"Yer back, lad," Falstad grunted.
The dwarf sat astride a battered wooden table, his stocky frame wrapped in piecemeal armor scavenged from fallen fighters and broken chains. Sparks jumped as he dragged a sandstone along the edge of his axe, the steady rasp filling the cramped cell. "'Bout time, too. Ye'd best get yerself some rest—be fightin' shoulder ta shoulder come mornin'."
Thorwin gave a brief nod in reply, his gaze drifting past Falstad.
"The knight bastard already had his," the dwarf went on, jerking his bearded chin toward the far side of the cell. A man lay motionless upon a narrow wooden pallet, chest rising slow and shallow. "Out like a keg after Winter Veil. Orcs hit him harder'n usual."
Thorwin said nothing. He crossed the cell and sat upon his own bed—little more than planks lashed together with frayed rope. It stood beside a narrow slit in the stone, barred with iron grills bent and blackened by heat. Through it, he could see the world beyond: a sky forever choked with ash, stained red by distant fires, and a volcanic wasteland that breathed smoke like a living thing.
His hands clenched at his sides.
His mother's face haunted him still—the strength she pretended to possess, the fear she hid for his sake. The memory burned deeper than any wound the arena had given him. He hated himself for the tears, for the moment of weakness… yet he knew why he endured.
He had to win.
He needed to.
If he failed, Adriana would suffer. Tiffin would suffer. The camp would suffer.
Falstad glanced over at him, one bushy brow lifting. "Don' let yer thoughts chew holes in yer skull, lad," he muttered. "Tomorrow's got teeth enough as it is."
Thorwin did not answer. He lay down on his side, turning his back to the cell, to the world, to the weight of everything pressing upon his chest. His eyes fixed briefly on the barred opening, on the poisoned sky beyond, before he closed them at last.
Sleep claimed him slowly—uneasy, restless—but it came all the same.
…
Waking up to find himself still inside a cell had once gnawed at Thorwin's sanity. In the early days of captivity, there were mornings when his eyes would snap open and his chest would seize, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps as though the stone walls were closing in on him. The realization—that escape had been nothing more than a dream—had struck like a blow each time.
But pain, like fear, dulled with familiarity.
Now, when consciousness returned, it came without panic. Only acceptance. Thorwin rose from his narrow bed at the first sound of steel clashing against steel, the sharp ring echoing through the stone chamber like a bell announcing dawn.
"Yer swing's soft, ye fight like a woman, knight."
Falstad's gravelly voice greeted him as surely as the clang of blades.
Thorwin turned to see the dwarf circling Cedric—once a sworn knight of Stormwind, now little more than a scarred survivor like the rest of them. The two moved with brutal efficiency, their weapons striking in quick, controlled arcs. Each blow was meant to kill, yet halted a breath short of flesh. They had learned the cost of mistakes the hard way, in sand soaked red by blood and cheers alike.
Falstad snorted as Cedric overextended, tapping the knight's ribs with the flat of his axe. "That'd be yer guts spillin' if this weren't practice, lad. Again."
Cedric growled something under his breath and reset his stance.
Thorwin stepped closer, watching their footwork, the timing of their strikes. He had learned as much from observing as he had from fighting. They all had.
"He're, lad," Falstad said suddenly, tossing a sword toward him, hilt-first. "Catch."
Thorwin snatched it from the air without thought, the familiar weight settling into his palm like an extension of his arm.
"Best be ready fer later," Falstad went on, rolling his shoulders. "Heard the brutes want a proper show today. War's got 'em riled up. Nothin' lifts morale like watchin' us try not ta die."
"Lucky us," Cedric muttered.
Thorwin didn't respond. He stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders, working stiffness from muscles that never truly rested. Then he stepped forward, planting his right foot ahead, the other anchoring his stance. His grip tightened. His breathing slowed.
Across from him, Falstad shifted easily into position, Cedric mirroring the motion beside the dwarf. The three of them formed a rough triangle, blades angled low, bodies coiled.
Falstad grinned beneath his thick beard, eyes gleaming with something close to approval.
"Two on one," he said. "Let's see if ye've learned anythin', lad. Don' embarrass yerself."
Thorwin raised his sword, the weight of it settling into his arms as his breath slowed and the world narrowed to the space between steel and intent.
He lunged first.
The strike came with measured strength—not reckless, not desperate—his blade arcing toward Falstad's shoulder before halting a hair's breadth from impact. Steel rang as Falstad's axe snapped up to meet it, the force of the collision shuddering through Thorwin's arms. In the same heartbeat, the dwarf lashed out with a sudden, brutal kick aimed at Thorwin's knee.
