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Every win was a testament to that belief.
Larn stood tall, looking up towards me.
I could see the gratitude in his eyes — eyes that shimmered with determination but also a hint of sadness, longing for a freedom we both knew was out of reach.
Returning his gaze, I nodded.
Our mutual understanding went beyond words.
I could hear the distant hum of the prison’s barriers, a gentle reminder of our confinement.
Yet, amidst it all, we found purpose, camaraderie, and an undeniable spirit that refused to be quelled.
As the crowd’s excitement began to subside, I took a deep breath, inhaling the mixed fragrances of sweat and hope.
For in the pits, amidst all the brutality, hope was the one thing that kept us going, the one thing they couldn’t take away from us.
But there was one thing stronger than hope, and unbeknownst to me, I would soon be getting it in the face full-bore.
* * *
The clamor of coins jingling in my palm seemed a sweet melody after the hard-fought victory.
As I approached the shadowy corner where the bookie stood, the stench of cigar smoke grew stronger, almost overpowering the underlying odor of sweat and blood from the pits. “You’re late on your payment, Ashale,” he growled, his voice gravelly and thick with smoke.
I smirked, shoving half the stack into his hands with a nonchalance that had become my trademark. “Always betting against the odds,” I commented, eyeing the odds he had given my fighter.
His chuckle was dry. “One of these days, Ashale, your luck will run out.”
I smiled wider. “But not today.”
I then handed Larn his share.
He was still catching his breath, skin gleaming with exertion.
He took a deep breath, savoring the tang of the air in the lower levels of the prison. “Thanks, Co’ar,” he mumbled, clearly overwhelmed by the win.
Co’ar was the respectful title Larn’s people gave to mentors like me.
“You did well,” I whispered back. “But remember what I told you about that offhand. It’s dropping too much when you defend.”
I took a sip of the lukewarm water from my flask, the liquid a brief relief.
Its slight metallic taste reminded me of where I was.
The sound of distant cheering brought my attention back to the arena.
“Yes, Co’ar,” he nodded vigorously, then turned his attention to the Prize Pool above.
As he ascended the stairs, I caught sight of the Prizes fluttering around him like moths to a flame.
He was one of the good ones, I thought. Unlike that brute, Sneik.
Sneik was formidable in the ring, a force to be reckoned with.
But he was predictable.
A strong right arm, a swift uppercut — the same techniques he’d relied on for years and years.
