Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The stench of rust, piss, and rot never changed in the gladiator chamber. It clung to the stone walls like a second skin, sour and stubborn. The only difference today came from the silence. A strange hush had settled over the hall, and the cause was neither sleep nor weariness.

It was him.

At the far end, in a cell darkened by angle and neglect, Caelvir leaned back against the wall, silent and still, watching. His figure, once hollowed and worn thin, had filled out in subtle ways—less bones, more presence. The bruises, once purple and cracked, had faded. The boy who vanished for three days had returned not only unbroken but also somehow refined. His wounds had closed, and, oddly, a faint clean scent lingered around him, the kind found in fine robes and perfumed halls.

Brusk noticed. They all did. No one dared speak it aloud, but they couldn't stop glancing in his direction, even if they pretended not to.

Brusk, sharpening a blade without glancing down, ground his teeth.

"Three days," he muttered to no one. "Three gods-damned days he disappears, and he comes back smelling like a brothel."

One of his crew chuckled nervously. "That boy isn't what we thought. Took down twenty. Twenty."

Another muttered, "He's already at twenty-two kills…"

Brusk stood. "He killed blind men," he spat. "You act like he's some hero out of a bard's tale. He's just good at butchering the lame, the weak, maybe even a few women while they weren't looking. Twenty-two corpses don't make a man."

Yet his voice betrayed a heavier truth, bitterness curling under every word.

Meanwhile, in Caelvir's cell—if it could still be called his—there was no weapon. No broken blade. No iron piece snuck through cracks. Seren's sword, once claimed by him, was gone. His fingers twitched subtly against the floor, recalling the weight of it.

Across the chamber, the sword rested with Valkira, its grip wrapped in cloth and leaning against her cell wall like a relic.

"You should give it back," Aelric said, calm and precise as always.

Valkira raised an eyebrow. "Give what back?"

"The boy's sword."

She scoffed. "Seren's sword. It was never his."

"He beat her. Fairly."

"That doesn't make him worthy. He has no right to carry her will."

Aelric tilted his head. "The results speak clearly. A corpse doesn't protest a title."

She glared, annoyed, though her fingers brushed the blade's hilt almost without thought.

A horn cried through the chamber, announcing the lunch bell. Time for stale light and half-rotten meat.

The men filed out like insects escaping a hole. Caelvir remained behind, unmoving, still leaning against the wall. Once, he had slept under golden silk. Now, shit and iron welcomed him back.

Children swept through the halls, silent and weary—boys and girls, carrying buckets of water, rags, trays. Slaves younger than ten. They stopped short of his cell and avoided it entirely. Forbidden.

He counted their faces. Some were new. Others had vanished. He didn't ask how.

It was time for training. Muscles had to be honed to survive the pit.

He stood up and lay down, chest pressing to the floor.

One pushup. Then two. Three. Four. Five.

He continued until thirty perfect pushups had passed, but his muscles refused to carry him further.

******

Outside, beneath a hazy patch of sun, Valkira's group ate. Aelric's bowl was clean, not a crumb left.

Valkira smirked as she eyed it. "What happened to not eating meat, monk?"

"Old habits," Aelric replied with a dry chuckle. "They die young, here."

She rolled her eyes. "You've finally come around."

Aelric leaned back, peaceful as ever. "Speaking of coming around... you should give him that sword."

She scowled again. "Still on that?"

Lysara, quiet until now, spoke gently. "A warrior's will is passed through steel, through combat. The sword belongs to the one who earned it."

Valkira turned, almost betrayed. "You too?"

Aelric chuckled. "If you've made your mind, I won't press further. But I know why you kept it."

Valkira narrowed her eyes. "What are you trying to say?"

Aelric looked at her kindly. "You didn't take it for yourself. You took it to keep it safe for someone."

—Three Days Ago—

The air had been thick with sweat and blood as another pit fight ended in brutal fashion. One of Brusk's men, towering and grim-faced, stood victorious over a battered opponent who lay crumpled and defeated. The crowd's roar faded into a tense hush as the victor reached down and grasped a gleaming sword left behind in the dust.

Seren's blade.

He raised it high, a cruel grin spreading across his face.

With a flourish, he entered the dungeon hall, the weapon gleaming in dim torchlight. The sword seemed to hum faintly, as if alive, though the others saw only a trophy claimed without honor.

Before he could take a step further, a shadow snapped forward. Valkira struck swift, silent, and deadly. She lunged and twisted the sword from his grasp before he could gloat or brandish it.

The man stumbled, caught off guard, but snarled as he tried to wrest it back.

Valkira pinned him effortlessly, one hand pressed to his chest while the other held Seren's sword firmly against his throat.

"This blade is not yours," she said coldly, voice sharp as steel.

Tension gripped the hall. Brusk's crew tensed, hands twitching toward weapons. A clash hovered close.

But Brusk raised a hand and spoke with a rough amusement. "Let her have it," he said with a crooked grin. "Just a rusty blade from someone who couldn't beat fragile bones."

The words stung, but Valkira held her ground.

The man on the floor spat but offered no more resistance.

The moment passed, the threat faded, but the message remained clear; the sword was hers to hold, at least for now.

—Present—

Back in the yard, Valkira's lips curled. "So I was keeping it for someone?"

Aelric gave a small smile. "Send it to the one you meant it for."

"To Seren? What, you want me to stab the sky?"

She shook her head. "Stop this vague blabbering of monks."

"Well, I am a monk," he said, laughing as he stood.

"Used to be," she corrected him.

He turned to leave.

"Where are you going now?"

"To nap. My spirit needs rest."

Valkira watched him walk off. "Since when does he get sleepy at noon?"

—That Night—

That night, footsteps echoed down the corridor, quiet and slow. Guards dozed in their chairs.

Valkira moved like a ghost, blade in hand.

She reached Caelvir's cell.

He was already awake, watching her from the dark.

She stepped closer. "Still awake, huh?"

He crawled forward slowly, his eyes flicking to the blade in her hand.

She tilted it slightly, mockingly. "Afraid? Does Seren haunt you still?"

Caelvir remained silent.

"Impressive, though," she continued. "Twenty-two kills. Maybe you're more than just bones and silence. Even if you've yet to fight a real opponent."

He blinked slowly. "Have you come to kill me then? With her blade?"

Her eyes widened a touch before she smirked. "So you can put together words. And here I thought you were just a ghost with sharp eyes."

He shrugged. "I've been in worse places than this hole."

"I can tell," she said, stepping closer. "You don't smell like the rest of us anymore."

"I was somewhere better."

"I won't ask where."

She eyed him curiously. "And I see you've quit eating flesh. You grow stronger still. Strange. What do you eat now? Do you pray and gods send you sweets from the heavens?"

He didn't answer.

"Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets."

She turned the sword, grip first. "Take it. It belongs to you."

He hesitated but only for a moment.

Their hands met through the bars, briefly too close. Breath caught. The space between them thinned.

She coughed. "Take it, quickly. Before the guards wake up."

He pulled the sword through, grip tightening.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For your kindness."

She blinked. "Don't thank me. The sword belongs to the victor. It's not a gift."

Her voice cooled. "Besides, it'd be a waste if you died now. I'd rather kill you myself."

She turned and vanished into the dark.

Caelvir stood in silence.

Then, blade in hand, he stepped back into the center of his cell.

One swing, two, three, four, and more to come.

Caelvir swinged the sword with no opponents to defeat or crowds to see, only the shadows lurking in the shadows.