Chapter 2
TWO
Takkian
Takkian paced the length of the cell, his boots tapping against the smooth floor with each turn. Twenty steps one way, pivot over the water spigot that dripped into the drainage grate, twenty steps back. It wasn’t terribly cramped—his many victories in the arena had afforded him and his cellmate some comforts—but he moved like a caged predator anyway, shoulders tense, each measured step radiating frustration. The walls were clean white and made of some composite that quieted whatever noise might come from the cells on either side of them. The light strip in the high metal ceiling hummed softly. Its light glinted off his green scales, picking up the faint black interlocking patterns tattooed across his forearms.
Bruil sat hunched on his cot, sharpening a blunt piece of scrap metal that, at this point, would be more useful for peeling ration bark than stabbing anyone. His hands, knotted with age and old fractures, shook faintly as he worked, but he refused to stop. That was Bruil—stubborn as a warka beast, even when he didn’t need to be.
“If anyone catches you trying to make a weapon, they’ll drag you to the arena floor,” Takkian said, his growl low, wary. He didn’t slow his pacing but flicked a glance toward the door.
Bruil let out a snort. “They wouldn’t waste the effort. Look at me.” He shook the rust-colored scales along his arms, thin and loose over wiry muscle. “I haven’t been a fighter in too many cycles to count. They’d get a laugh shoving me back out there.”
Takkian grunted as he turned again. “Nothing funny about that.”
“It’s the fekking truth.” Bruil’s voice rasped like sandpaper on steel. He set the scrap piece aside and leaned back, wincing faintly against the cot’s springs. Takkian didn’t know any other Zaruxians, aside from Bruil, but he knew they weren’t built to grow old in slavery—not like this, where survival came down to strength, speed, and brute endurance. Bruil had once had all those things, or so Takkian had been told when he arrived. Now, he was tired, beaten down, hollowing like a shell left too long in the desert wind. One day, Takkian would be just like him, but likely without a young fighter to protect him.
The thought of Bruil being taken—or worse, dying in this damned place—stirred an anger deep in his chest, one that never fully went away. Every day, he woke up and choked it down. Every night, he shoved it back into the pit of himself, because he could see his own fate in the weary hollows of Bruil’s face and the ragged remains of his wings. Whoever he’d been before he was brought here was long gone—not that he could remember a time before being an arena fighter. He was more beast than Zaruxian at this point. He rolled his shoulders and forced himself to keep moving.
A shrill screech of the cell block doors opening made him freeze. Takkian stopped mid-step. He didn’t turn toward the sound, but his claws lengthened involuntarily. It wasn’t feeding time, and it was too soon for the next round of fights. Unscheduled visits never meant anything good.
Bruil squinted toward the sound of approaching footsteps and mechanical rollers. “Think someone put in a complaint about my fine craftsmanship here?” he asked dryly, but he quickly slid the scrap of metal he’d been sharpening under the mattress.
Before Takkian could reply, the cell door’s locks released and the heavy metal slab slid open, revealing a mechanized guard, or mech . This one was less battered than those who escorted fighters to the arena, and it it brought with it two pitiful-looking beings—a juvenile male Dokkol, whose massive shoulders were hunched and shaking, and a small female of some sort who wore a ragged vest and a furious expression.
The mech raised one of its many appendages—this one armed with a stun baton—and held it aloft. “Step back,” it said. “Against the wall.”
Exhaling loudly through his nostrils, Takkian stepped back as told. The poor Dokkol was crying as he trembled just outside the cell. That might be a strange sight to those who knew nothing about the species. They were towering, powerfully strong giants with large, rock-hard plates all over their bodies. They were also not fighters. The gentle, peaceful way of the Dokkol made them the last species that belonged in the arena. The fact that this one was a juvenile added a twist to Takkian’s already sick stomach. The female with the Dokkol, whose species he couldn’t identify, was trying to soothe the young giant, despite the contemptuous glances she kept throwing at the mech.
The mech shoved the juvenile Dokkol into the cell first, nearly sending the young male sprawling onto the floor. Takkian’s arms flexed instinctively, as though he might surge forward to stop it, but he didn’t dare move. Experience kept him still. Crossing a mech would earn all of them nothing but pain. Everything the mechs did was recorded and reviewed by arena officials.
The female was next. She walked in under her own power, practically marching. Her head was held high. She didn’t stumble, didn’t so much as flinch as the mech’s appendage hovered near her back, threatening to prod her forward. There was that hot flash of defiance he’d seen earlier, but now that she was closer, he could see more—a determination behind those dark eyes and a rigid tension in her jaw. Her expression didn’t just say she might throw a punch. It said she’d throw it hard enough to make it hurt. That would serve her well in the arena.
