The descent back to Ry's cell stretched on without end. Every step was heavier than the last; her body was weighed down by exhaustion, pain, and, in her mind, something more intangible. Gnawing unease had settled deep in her chest. Perhaps it was the mental toll of the day, the lingering specter of Goz's unrelenting fury, or the haunting image of Trajan's broken body. Maybe it was the strange woman in the purple dress; her slow clapping and sinister smile burned into Ry's mind like a branding iron. Or it was simply the blood loss.
The attendants in the holding chamber had done what they could, stemming the worst of the bleeding with clinical efficiency and packing her wounds with healing salves before wrapping them. Their hands had been steady, their faces indifferent. It couldn't be called care—it was customary, a grim necessity they performed countless times before. But the minor cuts and scrapes still seeped through the bandages, leaving faint crimson streaks on her skin and clothes as she shuffled on.
The corridors were eerily quiet, the oppressive silence broken only by the hollow echoes of footsteps. Ry’s faltering gait mingled with the steady march of the two men flanking her, their boots striking the sandstone in a rhythm as hard as the dungeon itself. Together, they created a terrible noise that bounced off the walls and filled the space with a horrid racket.
The living quarters loomed ahead, rows of shadowy cavities carved into the cold rock. Most were simple cages with heavy iron bars, allowing inhabitants to see and speak to one another. For others, like Ry, a sealed door and four cold walls were the only company they kept. As they passed, figures stirred in the darkness. Some sat on their cots, their faces gaunt and hollow, their eyes watching Ry with an almost eerie reverence. Others hung from their cells, their expressions unreadable as they gawked at her ambling down the hall. Their glances pressed down on her like a physical weight, their silent scrutiny unspoken but palpable.
Behind her came the murmurs. Subdued whispers carried through the air as voices spoke in hushed tones, words she couldn’t quite catch. But the clinking of metal and the rustle of cloth were unmistakable—contraband exchanged between the bars; bets quietly settled as the spectacle above came to its bloody conclusion. Even down here, in this pit of despair, the vices of the outside world found a home in which to thrive. Ry imagined the wagers made on her survival, the grim evaluations of odds in her favor or against her. Her life was reduced to something as trivial as numbers and coins.
Her head swam, her body moving as though underwater. It hardly registered as the trio continued deeper into the dwelling block. The murmurs faded into a dull buzz, the doors blurring into a single mass of iron. By the time they reached her cell, Ry’s knees were weak, her breath shallow, and the adrenaline that had carried her through the arena was dangerously close to abandoning her.
She almost didn't register when they unlatched the door, her thoughts a foggy blur of exhaustion and discomfort. For a moment, she stared blankly into the room, confused. This wasn’t how things were done. There was an order to this, a routine that offered a cold sort of stability. But today, everything felt wrong.
The guards removed her manacles with practiced indifference. One of them, his voice flat and impatient, broke the calm. “The lanista wants a word with you before we take you to the bathhouse. He’ll be down shortly. He’s entertaining guests.”
Before she could process the words, he turned her roughly and shoved her in. The door creaked shut behind her, and the heavy clunk of the lock echoed through the corridor. She stood motionless, staring at the wall ahead, the dim torchlight and waning strength making the damp surface appear darker than usual. It was as though the room itself had absorbed the essence of her despair.
Her eyes drifted down to her hands, lightly trembling at her sides. The blood from the arena hadn’t yet dried, streaking her fingers in dark, rust-colored stains. She flexed them absently, the tacky residue sticking to her skin. Her chest tightened. Blood that wasn’t hers. Trajan’s face flashed through her mind, his wide, pain-filled eyes staring at her in his final moments. Her breath caught in her throat, and her vision blurred as his broken body manifested at her feet, sprawled and lifeless, rasping breaths echoing against the impenetrable walls of her prison.
Not everyone is meant to make it. The words repeated, bounding through her head in a scratchy voice that didn't seem her own. A hollow justification she had told herself countless times prior, little more than honeyed words meant to ease her splintering mind.
She sank to the ground, her back pressed against the cold iron door. Her legs drew up to her neck, and she buried her face in her knees, gritting her teeth and silencing the sobs that wracked her body. She could feel the tears start to roll down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as she cried soundlessly into the void. No one was there to see her, no crowd to cheer or jeer, no overseers to bark orders. She was alone, and the pressure of that solitude crushed her as surely as any corporeal blow. When is this supposed to get easier?
