Darkness lives in every soul. Given the chance, it spreads—slow, methodical, absolute—until no light remains.
"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
I hate the human soul most of all. Fragile and weak, it invites darkness—and when it comes, we obey.
"Kill her already!"
"You worthless bastard—I bet thirty silver on you!"
"Weren't the Sun Guardians supposed to be stronger than this?"
The crowd roared. From my cell, I watched Margaret bare her teeth. The taunts were breaking her.
They weren't wrong.
Only minutes had passed since the proctor rang the bell, and she was already losing.
Her opponent: Scar. A half-orc, skin like dried blood, horns curling from his skull. Muscular, short green hair, veteran of the pit. Few survived longer.
The slave arena—a dumping ground for the unsellable. Too old. Too broken. Too strange. If a trader saw potential, you became a gladiator. Or sold under the table. Age, health—irrelevant. Only rarity and blood mattered.
Margaret was seven years old and a member of the Sun Guardian tribe. Sunlight fueled them. They stored it like plants, released it as power. The longer they fought in the sun, the stronger they grew.
"RAWR!"
Scar's yellow aura flared. He slammed both fists into the sand. The ground cracked. Shockwaves rippled outward. Margaret dug in her heels—but the blast hurled her back.
The crowd exploded.
She'd parried his greatsword once. Now he swung again—faster, lower. She couldn't read it. The blade struck her chest. Her tiny body flew, slammed into the arena wall with a crunch.
Silence.
She lay still. Unconscious. Done.
"KILL HER!"
"FINISH IT, BEAST!"
Scar gripped his sword. No hatred. Just survival. He won, he ate. He won, he lived. That was the deal.
"Sorry, little one," he muttered. "But I have to."
He raised the blade.
Margaret rolled. Sand sprayed. She snatched her short sword and lunged, aura igniting—dark orange, molten iron. She aimed for his throat.
Too slow.
Scar's sword was buried, but his fist wasn't. It slammed into her gut. She folded, gasping, flew again.
He advanced. Confident.
But she came back.
Faster now. Hair blazing crimson. A fireball with legs. She scooped her fallen blade mid-stride.
"You forced this, kid!"
Scar roared, yellow aura surging—ready to unleash his trump card.
Too late.
Margaret released him, kicked off the ground, drove her heel into his groin. He staggered, eyes bulging.
She spun. Sword flashed.
A flaming phantom rushed him.
She stabbed—once, twice—into his gut. Fire erupted. Scar screamed—not human, not orc, just pain.
One final thrust. Through the heart.
The flames died. Her hair faded to blonde.
She stood over him, sword clenched, chest heaving.
I wanted to ask what she felt. But some things, you don't touch.
The guards came. She dropped the blade. Let them drag her away.
As they passed my cell, her eyes found mine.
I expected rage.
Instead… sadness.
I looked away.
By noon, they herded us into the feeding pit. "Dining area," they called it. A joke. The slop was gray. Sometimes, when meat ran low, they used the dead. Refuse real food, and you starved. Rebellion required strength. Strength required fuel. They knew the math.
Guards watched from the walls. The room was a smaller arena—same bloodstained sand, same stench.
"This place is hell. They say if you beat the master, you walk free. Think I could take him?"
"You'd die in the first swing."
Rumors said the master hid among us. A ghost in chains. Even the guards didn't know his face. Only the advisor did.
I claimed a corner, far from the others. Today's "meat": Scar. The arena wasted nothing. They butchered him, cooked him, served him.
I tore into the hot flesh with my fingers. Ash and iron. I swallowed anyway.
Footsteps.
Margaret stood over me. She dropped a chunk of red meat onto my tray.
Up close, she was… small. Delicate. Cute, even. But her eyes—ruby, unblinking—pinned me like a blade.
"Scared, little boy?"
"You're a year older than me."
I tried to pull back. Her hand clamped my wrist. Tight.
"From now on, you're mine."
A slave claiming property. Absurd. But her grip said otherwise.
"Can I say no?" I whispered.
"Ever had your neck snapped?"
I swallowed.
"You two—move!" a guard barked. "Meal's over."
I bolted for my cell.
Something slammed into my back.
"Ouch!"
"Watch it, runt."
Not Margaret. Just another brute. I scrambled up, slammed my cell door.
"Cellmate 105," the guard sneered, yanking it open. "Eager today, huh?"
His fist rose.
Margaret's voice echoed in my skull:
"You're mine. Only I touch my property."
My body moved before thought. I ducked. His punch whistled over my head.
The guard's face twisted.
"Arena. Now. You're fighting Muck."
I laughed—dry, hollow.
"Fine. I'll kill whatever you throw at me. Let's end it."
They dragged me past the cells.
Margaret watched from hers.
Smiling.
Like she'd just placed a bet.