Perhaps it was that defiance that made Takkian unable to look away. He and Bruil had had female cellmates before. The officials put new fighters in wherever there was room. But this female stole the breath from his chest. She was small compared to him, but far from delicate. Her bones were long and her limbs were well defined with muscle. There was a casual strength to her shoulders that told Takkian she’d worked hard all her life. Her long hair was a striking yellow gold, shining even under the cell’s dull strip light, and contrasting with her warm tan skin. Interesting metallic spots shimmered faintly on her forehead, disappearing into her hair. Even her facial features were strong and fiercely beautiful.
But it wasn’t just her looks. There was something about her, from the way her hands were clenched into fists, to the fierce tension trembling in her muscles, that spoke of someone who absolutely refused to be broken. He felt a pull toward her immediately, a primal stirring he’d never felt before. Years of fighting had dulled his emotions, but this—this guttural punch in the chest—was unmistakable. Takkian didn’t have time to examine it. He just knew he wanted to know her name.
“New fighters,” the mech declared. Its cold voice pulled Takkian from his thoughts. The machine turned its metallic faceplate toward him and Bruil. “Zaruxians, you’re not to kill or harm these two. They’ll be kept healthy for arena fights.” The mech’s monotone voice buzzed against the walls of the cell. It jabbed a metal appendage toward the two newcomers. “No beds. They haven’t earned them yet.”
Takkian’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent. The Dokkol huddled near the wall. His massive hands shook as he clutched them together. The juvenile was too young for the arena. He’d never survive. Takkian scowled, flexing his claws briefly before retracting them.
The female, though—she was different. She didn’t cower, didn’t shrink under the oppressive presence of the mech. No, she stood straight. Her gaze moved around the cell, taking in the bleak confinement with a glance that seemed more calculating than afraid. When her gaze settled on Takkian, her dark eyes widened and caught the light differently. They were the most remarkable color he’d ever seen—deep, dark red.
The mech let out a low hum. “Comply, or you’ll be immediately scheduled to a final match.” Its metallic face swiveled back and forth, as if daring anyone to challenge its words. Satisfied with the silence, it emitted a harsh beep and rolled out of the cell, the heavy door slamming shut behind it with a clang that echoed in Takkian’s chest.
For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint buzz of the overhead light strip and the shaky breaths of the juvenile Dokkol, who, because of his size, made the cell feel considerably smaller.
Takkian shifted his gaze back to the female. She stood her ground in the center of the cell, almost as if she were daring him or Bruil to make the first move. He couldn’t help but notice how her head barely reached his chest, but her posture made her seem taller, imposing even, like coiled energy ready to snap. That fire in her eyes—it hadn’t dimmed since the mech shoved her inside. If anything, it burned brighter.
Bruil was the one to break the silence, his voice dry and laced with mock cheer. “Well, welcome to the pit,” he rasped from his cot. He barely glanced up, though his sharp yellow eyes flicked toward the newcomers before landing back on the mattress where his hidden blade lay. “Cozy, isn’t it?”
The female turned her head toward Bruil, her gaze narrowing slightly but not softening. “I’ve seen worse.” Her voice was steady, though there was grit in it, like someone used to holding back anger.
Takkian snorted faintly before he could stop himself. “Worse than this?” He folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the wall. When she turned her head, he spied symbols tattooed on her neck in blue—penal colony registration numbers. “You must’ve come from a terrible penal colony.”
Her head snapped toward him. Those deep red eyes locked onto his with unsettling focus. He felt the heat of that glare, like it could burn straight through any armor, though her face betrayed nothing else. “I’m from a farming settlement,” she replied curtly.
Strange . He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. His curiosity was too strong to ignore now. What was the point of lying about where she came from? His towering frame cast a shadow over her, but she didn’t flinch. Up close, he could see the faint sheen of sweat on her temples, could catch the uneven rise and fall of her chest. Her body was tense, bracing for something, and yet she looked him straight in the eye as if daring him to test her. There was no sign of surrender in her expression—only defiance.
“What’s your name?” Takkian asked it rougher than he intended.
“Sevas,” she said. Her shoulders eased just a fraction as her gaze flitted briefly to the tired figure of Bruil before snapping back to him. “And you?”
