The stone wall behind him was damp again, but Caelvir leaned against it anyway, his shoulder pressed into the cold surface as if it could hold him up and steady him. He breathed slowly, and the scent that filled his nose was the same rot that had lingered here for months; urine dried in corners, feces mashed into the cracks of stone, old blood flaked like rust across the floor.
Still, perhaps it did not seem as foul as before. Maybe, since Brusk's downfall and the scattering of his gang, fewer men had come through this cellblock to leave their stench behind. Or perhaps he had simply gotten used to it, which was even worse.
The Sword of Seren rested against his skin, smooth and cold, with not a speck of rust on it. He had no pillow, no food, not even a proper place to piss, but the sword always remained clean.
Sometimes, in the depth of night when the pit grew still and the air carried the stink of rot and rusted chains, he could swear the steel whispered. They were not voices he could understand, but incantations, perhaps, something that seemed to breathe through the sword's spine. There were no words, but the sounds pulsed with rhythm, ancient and knowing. Once or twice, he thought he heard something like a name.
Perhaps he was going insane.
Or perhaps the blade remembered the hands that once wielded it.
He exhaled, and his breath fogged faintly in the stale air.
One more fight. That was all.
Ninety-nine corpses behind him. One more and he would be out of this hole, this stone-walled grave they called the Dust Arena.
He did not waste time wondering if the hundredth would deserve it. Deserving had never mattered here.
Maybe it would be Lysara. She was near her hundredth too—cold eyes, sharp movements, the way she fought revealing how precisely she knew where to cut and when. Yet there was something unfinished in her, something he understood. And the Sword of Seren sometimes pulsed near her, whispering its strange breath in a way that felt like approval.
Or perhaps a Stonefang brute would stand in his way—fifteen feet of muscle and bone, fast and strong, with enough force to shatter a man's ribs in a single blow. It would not be the first time he faced one. At least that kind of fight would make sense, a final show for the crowd, something worth remembering.
He frowned.
Maybe it would be Aelric.
That possibility would hurt.
He did not want to put a blade in that old man. Did not want to see those quiet, kind eyes dim. Aelric was an unusual monk, but not gentle in the way most were. He was old but not weak. There was steel beneath his skin and wisdom in his voice, the kind that could not be taught.
Aelric had saved him more than once, slipping real meat past the guards while others gnawed on bone, even risking beatings to do it. And he had healed Caelvir subtly, carefully, without any flashy lights or chants, just whispered control, enough to remind the body of what it could still do.
Without Aelric, Caelvir would not have survived beyond his second fight.
But if they called Aelric as his opponent, he would not hesitate.
That was the rule of the pit: you swing or you're buried.
Still, the thought left a weight in his chest.
Before this place, before all of it, he remembered silk. Not only as cloth, but as life. Silk in the sheets, silk in the robes, silk even in the food. He remembered soft-spoken servants, hot baths, and the sound of string music floating across the garden. For a short while, Venara's estate had felt like a return to a different world.
Too short.
Because she sent him back.
Even if it had been an act of kindness, even if it had been mercy, that mercy had teeth.
He tasted it now.
Some days, when he stared too long at the wall, he felt the warmth of silk against his back only to blink and remember the cold stone. He didn't curse her for it. But he didn't thank her either.
Giving a starving man a bite of honey only made the rot taste worse afterward.
Yet the worst part of this place was not the cell, not the stench, and not even the kills.
It was the dreams.
Memories. Fragments. Scars.
There were times he woke whispering his own name.
Caelvir.
The boy who had once borne that name was long gone, shed like a skin, discarded like a corpse.
It had belonged to a better boy, a brighter one.
Now a man carried that name, wore it like a blade to the ribs, letting it cut and letting it remind him.
He did not remember the exact moment he began wearing it like armor. Not clearly. But he remembered the feeling. The silence. The betrayal. The way her hands stayed clean while someone else bled.
Her.
The scent of lavender. The way she touched your cheek as though she loved you, as though you were her world. Then the dagger, hidden beneath silk.
She was beautiful, impossibly so.
A flawless mask concealing the venom beneath.
She had lied.
He had buried everything since then. He had buried his hatred, his rage, his heart. Buried it deep beneath steel and silence.
None of this hatred had been for Brusk, or the guards, or even the men he killed.
All of that was dust.
He was saving it. Every shred of fury, every drop of loathing, every ounce of soul-deep disgust.
For her.
He never said her name. He never would.
And when the moment came, the blade would sing the song of revenge.
He sat there in the dark, heart quiet, rage dormant but alive just beneath the surface.
First, he had to escape this place.
They said the Iron Arena was a better place, cleaner with less filth.
And more freedom.
Caelvir did not believe that.
He knew what freedom meant in this world. Just another word for a longer leash.
But even so, even a longer leash could reach her neck.
He stood at last and stretched slowly, feeling the bones shift and pop. His joints ached as they always did after the cold settled in. He did not complain. He had not uttered a word of complaint since the day he arrived.
This place wanted to see him crawl. He gave it silence in response.
A cough echoed in the next cell, whether from someone dying or only pretending to.
Doesn't matter.
He slid the Sword of Seren back into its sheath, and the weight at his hip felt balanced.
It was almost time.
Soon the guards would come, clad in iron, voices rough with boredom. They would say it like a joke, "One more dance, pretty boy."
And he would walk out.
He would not wave to the crowd.
He would not grin.
He would survive.
And after that, once he left this cage behind, he would climb.
To the Iron Arena.
To another cage.
And to the next.
And eventually...
To freedom.
To her.