Thorwin recoiled just in time, boots scraping against stone as he stumbled back, narrowly avoiding the blow. He barely had a moment to recover before Cedric surged forward, seizing the opening with the ferocity of a trained knight. Cedric's blade came down hard, swift and precise.
Falstad twisted, beard bristling, and caught the strike on the haft of his axe, muscles bunching as he absorbed the impact. "Too slow!" the dwarf barked.
Thorwin moved again—faster this time.
Seeing Falstad's axe locked against Cedric's sword, he darted forward, confident the dwarf's attention was divided. His blade flashed toward Falstad's side, the opening narrow but real.
Too real.
Falstad reacted as though he'd seen the strike before it was born.
With his axe still engaged, the dwarf's free hand snapped behind his back. Steel whispered.
A dagger appeared where there had been none—drawn in a fluid motion so swift neither Thorwin nor Cedric had seen it. Falstad's arm lashed out, the blade flashing inches from Thorwin's throat.
Thorwin twisted away at the last instant, the cold breath of death grazing his skin.
Falstad chuckled, low and rough.
"Eyes open, lad," he growled. "I've got more tricks than ye've got breath."
Thorwin retreated, heart hammering, realization sinking in like a blade of its own. There was no sparring match. This was a lesson.
Thorwin did not retreat far.
He forced his feet to steady, even as his pulse thundered. Panic would get him killed. Falstad's lesson rang clear now—not in words, but in steel. The dagger had not been a trick; it was a truth. Survival belonged to those who saw everything. Cedric pressed in, snarling as he drove Falstad back with a flurry of strikes. The knight's blade hammered down in measured arcs, forcing the dwarf to give ground. Falstad laughed through clenched teeth, axe and dagger moving in tandem—one to block, the other to threaten.
"Keep 'im busy, knight!" Falstad barked. "Let's see what the lad's learned."
Thorwin circled. He watched Falstad's shoulders, not the weapons. Watched the dwarf's hips shift just before each kick, the subtle roll of his wrist that always preceded the dagger's flash. Patterns—small, human things—hid beneath the chaos of combat.
Cedric struck high. Falstad raised his axe to meet it.
There.
The dwarf's left hand drifted toward his back.
Thorwin moved.
He feinted toward Falstad's exposed side, drawing the dagger exactly as he'd expected. As the blade came free, Thorwin dropped low, sliding inside the reach of the strike. His sword slammed down—not at Falstad, but at the dwarf's wrist.
Steel rang sharply.
The dagger flew from Falstad's grip, skittering across the stone floor. The dwarf cursed, surprise flashing across his broad features for the first time.
"Hah!" Falstad barked, delight edging his voice. "That's it, lad!"
Cedric capitalized at once, driving his blade into Falstad's guard and forcing him back another step. Thorwin pressed the advantage, angling his sword to threaten the dwarf's knee—forcing Falstad to split his focus.
The dwarf grinned despite himself, teeth flashing beneath his beard. "Learnin' fast, eh? Took me years ta see that one."
Thorwin did not answer. He didn't need to.
He felt it now—the rhythm, the flow of the fight. Not strength, not speed, but awareness. He had adapted. He had seen.
Falstad regained his stance, axe raised, eyes sharp and approving. "Again," he growled. "Don' stop now."
They sparred until time itself seemed to lose meaning.
Steel met steel in a steady cadence, punctuated by the scrape of boots against stone and the harsh rhythm of breath drawn through clenched teeth. Falstad drove them hard, never allowing their movements to grow lazy, never permitting comfort. Each exchange was a lesson—sometimes subtle, sometimes brutal—delivered through feints, misdirection, and sudden reversals that punished hesitation without mercy. Against the dwarf, size and reach mattered little. He slipped inside strikes meant to crush him, redirected force with the twist of a wrist, and struck where opponents least expected, all while barking rough advice between blows.
"Big 'uns always think size wins fights," Falstad growled as he wrenched Cedric off balance with a hooked axe haft. "Let 'em think it. Makes 'em sloppy."
Thorwin learned quickly.
He learned to watch hips instead of shoulders, to read weight shifts instead of blade angles. He learned that every weapon had a twin—every sword a dagger, every shield a battering ram, every body a tool if one knew how to use it. Falstad taught them how to fight foes larger than themselves not through strength, but through patience, timing, and cruelty when cruelty was required.
"There's no loss in bein' ready," the dwarf muttered during a brief pause, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a scarred hand. "Only loss is dyin' unprepared."
When at last Falstad called a halt, the three collapsed against the stone walls of the cell, muscles trembling, lungs burning. Thorwin sat with his back to the cold rock, sword resting across his knees, sweat dripping down his brow. In the quiet that followed—rare and fragile—his thoughts wandered.
