Chapter Twenty-Eight All Dead
"In the midst of darkness, light persists."
The air was dry—thick with the familiar scent of dust, blood, and salt.
Adan stirred, her body aching on the stone slab beneath her, that was barely wider than her shoulders. Sand crunched beneath her as she shifted, the grit clinging to her skin like memory.
She blinked up at the uneven ceiling, her vision blurring and sharpening in waves. Pain licked across her limbs like the ghost of fire, but her wounds were... dressed. Not well, but enough. Enough to keep her alive.
Her tongue throbbed—raw, swollen—but there was sensation. A pulse. She shifted it tentatively in her mouth, it was healing. Regenerating.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, finally seeing the bars, the cell was small, carved into the earth, with a single slab of stone acting as a bed.
No windows. Just that one wall of bars and an iron gate, sealed shut.
Black iron sunk deep into the sand. Beyond them, nothing but more dust and shadows.
A dungeon turned into spectacle. The Gladiator Pits.
She sat up slowly, every muscle protesting. Her body was covered now in thin white linen—loose pants, and a sleeveless shirt that clung to her stomach, exposing the sharp lines of her ribs and the faded map of bruises across her abdomen.
No shoes.
No cuffs.
But the collar...
She reached up instinctively, her fingers brushing the ring of iron locked around her neck, still humming faintly with the dull pressure of suppression. Her magic curled tight inside her like a furious animal, pacing in a cage made of bone and steel.
Her fingers snagging on the dressings on her chest, over the brand. A slow, searing throb radiated from her left shoulder.
The mark was raw. Red, still blistering around the edges where the skin had split. Branded into her chest were his initials.
Not a soldier's brand.
Not a slave's mark.
This was personal.
She leaned against the wall, chest heaving, her collar humming low and cruel against her throat. The cuffs were gone, but she was no freer than before.
Coarse linen clung to her sweat-slick skin—white pants, a tight shirt she hadn't been wearing when Darius had carved his mark into her. Someone had cleaned her, dressed her. Bandaged the wounds he left behind.
Her arms curled around her middle. Even while her whole body screamed in protest. Even in the aftermath of torture, she only had thoughts for one person.
She had no idea where Nox was. He was probably being tortured, but she had no idea to know if he was still alive. He might be here, but she might not be around long enough to find out.
Everything was slipping.
Her body trembled as she dragged herself up, bare feet sinking into the sand. She moved to curl her fingers around the metal bars.
And she screamed.
Or tried to.
Her voice came out hoarse, broken, half-swallowed by the damage inside--her lack of tongue. It didn't matter. The sound needed to come out.
It was rage. It was grief. It was defiance.
She slammed her fist into the bars once. Twice. A third time until blood bloomed across her knuckles. She kept going.
Let them hear her. Let them think she was breaking--Maybe she was.
Tears didn't fall. She didn't have any left.
And then she stopped. Collapsed back onto the floor, chest heaving, her body curling in again.
The silence didn't last.
Footsteps echoed, slow and certain, the way only someone who owned this place would walk. Heavy boots on sand-covered stone, no rush, no warning. Just the steady rhythm of someone who already knew what he'd find.
Adan's breath hitched.
She didn't need to look up. She knew that walk. That scent—dust, blood, iron, sweat. It had haunted her dreams for years.
Antonius Price. Master of the Pits.
She stayed curled in on herself, eyes half-lidded. She was twenty the last time she stood in front of him. Smaller, half-starved, already a ghost of a girl. The Butcher, they'd called her. Not because she liked the name, but because he gave it to her.
"Still alive," his voice drawled, low and smooth as oil. "I'd bet against it. But then again, you were always full of surprises."
Adan didn't reply.
He stopped just outside the bars, watching her with the kind of gaze that measured value more than worth. His rings glittered in the undine's faint light as he leaned against the bars, arms folded.
"No need to reply," he winked. "I heard what you did." he said with a wolfish grin. "I heard that the little prince tried to break you."
Adan raised her head slowly.
She didn't speak—but something in her gaze held teeth.
