Before the group reached the main gate of Noxhaven, Bento swung off his horse with practiced ease. His movements carried the weight of authority, a reminder of the power he held over them. Lyra followed, dismounting with her usual grace, her expression unreadable as she tied her horse to a rusted iron post jutting from the cracked, soot-streaked wall.
The three Culled—Phoenix, Becca, and Kellen—stood in silence, their nerves coiling tighter as the city loomed closer. The air here felt different, oppressive. Even the dim twilight sky seemed darker near Noxhaven, as though the city itself consumed the light.
Bento turned to face them, his gaze like a predator sizing up prey. “Noxhaven,” he began, his gravelly voice thick with disdain, “is both different and the same as Volska. Bigger fights. Larger crowds. More brutal stakes.” He paced slowly, his boots crunching on the dirt-streaked cobblestones. “You won’t just fight other Culled. Sometimes, you’ll face things worse than men—things pulled straight out of nightmares.”
His yellowed teeth caught the faint light as he smirked, a grotesque expression that sent a shiver down Phoenix’s spine. “You’ll stay in barracks with the other Culled. It’s a prison dressed up with a nicer name, but you’ll have a scrap of freedom—if you can call it that.”
He stopped, his eyes locking onto Phoenix’s. “The Culled have their own alley in the city. There, you can spend your winnings on weapons, armor, and anything else you think might keep you alive a little longer. But let me be clear—” his voice turned sharper, the menace palpable, “—don’t even think about escaping. The alley is surrounded by a Grade D warding stone, tuned to your Prisoner’s Culling. None of you will ever be strong enough to break through it. Not now. Not ever.”
Phoenix’s stomach churned at his words. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to meet his gaze. She glanced at Becca, who stood rigid, her jaw tight with controlled anger. Their shared look was brief but resolute.
Lyra stepped forward, her sharp gaze cutting through the tension as she motioned for Kellen to follow her. “Come,” she said, her tone as icy as ever. Kellen hesitated, his usual bravado replaced by unease, but he obeyed, trailing behind her as they moved a few steps away.
Phoenix strained to hear, her Enhanced Hearing picking up scattered fragments of Lyra’s hushed voice. “...focus… disgrace me again… consequences...” Lyra’s words were laced with venom, her fury barely contained.
Meanwhile, Bento turned his attention to Phoenix and Becca. “You’re fortunate,” he said, his voice dropping to a quieter, more dangerous tone. “Because of my standing, you’ll get your own bunk room. Just the two of you. But don’t make me regret that decision.” His gaze hardened, his next words carrying the weight of a threat. “I have a lot riding on you two. Lose, and I’ll make sure you wish you’d died in the arena.”
Phoenix and Becca exchanged another glance, this one longer. Whatever lay ahead, they knew they’d have to face it together.
The group moved closer to the gates, and the air seemed to grow heavier with every step. The street became more crowded, the press of bodies and voices overwhelming. Phoenix’s Enhanced Hearing picked up snatches of conversation—jeers, whispers, and harsh laughter.
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Some passersby stopped to sneer, their eyes catching on the dark bands marking the Culled. A few spat at their feet, muttering curses, while others hurled insults. “Culled scum,” one man growled, his lips curling in disgust.
Others walking the streets were clearly fellow Culled, their defeated postures and wary gazes giving them away. Some marched in step behind their masters, their chains clinking softly with every step. Phoenix felt their fear and desperation radiating in waves, a reflection of her own turmoil.
At the gate, Bento and Lyra dismounted once more, handing a stack of papers to the guards stationed there. The guards inspected the documents briefly before waving them through with practiced indifference.
As the group passed through the gates, two boys approached, their thin frames and hollow eyes betraying their youth. Phoenix’s stomach dropped when she noticed the dark bands on their arms—Prisoner’s Cullings. The boys couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Without a word, they took the horses and led them away, their faces void of expression.
A soft *ding* startled Phoenix. The sound, faint and metallic, felt almost foreign after so long. She blinked, a faint shimmer appearing in her vision.
You have entered: Noxhaven
Noxhaven is a crumbling, forsaken city shrouded in perpetual twilight, its jagged spires piercing a sky that never fully brightens. Once a bastion of knowledge and power, it now stands as a decayed monument to hubris, where shadows move with intent, and the remnants of its dark legacy lie in wait for the unwise or the unwary.
Phoenix swallowed hard, the words lingering in her mind like a curse.
“Pathetic,” Kellen muttered, his voice breaking through the oppressive atmosphere. His eyes darted to every darkened corner, his usual arrogance creeping back. “I expected more from the so-called Shadow Kingdom.”
Phoenix ignored him, her attention drawn to the massive structure dominating the skyline.
“This is Noxhaven’s arena,” Bento announced, his voice carrying a grim sort of pride. “The largest in the Shadow Kingdom. And you’re here for its crowning event: The Crucible of Dominion.”
Lyra’s gaze was sharp as a knife as she added, “The biggest tournament of the year. Thousands of Culled brought here to compete. Consider it an honor.”
Phoenix’s jaw clenched. An honor? Fuck you both. She thought and forced down the anger rising in her throat, though the bile burned at the back of her tongue. To call this slaughter an honor was a cruel mockery of the lives lost here.
The arena’s towering gates loomed above them, flanked by statues of faceless warriors carved from black stone. The stone figures radiated an aura of menace, their blank expressions an eerie reflection of the death that awaited within.
The group veered into a side alley bustling with grim activity. Phoenix’s sharp eyes scanned the scene—merchants hawking weapons and armor, traders dealing in scraps of salvaged hope. The air buzzed with tension, the desperate energy of those clinging to survival.
At the alley’s end, Bento and Lyra stopped in front of a large stone building. They disappeared inside, leaving the Culled to wait in heavy silence.
When they returned, Bento held two iron keys. He tossed one to Phoenix and the other to Becca.
“These are for your room. The tournament starts in two days. Food is delivered twice daily, so don’t go starving yourselves. And one last thing—” he leaned in close, his voice a low, menacing growl. “Don’t get yourselves killed before the games begin. I’d hate to lose my investment.”
With that, he turned and strode away, Lyra following in his wake.
Phoenix and Becca lingered outside the building for a moment, the oppressive silence pressing down on them. Finally, they exchanged a weary nod and stepped inside.
The interior was stark and utilitarian, the stone walls damp and cold. Their room was no better—a cramped, windowless space with two cots and a single flickering lantern.
Phoenix dropped onto her cot, her body heavy with exhaustion.