Chapter Fourteen — The Circle
When the cell door opened, it wasn't like before.
No food tray.
No new prisoners shoved in to replace the dead.
This time, the guards came in force—six of them, armored, with clubs and curved blades at their hips, their foreign language snapping from their mouths like orders. Lucien was jerked awake by the sudden noise and the blinding light that followed as the heavy wooden door was thrown wide.
"Up!" one barked—or something like it. The meaning was clear, even if the words weren't.
Chains rattled.
Two prisoners who hesitated were dragged out by the arms, barely conscious, their feet scraping trails in the filth. Lucien stood slowly, his body stiff and hollow, but still strong enough to move. He'd eaten yesterday. Fought for it. Won. That was enough.
For now.
The line formed fast. Sloppy, desperate. The guards began clamping iron cuffs around wrists and ankles, linking them with rusted chains—twenty, maybe thirty men in total. Lucien didn't recognize all of them. Some had been in corners for days, quiet and still. Others were newer, the stink of the cell not yet soaked into their bones.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were chains clinking and harsh orders shouted in a language none of them understood.
Then they were marched.
Out of the cell.
Into the sun.
It hurt. Not just the light—but the sky. The space. The open wind.
After so many weeks in that tomb of a cell, the world felt too big, too loud. Lucien blinked against it, his eyes stinging, skin flinching under the sun's heat. The sand underfoot scorched his soles, even through what remained of his worn boots. A man near him stumbled and got whipped across the back. He didn't cry out.
No one did anymore.
They were marched through the outer rings of the camp—past tents of black and red, flags he didn't recognize fluttering from poles, and strange vehicles made of wood and metal that hummed like living things. The soldiers stared as they passed. Some laughed. Others pointed.
Most ignored them.
Until they reached the circle.
It was a pit, really.
Shallow, maybe ten feet deep, carved into the hard earth and ringed by stone. Rows of soldiers stood around the rim, some already cheering, others drinking and eating as if this were a festival. There was no shade. No comfort.
Just blood in the dirt.
And expectation in the air.
The prisoners were herded in. Lucien's feet hit the pit floor like they were walking into a grave. The heat here was worse—trapped by the stone walls, amplified by the ring of bodies above, hundreds watching from all sides.
Then the chains came off.
One by one.
Lucien rubbed his wrists, trying to keep his breathing slow. His body ached from days of rot and starvation, but it moved when he told it to. The others spread out, instinctively forming distance between each other, eyes darting, chests rising and falling too fast.
Then the guards stepped back.
And the gates sealed behind them.
From above, a man in a red-and-gold robe raised a hand.
He was older, face hidden by a curved helmet with slits for the eyes. He shouted something in their strange tongue, and the soldiers responded with a thunderous cheer.
Then he dropped his hand.
And the fight began.
Lucien didn't move at first.
Neither did most.
It was awkward. Hesitant. Just exhausted men too scared to make the first mistake. But then one lunged. A thin man, all ribs and rage, leapt at another and tackled him to the dirt. A scream cut the air. Then another. Bones snapped.
And that was it.
The floodgates opened.
Men turned on each other.
Fists flew. Elbows. Teeth. No weapons—just raw, feral violence. Survival made flesh.
Lucien ducked a punch and rolled away. Someone else was slammed against the wall near him. Another man tried to rush him, but stumbled from thirst and collapsed. Lucien didn't hesitate—he kicked the man in the throat.
Twice.
Hard.
It was fast.
It was ugly.
There was no strategy, no style.
Just panic.
And pain.
And people who had nothing left to lose.
Above them, the captors laughed. Roared, actually. They were enjoying it—this slaughter of the broken, this game of beasts fighting for scraps. A soldier tossed something into the pit—meat, maybe, or a piece of armor. The men lunged for it like dogs.
Lucien stayed low.
Moved when he had to.
Fought when he had no choice.
One came at him with a sharpened bone from the cell—hidden, somehow. He nearly got Lucien in the side, but Lucien drove his knee into the man's groin, then grabbed his head and slammed it into the ground again and again until the twitching stopped.
The crowd loved that.
More cheers.
More laughter.
Lucien spat, his mouth dry. His hands shook. He wasn't sure how many he'd killed. Three? Four?
It didn't matter.
Only one would leave this pit alive.
He hadn't known that for sure when they'd thrown them in.
But now?
Now he understood.
This was a culling.
A game.
A message.
And the prize… was survival.
He didn't want to kill these men. Not really. Some of them had shared their corner with him. Others had just existed quietly, dying one day at a time in that cell.
But they would kill him.
And that was enough.
So he moved again.
Slower now.
Blood covered his forearms. His lip was split. A cut above his brow dripped into his eye.
But he kept going.
Because he still wanted to live.
And that had to mean something.
Even here.
Even in hell.