Antonius just chuckled. "That collar suits you. Pity I don't own it. But make no mistake, girl. You're in my pit now." He crouched, the metal keys on his belt clinking softly.
Adan didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"I'm going to make you into the butcher again," he whispered, grinning--slow and cold. "They'll love you for it. And when you fall? They'll cheer."
He stood, dusted sand from his coat, and turned. "I like you like this. Maybe I will cut your tongue out again, when it grows back." He chuckled to himself as he walked away, leaving her to sit along in silence.
--
Adan knew what was waiting for her when she heard the sounds of banging bars echoed throughout the holding cells. The guards making as much noise as they can for the gladiators morning way up call. Forced out of tiny cells and corralled with no time to linger
From their cells they are often taken to a training ring for intense physical conditioning. Generally involving running, training or combat drills, even weapons training. Here they are pushed beyond their limits, with the threat of punishment over their heads.
By midday, they're fed a sparse serving of something bland, usually hard bread, beans and thin broths--designed to keep the fighters strong enough to fight. Served in a communal area, served by guards.
Afterwards, Adan knew that Antonius liked to come and read to his soldiers.
Stories about past arena battles, where the stakes of their fights would be underscored.
He would lecture them on obedience, remind them of the stakes, and their status.
Antonius was particularly fond of using loved ones as leverage as a special form of torture if a gladiator refused to fight.
The evening was always spent sparring. Antonius would pick the matches in a control environment to see how they would play out before reaching the masses.
Soon after, they are shipped off to be preened and plucked and painted.
A display of showmanship. This is where they are reminded to entertain the crowd.
The late evening is when we enter the arena--once a week.
These fights are where they are all pitted against one another.
Some gladiators are given specific "assignments," like being matched with dangerous beasts, while others might fight against multiple opponents at once.
The arena is a place for brutal survival, but also for maintaining the fear and control over the slaves who fight for sport.
After a fight, gladiators are given no time for real recovery. Their wounds are treated as quickly as possible, and they are returned to their cells for the night. Where the cycle repeats in the morning--a continuous loop of violence, survival and pain.
As the guards banged on the bars, her body tensed. She could already feel the exhaustion weighing on her—though it had been years since she'd been in the pits.
Adan pushed herself to her feet, Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. There would be no mercy today—just like there had been no mercy yesterday, and the day before. Mercy did not live in Adan's world.
The door to her cell was unlocked with a sharp twist of the key, and the guard shoved it open.
The light from the hall was blinding after the darkness of her cell, and her eyes stung as she stepped into the corridor.
She stumbled slightly, still weak from her ordeal, but quickly regained her balance.
"Get in line," the guard grunted, pointing toward a narrow passageway where the other gladiators were already being herded like cattle. Broken spirits, all wearing the same blank expressions of resigned hopelessness.
They were her brothers and sisters in suffering, and yet, in this place, no one was truly a friend. In the arena, you fought for survival, and that survival often meant turning on those closest to you.
They finally reached the training ring, the makeshift ring was barely more than a patch of ground surrounded by high walls, with crude weapons scattered around in random piles, waiting to be used.
Adan stood tall, though the fatigue from her recent torture weighed heavy on her limbs.
"Start running!" one of the trainers barked, and Adan began to move.
Her lungs screaming for air as they began their morning conditioning.
The sweat quickly soaked through her clothes, mixing with the blood from her older wounds.
Every step felt like it was dragging her back into the past, back to a time when she had been just another slave for the arena's spectacle.
Adan's legs burned, but she refused to slow.
She kept her focus straight ahead, pushing through the ache in her chest, through the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her.
She could feel the eyes of the other gladiators on her, but she ignored them. In here, there was no room for weakness.
Adan barely registered the heavy panting around her; her mind was too focused on what came next.
She managed until they were herded back inside, where she was hopeful that she would have a chance to look for Nox.
Midday was when the gladiators were all corralled.
It would be her best chance, she was hopeful that she might even see a familiar face.
It had been a long eight years, but it wasn't unheard of for fighters to last that long--longer even--if they played their cards right.
But she was moved back to her cell, her bowl of broth and stale bread waiting for her. Her plan destroyed, but she was still hopeful.