The minutes crawled on endlessly as she sat there, her body shaking with the effort to suppress the sounds. It was more than just Trajan’s face that haunted her; the dozens that came before him, their death wails and pleas of mercy filling the room with their ghostly cadence. She shook her head, trying to repress the memories, but the images clung to her like a shroud.
Then, a sound broke through her anguish. A soft scrape—metal against stone, deliberate yet hesitant. Ry’s body stiffened as she lifted her head, her sobs stifled by surprise. For a moment, she thought she had imagined it. But then came another sound, almost inaudible: a quick gasp from an inky corner.
It took a moment for Ry’s eyes to adjust to the oppressive darkness, but eventually, she saw the source of the noise. In the far corner, thin and frail, a girl was trying to press herself further into the wall as though sheer force of will might merge her with it. Her body was streaked with mud and grime, the filth of the dungeons clinging to her like a second skin. Her hair hung in tangled, ratty clumps, framing a face hollowed by desperation and terror.
The girl’s orange-tinted eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto Ry’s. They were broad, brimming with a terror so raw it almost didn’t seem mortal. Tear streaks cut jagged lines through the dirt on her cheeks, shining in the dim light. As their gazes met, the girl gasped again, finding a way to press harder still against the unyielding stone. Her lips quivered, and her darting eyes flitted between Ry and the door as if hoping for an escape that didn’t exist.
Ry froze, stunned. The girl’s fear was visceral; her panicked movements were desperate, and her body was coiled as though ready to flee despite having nowhere to go. How did I miss her? Ry had never even seen her unexpected guest when she walked in, too consumed by the day to pay close enough attention.
Neither moved. Ry's mind raced with questions, her confusion etched into her bloodied face. Who the Hel is this? What is she doing here? The cell had always been hers, a lonely sanctuary in a world of chaos. But now, she wasn’t alone, and the sight of the girl—so broken yet alive—sent a ripple of unease through her.
Ry opened her mouth to speak, to ask the questions burning in her mind, but the girl flinched, her gaze snapping back to Ry as her fingers clawed at the sandstone. The stillness between them stretched as Ry stared at her, unsure whether to move closer or keep her distance.
“Please don’t hurt me." The girl's voice barely passed as a whimper. It was raw and scratchy, the sound of someone who had spent hours screaming, crying, or both.
Ry swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she stared down at herself. She could only imagine how she appeared to the girl—her body battered and bloodied, her tunic soaked with the remnants of the arena. Dried blood streaked her hands, and fresh cuts lined her skin, painting her as a figure of violence. Her heart dropped into her stomach, the girl’s anxiety settling in her chest like a boulder.
“I’m not going to.” Ry spoke softly, her voice careful and deliberate, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile tension. She shifted, sitting forward with her hands open and visible. “My name is Ry. What’s yours?”
The girl didn’t respond. Her broad, sunset-colored eyes stayed unblinking on Ry, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. She was frozen, a scared animal cornered by a predator. She didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stared.
The groaning swing of the door behind Ry shattered the frail stillness. The now empty void almost pulled her backward as she scrambled to sit upright, spinning around to face the commotion.
A guard’s voice broke through the noise. “Lanista Sullak, I—”
“You what?” The voice that interrupted was harsh and commanding, dripping with impatience and disdain.
Ry’s stomach twisted into a familiar knot at the sound. It was him. Lanista Sullak.
The guard stammered, trying to object. “Sir, I—”
“Enough.” Sullak's voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip. “Unless you’d like to find yourself personally invested in the next performance.”
The hulking figure stepped into the doorway, his broad form casting a shadow over the girls. Sullack wore the same grotesque grin as before, accompanied by the same piercing eyes that made Ry’s skin crawl. His presence saturated the place with an oppressive air, and Ry’s stomach churned, the familiar wave of nausea washing over her. The feeling surged every time she saw him, a visceral response to the man who controlled her fate with nothing more than a whim.
Sullak’s beady eyes swept over the sparse furnishings, pausing on Ry before landing on the girl huddled in the corner. His grin widened, his teeth bared like a predator surveying its prey. “Ah, my newest guest. How... charming.”
