Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The belly of the colosseum groaned with the sound of iron and men. Stone walls pressed close, cracked and sweat-stained, lined with barred cells like teeth in a broken jaw. Torches spat out smoke and flickering light, casting long shadows through the corridor where gladiators wandered in the lull between battles.

Some sat sharpening blades, while others played games scratched into the floor with bones. They talked, shouted, and fought. A few laughed too loudly. The place was noisy, alive in a bitter sort of way. Each had a cell to sleep in, but during the day, they walked the halls freely, brushing shoulders and exchanging threats as if they were greetings. The air reeked of old blood, rust, and something fouler.

Down one corner, darker than the rest, stood the cell no one visited.

It always stayed in shadow, even when torchlight reached it. The stench struck first, worse than anything else in the dungeon, a mix of shit, rot, and something sour, like meat spoiled in the sun.

A figure sat there—or maybe leaned. No one could quite tell where his limbs began or ended, just bones wrapped in loose skin, ribs sharp like knives beneath stretched flesh. He did not move or speak. His face had disappeared into the dark days ago. No name had ever been spoken.

Some pretended not to care. Most spat in his direction. But a few found amusement in having something to laugh at.

Brusk stomped down the hall as if he owned it, and in truth, down here, he did. He towered above the rest, thick-necked with a scar across one cheek, the kind of man who seemed to flex just by walking.

Branded deep into the thick flesh of his chest was a sigil both savage and regal, a flying green snake with outstretched wings twisted around a longsword that pierced upward through its spiraled body. The snake's fanged maw gaped wide just beneath the sword's hilt, as if it were biting into the very weapon that bound it.

A dirty cloth hung from his waistband, and a crooked grin tugged at his lips.

"Still breathing, rat?" he said, pausing outside the cell.

A few others followed behind him, less muscle and more smirk. Brusk faced the bars, turned his back, and unfastened his pants.

"Here. Let me help with the smell."

He pissed slowly and deliberately, drawing out the sound as it splashed just outside the rusted bars. His boys cackled. The puddle ran thin and yellow across the stone, tracing the cell's edge before soaking in.

Then he squatted, face twisting with theatrical effort as the stench thickened. One of the others gagged, then laughed anyway.

Inside the cage, the figure did not move—not even a twitch.

"What, too full from your last meal?" Brusk said. "Should've left some room, monster."

There was no answer, only the soft drip of water down the far wall. The crowd around Brusk lingered, waiting for a reaction, but none came. Eventually, they wandered off, satisfied in their own stink.

Some distance away, Valkira stood leaning against a support pillar, arms crossed, jaw stiff.

Her eyes had remained locked on the cell, sharp and unwavering. Her knuckles were pale around the hilt of her blade.

A few others stood nearby, quiet ones, rough around the edges, but loyal. Her presence created space, like a drawn bow ready to snap. Even Brusk had glanced her way as he passed, though he said nothing.

She said even less.

She simply watched the darkened cell, breathing slow and steady, a heat in her stare no torch could match.

Whatever she saw in there, it was not merely a starving boy, and it certainly was not pity.

A long, deep horn rang through the stones, low and full, as if it had come from the bones of the colosseum itself. Every gladiator froze for half a second, then began to move without needing a word.

Meal time had come.

Boots shuffled and bones cracked.

The air shifted.

At the far end of the chamber, the great iron gate scraped open, lifted by groaning chains somewhere above. Sunlight sliced through the gloom, falling in golden lines across the dirt floor. For a moment, the stink of blood and piss was buried under warmth and the scent of open air.

Guards stepped in first, faces bored, armor dented, spears in hand and keys on belts. Everyone already understood what came next.

The fighters filed out through the opening, past the torches and the reek of bodies. Some said they moved like cattle. Others joked they marched like kings. Either way, they moved fast, driven by habit and the rhythm of survival.

Outside the pit, the world looked cleaner. Gravel paths stretched ahead, shaded corners offered momentary relief, and rows of benches surrounded stone basins filled with water. Slaves had already laid out bowls along a long table, steam rising from meats and warm grains—the kind that filled your gut and helped you last through the week.

Not everyone received the same.

Gladiators were ranked, and everyone knew their number. Win ten matches and you moved from floor straw to a cushion and a blanket. Win twenty and proper armor and clothes became yours. At fifty, you ate hot meals every day. At a hundred, you left this hall entirely, promoted to the next tier of fighters with cleaner rooms, fresh air, and a private cell that had windows and running water. By the time someone reached the fifth tier, with over four hundred kills, they were treated more like prized bulls than men.

There were ten levels in total.

The last meant freedom.

But no one here had made it past sixty fights. Most remained in the single digits.

Slaves moved quietly between them, scrubbing walls and collecting bowls. Some of them looked barely older than children. The guards watched over all of them, speaking little, but always keeping their hands near the hilts of their weapons.

Disease killed crowds faster than swords, and the games were only as good as the fighters appeared. Nobles did not come to see corpses stumble about the arena. They wanted blood, but only from bodies that could still dance. The food was meant to sustain, not to please. Just enough to keep the crowd entertained through the next match.

Back in the dark hallway, behind the flickering torchlight, the last cell remained shut.

No one reached for its lock. No guard turned their head that way. No food was placed nearby.

Inside, the figure still leaned in the same spot, ribs jutting through skin. His eyes did not follow the fading light as it slipped across the floor and vanished. His head remained bowed. His arms stayed still.

The others had a path, a ladder they might climb.

He had none. He was forgotten, like a mistake no one dared admit had been made.

The body stirred, attempting a pushup, perhaps trying to exercise the muscles that no longer existed.

One pushup—

No. A failure.

A futile attempt.