You wait before the barred iron gate, arms crossed. Chants and cheers echo from the Pit. You barely hear it, staring at the packed dirt just outside.

  Two more years have blurred together. You barely mark the days anymore. Something is irreparably shattered inside. It’s been that way since the first time you stood here. Your dark hair now stretches down your back in a braid. You hate it. It reminds you of Catherine. You’re almost unrecognizable to yourself now – somehow, in all of this, you became a man without noticing. You have more angles. How old are you now? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Nobody throws you a birthday party anymore. You need to get better friends.

  Irminric, your dearest friend, now chucks you into the Pit every few days.

  After the first time, you refused to fight back. It was pointless. You were powerless. Any of his raiders or jarls were allowed to play with you. He didn’t let them kill or maim you, meaning the sooner they lost interest, the sooner you could return to your mandolin and heal yourself. But something changed. Maybe you got tired of being entertainment. Maybe you couldn’t bring yourself to consider it a lost cause.

  So, you began trying. How hard could it be? But you were terrible at it. You’re a bard, not a warrior. On the days when you stood at Irminric's side and played music in between bouts, you watched and analyzed while raiders killed each other. You picked apart how they did it. You watched him take on challengers for his authority, killing them with brutal efficiency. It's all performance, you realized. And that's something you're good at.

  And at night, you practiced. With your arcane hand, you found the key on the wall, unlocking your door and poking around the cellar. You found old, rusty, discarded shortswords and got used to having them in your hands, learning how to swing hard and fast, chain them together, and use your speed, agility, and flair to your advantage. Having two shortswords suits you better. It’s another advantage, having equal capability in both hands.

  The strength came naturally. The more you fought, the more mass seemed to explode from your body, the more you became ravenous. The shortswords became lighter. You could pick things up that you couldn’t before. Seemingly, one morning, you woke up with abs. You asked around the slave pens and traded clothes with someone. It was alien at first, no longer being wiry. But the more strength and skill you have, the more you can defend yourself. Torm doesn’t fuck with you as much anymore. Neither does Catherine. Maybe she only likes twinks.

  Roaring and stomping jolt your thoughts. You blink, your eyes dry from staring. This was never a single moment, but rather a slow slide into something else. You became numb to it. You hardened yourself, like plunging yourself into cold, dark, churning depths. You became one of them. In some ways, it made things easier. In other ways, it made things so much worse.

  The iron gate opens. You adjust your mail jacket and check your swords. And you step into the pit.

  The crowd chants and roils. They're eager. You have years of experience working a crowd. You can work them into a frenzy, making them forget you’re a slave entirely. You point to one side of the arena. They chant “Seven!” The other side chants “Oaks!” You do it a few more times. You sweep your arms up, and they roar louder. You pace, working them into a rhythm. You do something similar when you play for them at night. You’re a showman at heart. But you’ve discovered how to kill people with it, now.

  You have magic that could give you an immense edge over your opponents, but you don’t dare use it. You could make them flee with nothing but a quick stroking of a ley line. You could dissuade them from fighting you entirely. You could craft illusions limited only by your imagination. But it all goes to waste. You have only your weapons here, and as much punishment as you can bear.

  You’re fighting Veronika today. You don’t know why they still volunteer. When you started winning, they stopped having fun - at least until you learned how to make it fun. You’ve always been one to get by on sheer talent. You hate that this is one you never knew you had. You hate who you become in this pit.

  Veronika is another human. She has an axe, a dirty shield, and mail and leather armor. You glance up. Irminric sits in his chair, his greatsword slung across the back of it. Sunlight gleams off his scales. He doesn’t acknowledge you, a horn of ale in hand. He kills anyone who so much as mentions the song you performed. “The Biggest, Blackest Dragon,” you call it. But you still hear it echo from the slaves in hushed whispers. When you hate him particularly much, you lie in bed and use your illusion to play it quietly, knowing it trickles through the floor to his quarters.

  You draw your blades, flipping them and warming them in your hands. You spread your arms and swords, turning as the raiders cheer. You toe the dirt beneath you, finding your footing. Her shield has a suspicious dark smear on it.

  “Surely, you could’ve found something better to wipe with,” you call.

  She frowns, glancing down at her shield. The raiders roar. The arena is magically amplified – all the better to hear the banter and the screams of the dying. Your blood begins to hum, energy quivering. You hate the rush, the adrenaline, the urge to do something legendary. And yet somehow, you feel alive here. You finally understand the heroes in the old tales you’re supposed to be preserving. What if you could become legendary yourself? You can do anything when you feel like this.

  “I’ve got a busy schedule. Let’s go!”

  She bellows, rushing forward.

  You charge, too. You meet halfway. You feint left, then leap from the right. You thrust. Her shield blocks in time. Her axe swings at your head. You duck. You slash three times. It rakes deep into her mail, her leg, her side. You cross your swords, blocking a swing. The ringing of metal is loud. You barely hear it over the roaring crowd, the throbbing of blood. You land a fist under her jaw. You spin, slashing her calf. Blood sprays. She staggers.

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  You back away, flipping your swords. You walk a little. You hold up the sword with her blood on it. Then, you flick it off. The raiders stomp and cheer. You taste salt. You’re covered in sweat.

  “Take that shield out of your ass, and you might hit something!” you taunt and stalk toward her. They devour it. Strength courses through you.

  You clash again. She bashes you with her shield, sending you back. You roll away from her axe. You’re on your feet again. She comes close. You kick out, throwing her shield aside. You slash. You meet mail. You slash higher. She jerks back at the last moment.

