The stone wall behind him was damp again. Caelvir leaned against it anyway, shoulder pressed into the cold surface as if it could hold him up, steady him. He breathed slowly. The scent that filled his nose was the same rot that had lived here for months—urine dried in corners, feces mashed into cracks of stone, old blood flaked like rust across the floor.
But maybe it wasn't as foul as before. Maybe since Brusk's downfall and the scattering of his gang, fewer men had come through this cellblock to leave their stench behind. Or maybe he'd just gotten used to it. That was worse.
The Sword of Seren rested against his skin, smooth and cold, not a speck of rust on it. He had no pillow, no food, not even a proper place to piss, but the sword—he kept that clean. Always.
Sometimes, in the depth of night, when the pit grew still and the air tasted of rot and rusted chains, he could swear the steel whispered. Not voices he understood—incantations, maybe. Like something breathed through the sword's spine. There were no words, but they pulsed with rhythm, old and knowing. Once or twice, he thought he heard something like a name.
Maybe he was going insane.
Or maybe the blade remembered the hands that once wielded it.
He exhaled. His breath fogged faintly in the stale air.
One more fight.
That was all.
Ninety-nine corpses behind him. One more, and he'd be out of this hole. This stone-walled grave they called the Dust Arena.
He didn't bother wondering if the hundredth would deserve it. Deserving had nothing to do with it. It never had.
Maybe it'd be Lysara. She was near her hundredth too. Cold eyes, sharp movements. Fought like she knew exactly where to cut, and when. But there was something unfinished in her, something he understood. And the Sword of Seren—sometimes it pulsed near her, whispered its strange breath like it approved.
Or maybe a Stonefang brute—fifteen feet of muscle and bone, fast and strong, enough force to shatter a man's ribs with a single blow. Wouldn't be the first one he'd faced. But at least that would make sense. A final show for the crowd. A fight to remember.
He frowned.
Aelric, maybe.
That one would sting.
He didn't want to put a blade in that old man. Didn't want to see those quiet, kind eyes dim. Aelric was strange—a monk, but not soft. Old, but not weak. There was steel beneath his skin and wisdom in his voice, the kind that couldn't be taught.
Aelric had saved him, more than once. Slipped meat past the guards, real meat, while others gnawed on bone. Even risked beatings to do it. And he had healed him—subtle, careful, no flashy lights or chants. Just whispered control, enough to push the body to do what it forgot it could.
Without Aelric, Caelvir wouldn't have made it past the second fight.
But if they called Aelric as the opponent—
He wouldn't hesitate.
That's the rule of the pit. You swing, or you're buried.
Still, it left a weight in his chest.
Before this place.
Before... everything.
He remembered silk. Not just cloth—life. Silk in the sheets, silk in the robes, silk in the food. He remembered soft-spoken servants, hot baths, and the sound of string music floating in the garden. For a short time, Venara's estate had felt like a return to a different world.
Too short.
Because she sent him back.
Even if it was a kindness. Even if it was mercy.
Mercy had teeth.
He tasted it now.
There were days when he stared at the wall too long and felt the warmth of silk on his back—only to blink and remember the stone. Cold. Rough. Real. He didn't curse her for it. But he didn't thank her either.
Giving a starving man a bite of honey only made the rot taste worse.
But the worst wasn't the cell. Not the stench. Not even the kills.
It was the dreams.
Memories. Fragments. Scars.
There were times he woke up whispering his own name.
Caelvir
The boy who once bore that name was long gone—shed like a skin, abandoned like a corpse.
It had belonged to someone else.
A better boy. A brighter one.
And now a man carried it. Wore it like a blade to the ribs. Let it cut, let it remind.
He didn't remember the moment he wore it like an armor. Not clearly. But he remembered the feeling. The silence. The betrayal. The way her hands stayed clean, while someone else bled.
Her.
The scent of lavender. The way she touched your cheek, as if she loved you. As if you were her world. Then the dagger, hidden beneath the silk.
She was beautiful. Impossibly so.
A flawless mask that hid the venom beneath.
She was a liar.
He had buried everything since then—his hatred, his rage, his heart. Buried it beneath steel and silence. But it was still there.
Not for Brusk. Not for the guards. Not even for the men he killed.
All of that was dust.
He was saving it. Every shred of fury, every drop of loathing, every ounce of soul-deep disgust.
For her.
He didn't say her name. He never would.
And when it did—
The blade would sing, not for him, but for someone else.
Yet he still sat there in the dark, heart quiet, rage asleep but breathing beneath the surface.
He had to get out of here first.
They said the Iron Arena was better. Cleaner. Less filth. Less cruelty.
More freedom.
Caelvir didn't trust that.
He knew what freedom meant in this world. Just another word for a longer leash.
But even so—
Even a longer leash could reach her neck.
He stood, finally. Stretched slow. Felt the bones shift and pop. His joints ached—always did after the cold set in. He didn't complain. He hadn't uttered a word of complaint since the first day he came here.
This place wanted to see you crawl.
He gave it silence.
A cough echoed in the next cell. Someone dying, or pretending to. Didn't matter.
He slid the Sword of Seren back into its sheath. The weight on his hip felt right. Balanced.
It was almost time.
They would come soon, guards in iron and voice rough with boredom. They'd say it like a joke: "One more dance, pretty boy."
And he'd walk out.
He wouldn't wave to the crowd.
He wouldn't grin.
He would survive.
And after that—
After he left this cage—
He would climb.
To the Iron Arena.
To another cage.
And to the next.
And eventually...
To freedom.
To her.