Sullak turned his head to Ry, who stood stiff, focused firmly on the floor. She could smell him before he spoke—the sharp tang of wine and the greasy scent of grilled meat wafting from his silk robe. The stains and flecks of crumbs clinging to the fabric only added to the nauseating effect of his presence. His jowls quivered as he held out a goblet of dark red liquid, the other already clutched in his fat fingers.
“Another hard-fought victory,” Sullak said, his voice slipping from his thick lips like oil. “One of our biggest nights yet due in some part thanks to you. Drink. You should be happy.”
Ry hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking the cup, her fingers brushing the sticky residue on its sides. She glanced down at the liquid inside, its surface gleaming in the flickering lantern light, looking back to Sullak as he raised his and drained it in one revolting gulp. His throat worked grotesquely as he swallowed, the excess dribbling into his unshaven stubble.
Sullak gestured at her expectantly, his grin widening. Ry pressed the rim to her lips and took a small sip. The liquid was sweet—cloyingly, painfully sweet. Her tongue recoiled immediately. It was more syrupy than the earthy, biting wines she’d drank before, designed to overwhelm the senses. She gagged, unable to mask her discomfort, and Sullak’s laugh bellowed like a predator’s growl.
“Too much for a Monster?”
As Ry lowered the goblet, her eyes darted to where the girl sat. The guard had stepped beside Sullack, his lantern now casting light into the shadows where she was crouched. For the first time, Ry could see her clearly.
Her skin was a deep, unnatural red, like the dying embers of a fire. Two stout horns protruded through the tangled mop of her black hair, curling upward in a shallow arc. She was taking short, ragged breaths between quivering lips, revealing pointed, shark-like fangs, and in her hands, she coiled a slender tail, gripping it tight as though it were a fragile shield. The lantern’s light revealed the exhaustion carved into her face—the deep bags under her eyes, the grimy tear streaks. Her body quivered, every muscle tense as though she expected to be struck at any moment.
Ry’s heart cracked as she took it all in. The girl must've been in her early twenties, certainly no older than herself, but in her petrified eyes, Ry saw nothing but a scared child. She recognized that look. The crushing terror, the desperate loneliness. It was the same look she’d had her first night in this hellscape when she’d sat in the same corner, crying for a mother who would never come.
Her breath struggled in her lungs, and she looked down at the wine glass in her hand, suddenly hating the sickly sweet liquid within. Sullak’s voice drifted in the background, but she couldn't hear him. She could only focus on the girl staring back at her, a reflection of everything Ry had tried to bury.
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"Ry." Sullak snapped his fingers before her face, the abrupt sound yanking her back to the moment. "Focus when I'm talking to you, girl."
Ry blinked, her dulled, glazed-over eyes dragging up to meet his. Her shoulder throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, and her ribs stabbed at her with every shallow breath. She struggled to concentrate, her mind sluggish and overwhelmed by the lingering effects of aching joints and exhaustion.
Sullak's irritation was obvious, his expression sour as he looked down at her. He had noticed her distraction, and his porcine face twisted into a sneer. "I'd suggest paying attention when your betters are speaking," he said, swirling the empty goblet in his hand as though it were full of something worth savoring. "Your performance today was... adequate, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a bit disappointed."
Ry furrowed her brow, unsure where he was going with this, but Sullak continued before she could respond.
"You just aren't fighting with the same animalistic fury you used to." He paced back and forth in the small doorframe, his massive bulk shifting with every step. "The people are beginning to gossip that their monster's teeth may have started to dull, and if they don't think they're going to get a good fight, they'll stop paying to come. Can’t have that, can we?"
Ry said nothing, her jaw clenched as he rambled, the bile rising as she realized he was speaking about her as a product, not a person. Her success wasn’t survival—it was an equation to be solved, a balance to be maintained to keep the gold flowing. She gripped the pewter in her hand, her knuckles whitening. Sullak stopped pacing.