“Takkian.” He didn’t bother with pleasantries; there was no use for them in a place like this. Still, there was something in the way she stood, something in her that clawed at his restraint, dragging out an interest he’d long since buried under the necessity of survival. Her fists stayed clenched and her posture remained rigid, like she was holding herself together with nothing more than willpower. Yet, unlike most newcomers, who came in terrified or completely broken, she still had that fire. Somehow, against all odds, she hadn’t been extinguished. Somehow, she was still fighting, even just by standing there.
“You’ve got nerve.” Takkian tilted his head as he studied her. His gaze drew over her face, searching for cracks in the fearless mask she wore. “Not many look at me like that on their first day. You are either foolish or think very highly of yourself.” He allowed the faintest hint of a smirk to play at the corner of his mouth, though it was more curiosity than mockery.
Sevas’ jaw tightened. “I don’t think. I survive.”
Takkian let out a low, almost approving rumble from deep in his chest. “You’ll need that, Sevas. This place devours the weak.” His gaze shifted briefly toward the trembling Dokkol, curled against the wall like he was trying to shrink into the shadows. “He’ll need to find some courage to match that strong body, if he’s to survive.”
“That is Ulo, and you’ll leave him alone,” Sevas said, stepping toward the Dokkol without hesitation. Her movements were surprisingly fluid, controlled, as she crouched beside the juvenile. Her voice lowered to a softer tone. “Hey.” She placed a gentle hand on the young one’s massive arm. “It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Takkian’s brows twitched upward. Bold statement for someone still buzzing with the residual fear of being thrown into the cell, but she said it like it was fact, carved in stone. This female thought she could defend the Dokkol against the horrors of the arena? Foolish. That was the word for her.
Ulo muttered something too quiet for Takkian to hear. Sevas leaned closer, her head tilted slightly, waiting with a kind of patience Takkian hadn’t seen in…well, anyone in this forsaken place. Her hair fell to one side and he got a better look at the blue number symbols on her neck. They were definitely prisoner numbers. That explained why she was here and her lack of fear. Perhaps this was an improvement from her last place of incarceration. He wondered what crime she’d committed. He could see her murdering someone. An abusive warlord, perhaps. Or a shady trader who cheated her.
“Thank you, Sevas,” Ulo said. “I’m so scared.”
“I know. I am, too.” Sevas’ voice held the slightest tremor, making Takkian wonder if she was, in fact, telling the truth about being scared. “You’re going to stick with me, all right?”
Ulo nodded his huge head. The conviction in her tone seemed to steady the boy. His massive hunched shoulders stopped shaking as much, and his thick fingers curled into crescents against the floor instead of trembling aimlessly.
“How did you end up here?” Takkian asked. “Why did they transfer you from your penal colony?”
She looked up at him with a frown. “I told you, I’m from a farming settlement,” she said flatly. “Abducted and put in some auction. Same with Ulo. We met on the transfer here.”
Bruil chuckled dryly from his cot, startling everyone. “Farming settlement. You’re a Terian, aren’t you?”
Sevas nodded. “Yes. That’s what we’re called.”
“You know this species?” Takkian asked the older Zaruxian.
“Oh, yes.” Bruil leaned back with a bemused grin on his scarred face. “The Terian home world was in the same star system as ours. Our two species have a long history. This might be the first interesting thing to happen in this cell in cycles.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sevas said. “Our planet is the only one in our system. It’s very remote.”
Bruil sighed. “Sorry to tell you this, but those marks on your neck are standard issue for every Axis prisoner in one of their incarceration facilities. Yours appears to have been a farming labor camp.”
She frowned. Her gaze moved to the floor. “It…makes sense. We couldn’t leave. The Axis took everything we grew and gave nothing in return.” Her eyes closed, as if willing away pain. “So many lies. Why us? ” That last bit didn’t seem to be a question for anyone, but Bruil sighed.
“Your people were in the way,” Bruil muttered. “Like mine.”
Takkian was used to Bruil’s enigmatic half answers, so he ignored this one. His gaze remained on Sevas. Farming. Maybe she didn’t lie about her past, but truly didn’t know. He folded his arms, muscles rippling beneath his scaled skin. “You think you’re ready for what happens here?” His voice was low, a growl meant to challenge more than threaten.
Sevas didn’t look at him immediately. Her attention had moved back to Ulo, who’d gathered enough courage to lift his head. His small, slit-pupil eyes darted back and forth between Takkian and the older fighter. Finally, Sevas glanced up, meeting Takkian’s gaze with her own.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready,” she said. “I don’t have a choice.”
Takkian held her stare, trying not to get lost in the dark red depths. “You’re right. You don’t.”