their level of training.

Johine had disappeared somewhere. In her haste and fixation on getting her things, Hassani hadn't noticed. Had he even come inside with her? Right when she could use him and his spear.

The majordomo smirked and spoke to the three guards in a dismissive tone as though she held the upper hand and didn't feel a knife's edge resting against her throat. "This is a slave escaped from Fatma's clutches. She's useful to the master alive so-"

Johine charged screaming from a side door, his spear driving deep into one of the guards' sides. Hassani immediately threw the majordomo aside and rushed the closest guard, raising the knife high and jerking her hand forward. Flinching away from the blade he expected to be flying at his head, the thug's distance-keeping club swing flew wild.

She ducked it, rushed forward, and slashed the meat and tendon where elbow met forearm, hewing down to the bone. He wailed and crashed to the ground clutching his arm against his chest.

The remaining guard batted at Johine's madly-thrusting spear while the man backpedaled frantically. He tripped over the bench as he turned to throw a backhanded swing in her direction. Speed put her inside the swing and she caught his hand. A jerking twist popped something in his wrist, tumbling the club to crack against the white tile as Johine's spear punched through his thigh on the other side. Staggering back, the guard grunted and cursed, but only once. Hassani snatched up his club before it had finished bouncing, her swing glancing off the forearm he thrust out to stop it, then landing with a thudding crunch into his chin as Hassani's rebound swing hurtled upwards.

Johine shouted, snapping Hassani's attention back out into the room as the guard crumpled back into the wall and bench. In a single deft motion, Johine tossed the spear up to catch it reverse-style above his shoulder, then threw in. Its point dug deep into the door the majordomo was yanking open, slamming it back closed. She threw her hands up reflexively, lurched to the side, and spun to face them with her hands up.

"Gladiator?" Hassani quirked an eyebrow at Johine in passing as she scanned the status of the guards then, satisfied they were no threat, skimmed room for any further dangers. A dozen slaves, a few staring, the rest rushing off.

"If you ever wanted a chance at freedom, this is it," she said to the ones who remained, before turning back towards where the woman formerly-in-charge slumped in a corner next to the door.

"Vale Legion. Deserter." Johine thudded his fist to his chest as he came to attention, the motion made extra absurd by his filthy nakedness. "Caught and sold, but no one wanted Johine."

"Gratitude either way," she said, walking over to where the majordomo still stood plastered against the wall by the door. Practiced breathing patterns calmed Hassani as she walked, the regular, slow breaths bringing her back down from fighting readiness.

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The woman stared at them slackly, all arrogance vanished.

"My things," Hassani said, standing close and tapping the freshly-bloodied cudgel against her shoulder for emphasis.

The woman glanced at the club, then the naked, blood-spattered Johine as he wrenched his spear free, then to Hassani's hard eyes.

A gulp. A hasty nod.

Ten minutes later, Hassani wore the Aze Blade at her hip, her pack on her back, and heard the clink of 'nails against her Inviolate Amulet in her belt pouch. Half-an-hour after that, she and the freshly-garbed, blood-cleansed, knife-and-cudgel-packing Johine pushed their way through the massive crowds overflowing the stone arena's stands. A platform stood erected in the arena's center, its top dense with Dynasts, Versers, well-dressed slaves, and Ferals.

Only one person atop it, however, mattered and she drew all Hassani's attention: Fatma. The Small Master stood beside Ijran draped in gaudy layers of gold necklaces, plastered with makeup, and garbed in a cloth-of-gold gown that looked like it weighed as much as Avani did. The woman stood with arms crossed, staring down her nose and gloating at everyone her eyes fell upon, from slave to Dynast.

A tall, dark-skinned Seneschal in embroidered blue robes stood at the front of the platform, his strings projecting his voice loud enough to echo through the stadium. Hassani half-listened as they pushed their way down, seeking a way onto the arena sands and closer to the platform. She wasn't sure exactly what her plan might be when she got there, but she was certain she'd die before being caged again.

"Slaves," the Seneschal boomed. "How would you like to earn your freedom?"

The murmurs previously rippling through the assembled throng died near-instantly at the question. Thousands of rapt eyes latched on the man as he spoke, full mostly with skepticism and doubt, but laced with curiosity and tiny glints of hope.

"The Small Masters have agreed with the Dynasts of the Resistance Against the Grievous Ancient Coup that they should grant freedom to all who take up arms with us against the greedy, hoarding Ancients who have lorded for centuries over us all: menial, Dynast, Verser, Master, and slave alike. In their perfidy, they have claimed the Legions as their own personal armies and now threaten to make slaves of everyone with their stolen might."

He paused for affect, before continuing. "And so we offer this: anyone who willingly stands with us against them, who falls in under our banner and manages to kill a foe whilst under our command shall earn their freedom."

It took a while for the hubbub that created to die down. Hassani and Johine ducked under a beam barrier dividing the stands from the sands then continued to push through the milling, gossiping crowd. Fatma and Ijran stood to the left of the Seneschal with their vastly-expanded retinues of slaves, servants, and guards while the Dynasts and their people stood to the Seneschal's right.

"I hear the doubt in your voices from where I stand, but I swear to you by the light of the Ascendant that every word I speak is true!" the Seneschal continued. "And further more, you earn a slave of your own for each additional you kill, to serve you or be freed as you see fit."

This spawned much commotion and consternation. By the time the Seneschal got everyone quieted down again enough to speak on, Hassani and Johine had reached as close as they dared. Only a few rows of onlookers stood between them and the mixed rank of Ferals and Versal troops surrounding the platform.

"What say you, slaves of Berujat?" the Seneschal boomed, raising his arms wide. "Will you rise up against those who oppress us all? Will you win your freedom? Will you fight?"

A pregnant pause held for several seconds before a tall figure not far from Hassani ripped away the cowled robe she wore and stepped forward. Gasps of astonished recognition from those atop the platform turned all eyes towards her. Under their scrutiny, the crowd folded back all around her.

"Always wanted to do that," Hassani heard her mumble.

The woman wore strange garb: black pants like they wore in the Directory, a flowing blue shirt of layered silks, and a strange pink cap adorned with many strange symbols jutting backwards from her head. Atop all the other strangeness, the luminescent First Thread of a Dynast traced her forehead and strings dangled from ear and clung to throat. Hassani's eyes widened as she pieced together who it was.

"My name is Aida," she boomed, a hint of a amusement in her vastly-amplified voice. "You may know me as the Mother of Exiles."

The platform erupted in shouts. The guards around the platform reached for weapons. The Mother of Exiles turned to the crowd and pointed towards the platform, her voice ringing in the air. "New offer. Raise arms against these Dynasts and other slaving shits right here, right now. Don't let them give you the freedom that should be yours, take it back with your own hands."

A moment of shocked silence. Then ten-thousand slaves roared at once. Ferals and versal troops drew or leveled weapons. Panicked orders rang out. Berujat citizens turned to flee.

Fatma happened to glance down and catch Hassani's eye.

"I'm coming for you," Hassani said, drawing her Aze Blade.

And all hells broke loose.