"You’ll be training this one per order from myself," He gestured toward the girl like she was a piece of discarded furniture, something he’d dragged in on a whim. "You've been allowed a degree of privilege I rarely grant, but if you're going to fight like the rest of the worthless dregs down here, then don't expect to be treated any better. You and this one will fight as a pair from now on. I forked out a hefty purse of Solari for such a rare-looking Baelkin, and I expect you to keep her breathing long enough to learn the trade and start earning her keep."
Ry’s heart sank, her face twisting in a mixture of concern and dread. Her mind raced at the implications. She was only just keeping herself alive as it was, every fight a gamble against her own mortality. Now, she was expected to protect and rely on someone who had never seen a fight in her life. This is suicide.
Her lips parted, the urge to argue rising within her. She wanted to tell Sullack it wouldn't work, that it was madness, that the girl would only get herself killed and likely take Ry down with her. But the words died as they reached her tongue. There was no point. Her voice, her opinion, her very existence—none mattered here.
Instead, she swallowed her protest, her shoulders sagging as she resigned herself to this new burden. She looked toward the girl, and Ry’s chest tightened with guilt. How can I protect her when I can’t even protect myself? The thought clawed at her mind, unrelenting and cruel.
Sullak snatched the goblet from Ry’s hand, his thick fingers almost spilling its contents before tipping it back swiftly. He swallowed it in seconds, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh of satisfaction as if he’d quenched the deepest thirst of his life. His lips curled into a smug smile as he looked at Ry.
"Really, you should be thanking me," he scoffed, his tone dripping with mockery. "A chance to build your build upon your skillset. You were trained by the best this theatre of combat had to offer. It's only right that you should pass down what Marius taught you." He chuckled at himself, the sound grating and self-satisfied, before gazing between Ry and the girl.
"Keep this one alive," he said, gesturing toward the gaunt figure with a careless wave. "Your fates are intertwined now. If one of you fails, so does the other. No better motivator than death, I say."
Without another word, Sullak turned and lumbered toward the exit, barking an order to the guards. "Take them both to get cleaned up. They reek of sweat and blood." His voice echoed in the damp confines of the hall, and Ry instinctively stepped back, raising her wrists for the manacles.
As the two men approached, Ry glanced at her new responsibility, still crouched in the corner, her small frame shaking even harder than a few seconds ago. Ry leaned closer, her voice hushed as she whispered, “You have to stand up.”
The girl’s tear-filled eyes turned to Ry briefly before shifting back. She didn’t move, her fear keeping her rooted to the spot. Ry felt a flicker of frustration and helplessness, but the guards closed in before she could say more.
The manacles clicked shut around Ry’s wrists, the cold steel biting into her skin. They then turned to the girl, who suddenly screamed, her voice raw and panicked.
"No! Please, leave me alone!" Her cries echoed down the corridor, pathetic and desperate. Ry’s heart withered at the sound, her stomach twisting as they dragged the girl up from the corner. She fought against them, her tiny body thrashing wildly, but she was no match for their strength. They slammed her against the wall with a brutal thud, forcing her arms out to chain her wrists.
The noise drew out some of the other prisoners. Faces leaning against the bars of their cells, hollow eyes watching with a mix of morbid curiosity and weary indifference. A few muttered irritably from the shadows.
"Shut the fuck up," came a shout from somewhere in the murk, a harsh voice cutting through the girl’s screams.
More muttered groans followed, the sounds of prisoners annoyed at the disruption but unwilling to intervene. The girl stumbled as they shoved her forward, her legs struggling to support her shaking frame.
Standing beside Ry, she sniffled, her face streaked with fresh tears. Her entire body trembled as they were led down the dark, damp corridor and toward the stairs. Ry peeked at her from the corner of her eye, her heart heavy with guilt and anger. She wanted to say anything to reassure the girl, but no words came. All she could do was walk silently, her chains rattling in the oppressive quiet as they descended deeper into the shadows.
If we're going to survive, there can't be any room for weakness. She has to learn how things are here.
The bathhouse was one of the few reprieves from the misery of the arena’s blood-soaked existence. Nestled deep beneath the Arena Solis, it was a natural cave, home to a hot spring that was almost too perfect for a place like this. The water constantly replenished itself, filtered through unseen channels, and the grotto maintained a steady, soothing warmth. It was a small comfort amidst the violence and gore, but a comfort nonetheless.