  You pursue. You leap at an angle, blades swirling. You come down and rattle her shield. You slash three more times, meeting more mail and leather. You slice her arm. You land a fist in her gut. You duck. Her axe whiffs overhead. You stab.

  Your shortsword plunges into her thigh. You twist it. She howls.

  You grapple her closer. Her axe is useless this close. Your other blade edge presses against her neck. You stop in a breathless moment. The raiders roar. Her face is locked in a scowl. Her heavy breath hisses against your face. She doesn’t look scared to die. Maybe she doesn’t care. None of them care – they throw their lives away for nothing, for greed, for people as property. Honor is a pile of steaming fiend shit. You hate that you enable them. You remember the face of the first person you killed. It was an efreetin, here in this pit. It tore at you for weeks. When did you become the kind of person who’s taken a life? When did you become the kind of person who’d kill every slaver here without blinking?

  “Am I feeling generous today?” you shout. She winces at your voice.

  The crowd dissents loudly.

  “That’s not what you came here to see, is it?”

  They explode.

  “Do it,” she hisses.

  You whisper to her. “Die and shit yourself, you fucking slaver.”

  You turn her so Irminric gets the best view. And then you grit your teeth and slash.

  Hot blood sprays over you. You taste metal. Your gorge rises. She gurgles, and you let her drop, wrenching your other sword from her leg. Your throat clamps as she dies in the dirt, dark eyes going blank. You turn, holding your bloodied shortswords out, walking a circle. The raiders chant. You stir them on. And in his chair, Irminric is stoic and unmoving. He doesn’t know the other reason you threw yourself into this.

  It’s so you can kill him someday.

  ?

  That night, you sit on your bed with your mandolin, plucking at strings and mindlessly cycling through chord progressions. It keeps you from thinking of the Pit. Most days, you think nothing of it afterward. But some days, it disquiets you. Those are good days. It means you’re still decent, somewhere in the deep, black waters that crowd ever higher in your mind.

  You retreat inward, tinkering with ley lines, listening to their harmonics, and teasing out intentions. In all this time, you’ve continued to pick at your magic, pushing the boundaries of what you know. Freedom has been on your mind ever since your incident with Irminric’s song. Then, you’d given up on ever escaping this place. You were incapable of doing so. But now? You can fight. You have more magic at your disposal. You’ve learned how to negate spells at the instant of their casting. You’ve learned how to splay crippling fear into minds. But there’s still more. You need something that will ensure you’re never locked in a cellar again.

  You close your eyes, focusing on the feeling. Freedom. Liberty. The ability to go where you please. It’s a hopeful sound – a liberating one, like the first murmurs of dawn after a long, dark night. A whisper of the song strikes you, resonating from the key of the fourth ley line. You strum a few chords, brushing a thumb along your connection, directing its song into your capable hands. You clasp it, directing its power.

  You open your eyes. A small pink square hovers in your vision.

  Your brows pull together. You turn your head, and it follows you. You put your hand in front of your face. The square moves when you brush across it. It’s ethereal, not really solid - almost like an illusion. But you can move it around. You brush it with a finger, dragging it.

  You place it over the metal bars locking you in, then release. It sputters and vanishes. You pause, casting the spell again. Grasping the fourth again is taxing, but you manage. The pink square manifests. You focus on the wall past the bars – the other end of the stone cellar. You drag it, then release.

  It clicks into place. Pink flashes. And then there’s a dark hole in the wall.

  You bolt to your feet. You peer at the passage, mouth open. It’s entirely dark. You hum and flick out your arcane hand, fetching the keys hanging on a hook down the hall. You unlock the door, then pocket them. Your arcane hand fetches the torch down the hall, bringing it closer. It hovers over your shoulder as you step through the iron door and approach the hole.

  Torchlight casts through. You freeze, rooted in place. Gold glints back at you.

  It’s a vast room. You step further, then stop. You peer at your feet for any sign of alarm or trap. You don’t feel anything magical. Why would there be any traps on this side of the room? The heavy stone door is on the wall to your right. Your arcane hand hovers further in and then up. Torchlight casts liquid light. You look around.

  Piled up the walls are coins and spoils – cutlery, dishes, paintings, fine rugs, jewelry, chalices, and anything shiny you can possibly imagine. You swallow dryly. There are magical items, too - weapons, armor, cloaks, amulets, rings, scrolls. It hums with an overwhelming, arcane presence. You stagger. It’s the entire wealth of the Byrian Isles.

  It's a dragon hoard.

  You’re shaking - not with intensity, but with rage. There must be several tens of thousands worth of gold coins in here. That much wealth could ensure everyone on the Isles wouldn’t lack anything for the rest of their lives. Maybe even all of Byrio. But it’s stolen, ripped from people who already have nothing, their loved ones taken and forced into labor. The rest is blood money from the Guild, buying slave-made ships. It’s just sitting here. When was the last time you saw Irminric reward any of his raiders? Invest in the Isles? Use it to make the world a better place in any way?

  You clench your jaw. He makes people property so he can have this.

  You turn and stop. On a table is a pile of mail – several jackets reinforced with leather. There’s a stack of Vasterholmian shortswords, too, all of masterful make. You pause, committing it to memory. You’re not allowed weapons and armor outside of the Pit. But you know where to get them, now.

  Your blood running hot, you step from the room, your arcane hand following. You replace the torch and relock your cell, sealing yourself away. You stare long and hard at the hole in the wall.

  You fucking hate him.

  And then with a flick of your mind, you close the hole.