In the arena below, many fought. Some were strong, some savage, some terrifying in their fury. But none possessed Falstad's mastery. Strength could be stolen from desperation. Rage could be forced into being. But Falstad's skill was something deeper—honed by decades of battle, refined through survival rather than spectacle.
Thorwin was certain of it.
He had never seen a finer fighter.
And for that, he felt a strange, quiet gratitude that the orcs had never matched them against one another. He doubted he would have survived such a contest.
His thoughts drifted to the Wildhammer clan—the dwarf's people, spoken of with gruff pride between battles. Mountain warriors, Falstad had said. Sky riders. Hammer bearers. Thorwin wondered if all of them fought with such instinctive brilliance, such hard-earned cunning. If so, it was little wonder their names carried weight even in lands far from their peaks.
His gaze shifted then to Cedric.
The knight sat beside him, head bowed slightly, helmet resting at his feet. In the dim light of the cell, Cedric looked older than Thorwin remembered his father ever being—his face carved with lines born not of age alone, but of duty and loss. His armor was battered and dented, each mark a silent testament to battles survived. Yet he wore it still with unmistakable pride, as though it remained polished ceremonial steel. Thorwin remembered Cedric speaking once of the day he was inducted into the Brotherhood of the Horse—his voice steady, eyes distant, recalling banners snapping in the wind and vows sworn before king and Light alike. That memory lived on in him, untouchable by chains or captivity.
At first, Thorwin had believed in hope.
It had taken root quietly, nurtured in whispers exchanged in the dark—between knights, squires, men-at-arms, and others who still remembered banners and vows. When they learned the truth of his blood, they did not shout it. They did not kneel in spectacle. Instead, they gathered close, faces drawn tight with understanding, and made a choice together.
They swore an oath.
Not of glory, nor of rescue, but of silence.
His lineage would remain a secret—Anduin Lothar's name buried beneath ash and iron, spoken only in murmurs and never beyond the cell walls. To the orcs, Thorwin would be nothing more than another slave with quick hands and stubborn breath. To the arena, just another body to bleed. The secret, they believed, would keep him alive long enough for something—anything—to change.
"We keep this between us," Cedric had said that night, voice low and resolute.
"For his sake," another knight had added.
"For Stormwind," a third whispered, eyes shining with fragile conviction.
Thorwin had believed them.
In those early days, hope had been communal—passed hand to hand like a dying ember, guarded carefully against the wind. The oath bound them together more tightly than chains ever could. They fought beside him with fierce determination, positioning themselves between him and death whenever they could, dragging him from danger at the cost of their own blood.
For a time, it worked.
But hope did not last long in this place.
One by one, the men who had sworn the oath fell.
Some died screaming beneath the roar of the crowd, their silence kept even as steel tore them apart. Others collapsed quietly in the cells, sickness hollowing them until breath slipped away unnoticed. A few were dragged out in chains, never to return—faces erased as thoroughly as if they had never existed at all.
And with each death, the oath grew thinner.
Thorwin stopped counting after the tenth. After the twentieth, numbers no longer mattered. What mattered was the pattern: loyalty drew attention, and attention led to death. The oath that had once felt sacred became a burden—one more reason for good men to die around him.
Hope began to rot.
He learned to nod when new prisoners approached him with reverence in their eyes, learned to listen without believing. He stopped asking names. Stopped accepting promises. Silence became his armor, distrust his shield.
Words meant nothing here.
Oaths meant less.
Only action mattered.
That was why Cedric endured.
When the knight had first sworn to protect him, Thorwin had not asked for it. Had not wanted it. He had already buried too many vows in the sand. But Cedric did not rely on words alone. He fought. He bled. He stepped into killing blows meant for Thorwin, as did he for the knight. Their bond was not forged in promises, but in survival—sealed with shared blood and unspoken understanding.
That, Thorwin trusted.
The cell bore witness to all of it: stone walls pressing close, iron bars rusted and bent, torchlight flickering like dying stars. The air was thick with old sweat and despair, heavy enough to choke.
"Now then," Falstad's voice boomed, cutting through the stillness. "We rest 'til the fight. Ain't no sense burnin' strength 'fore the brutes get their fun."
The dwarf dropped onto his bed with a grunt, armor clanking as the planks creaked beneath his weight. Moments later, his thunderous snore filled the cell, deep and unashamed.
Thorwin glanced at Cedric.
Cedric met his gaze, expression steady, then they both let out a small chuckle, leaning back against the cold stone wall, shoulder to shoulder, resting in the fragile calm before dawn. Outside, the arena waited—patient, hungry, inevitable. Thorwin closed his eyes.