Ry and the red-skinned girl were shoved into the chamber without ceremony, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind them with an echo that resonated throughout the cavern. After the sound settled, the stillness was almost sacred, broken by only the gentle trickle of water into the spring.
The girl stood frozen, her orange eyes darting around the room, body tense as though she expected some unseen horror to spring from the shadows. The natural peace of the grotto seemed to unnerve her more than the chaos of the cells, as if she couldn’t trust the calm. Ry observed her for a moment, her own unease rising. It was strange to have company here. Privacy in this place was one of the few nicities Sullack afforded her, but things had changed. Now, she was no better than the rest in his eyes.
Ry knew their time was short. A fleeting luxury, granted only after fights to wash away the grime. It would likely be days before she had this opportunity again. Without a word, she began shedding the tattered rags and bandages that clung to her body, tossing them into a corner. Her battered form moved stiffly, her ribs and shoulder still throbbing as she made her way to the water.
The pool welcomed Ry with a heat that seeped into her very bones. She sighed as she stepped in, allowing the water to envelop her aching muscles and bruised joints. The way it eased the pain and tension was almost magical, as though the grotto was trying to provide some relief in this place of endless suffering. She sank into the water up to her neck, closing her eyes and savoring the moment. The world faded away for a fleeting instant, dipping her head beneath the surface before emerging with a splash. Her auburn hair streamed down her face as she threw it back, the droplets catching the soft glow of the cavern’s light.
Wiping her face with her hands, she turned to look at the girl, still standing at the pool's edge. She hadn’t moved, her arms wrapped close around herself, her posture tense and defensive.
“You need to get clean.” Ry's voice cut through the stillness. She motioned toward the water with one hand. “If you’re dirty, you'll end up with lice. Or fleas.”
The girl winced at the echo, her attention snapping to Ry. She appeared to consider the words, her eyes flicking between the pool and the woman lounging. She swallowed hard but made no move to join her. Ry tilted her head with an unreadable expression as she watched this welp wrestle with her overwhelming anxiety.
“It’s not going to hurt you. Just water. You’ll feel better.”
Ry seethed as the girl stood motionless. Her face churned into an unamused scowl. Ungrateful little shit.
She bit her tongue, forcing herself to exhale, slow and controlled. She's new. She'll figure it out.
Ry had been like her once: scared, confused, and unsure of navigating this brutal world. It wouldn't be fair to hold her ignorance against her, no matter how it pricked Ry’s nerves. With a gentle sigh, she turned away and chose to ignore her, instead reaching for an old, worn bar of soap lying on a nearby rock.
She began the methodical cleaning process, letting the routine occupy her thoughts. The bar was gritty, its scent faint and medicinal, but it worked. Ry scrubbed her body with mechanical precision, the act more about cleansing her mind than her flesh. The fresh cuts and lacerations burned as she scrubbed into them, her jaw clenching against the piercing sting. She scrubbed harder as if trying to erase the dry blood and the memories the stains represented.
As she began to clean the lacerations on her shoulder, she let out a hard grunt, and her knees nearly buckled under her. Goz had done a number on her, sinking his maw to the bone in some places. Ry didn’t stop, though. She wouldn’t stop. This was a part of existence, just like fear and death.
As she stood up, the water streaming down her torso, Ry could sense eyes on her. The weight of that gaze was unmistakable, making her pause. Her hand gripped the soap tight enough to leave indents. She knew the girl's eyes were tracing the scars that crisscrossed her body, lingering on the fresh wounds and bruises that mottled her skin.
She continued scrubbing, ignoring the stare until a faint, shaky voice broke the silence behind her.
“That looks like it hurts.”
Ry turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her company had taken a tentative step forward, arms still wrapped protectively around herself, though her grip appeared looser now.
Ry regarded her with a neutral expression at first before nodding her head. “It does.” She rinsed the suds off her shoulder, watching the water run red as it carried away the blood and suds. “But it’s better than getting an infection.”
She returned to scrubbing, saying nothing more. A small part of her was relieved. The girl had approached the water. Not much, but it was something.
“You asked what my name was. It's Thessea”
Ry turned, her tired eyes meeting the Thessea's. “It’s nice to meet you, Thessea.”
The quiet that followed was thick, and the air in the grotto was heavy with unspoken tension. Thessea shifted awkwardly on her bare feet, fidgeting with her hands as she searched for words.
“I am, uh, sorry. For earlier. Everything's just been so... awful. ”
Ry regarded her with a sallow expression, nodding ever so slightly. “I know,"
There was another pause between them, the trickling of the spring the only sound in the chamber. Ry turned toward a smooth, worn rock that jutted from the pool. She pulled herself onto it, wincing as she struggled against her searing ribs, then sat with her long legs stretched out over the water. The rock was slick under her hands, polished by countless bodies who had come here before her.
Thessea gaze danced around the chamber as though searching for something unseen. “I heard them talking about you… the others… while I was in there by myself. They called you 'Monster'. Why?”
The question hung in the air, cutting through the fragile peace like a blade. Ry froze, her eyes lowering to the soap in her hands as her shoulders dropped. Her grip tightened.
She didn’t look at Thessea when she finally replied. “Because that's what I am. That's what you wanna hear, right?”
Thessea flinched at the words, her head lowering toward her feet. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her ragged tunic as she muttered, “I’m sorry.”
Ry heaved, her shoulders pulling back as she set the bar on the rock beside her to lean back on her hands. “Don't say that. You can’t be sorry here. Apologizing is for the weak and timid, and that’s the last thing you want to be."
Thessea looked up, her brow furrowing. Ry met her stare, her own face devoid of judgment, only a hard-earned pragmatism. “This place smells weakness. It uses it. And makes you regret it.” Her voice softened, but the weight of her words remained. “Save your apologies for the world outside these walls... if you ever see it again.”
The silence returned, heavier now, as Thessea absorbed Ry’s words. The girl nodded faintly, her hands clasping tightly as she stared at the water. Ry returned to the task, scrubbing her legs as her thoughts lingered on the label she couldn’t escape. Monster. A word she hadn't chosen but one that had been thrust upon her, and now it was all that defined her in the eyes of others.
Ry paused mid-scrub. Her words had been harsh, sharper than she intended. That wasn't who she was—or at least, who she used to be. Maybe it was now. The thought unsettled her, and she turned to look at Thessea. She stood frozen at the water’s edge, shifting like a single wrong word might shatter her entirely.
She's gotta be stronger than this, Ry thought grimly. If she was going to survive here—if she was going to be more than a hindrance—she had to learn. But the thought stung with hypocrisy. Ry remembered the first time they’d handed her an actual blade. She had shaken so violently it looked like a seizure, her hands slick with sweat as the heft of the weapon overwhelmed her. The idea of killing, of taking a life, had made her sick to her stomach. She’d fought even to lift the sword, much less wield it. And now here she was, judging someone who had never known this kind of brutality, expecting her to adapt as if it were easy.
But no one else would go easy on Thessea. Why should Ry? Fighting alone, surviving for herself—it was simple, in a way. If she died, it was her own fault. Thanks to Sullak's meddling that had changed. She would be fighting for more than her own survival. That responsibility bore down on her heavier than anything she'd carried before.
Ry looked out over the pool, the strain in her shoulders easing slightly. “Where are you from?”
Thessea looked up at her, the question catching her off guard. She hesitated; her expression seemed to peak for an instant before a realization set in. “Aureus Vale,” she responded, just above a whisper.
A subtle grin tugged at Ry's lips, the name sparking faint recognition. Aureus Vale—she had heard of it. A place of rolling hills and golden fields, or so the stories went. It was a world away from here, a distant memory of a kinder place. The answer lacked any depth, but it was something. Ry met Thessea’s gaze, and the tightly wound unease seemed to diminish for the first time.
What might've seemed like a simple, awkward interaction with an outsider was profound to Ry. In the pit of violence where she had been stripped of humanity, this was grounding in a way she hadn’t experienced in far too long. Ry couldn’t remember the last time she had talked to someone—not had orders barked at her, not exchanged barbs in the heat of a fight, but actually talked about anything other than her hell. It was foreign. Strange. It also felt like a connection. Thin and weak, but a connection.
“I heard it's beautiful there.” She didn’t wait for Thessea to answer, though. Instead, she returned to the water and resumed cleaning, her movements slower, more deliberate. It's a start, she thought to herself.
She'll die like the rest. Ry froze.