Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The border trade city of Dunemar never slept.
Here merchants and criminals met, smugglers and mercenaries, weapons and gold passed from hand to hand under the open sky. The market was alive, but the air always smelled of danger. In this city, the law was weak, and survival — a skill.
In one open space, between stone walls and dusty ground, children were training.
Among them one stood out — a child with red hair, eyes full of hunger, and movements that did not suit his years. In his hands he held two knives, small, but deadly.
Above them stood a woman.
Short orange hair, black armor scarred with marks from old battles. Her posture was straight, her gaze sharp, her voice — authoritative.
Ragna Vornak.
To the city — The Iron Queen.
She did not train only children.
She taught civilians, elders, people who had never held a weapon. She taught them how to defend themselves, how to stand straight, how not to be afraid.
The city respected her.
Not out of fear — but out of gratitude.
That day, Ragna gathered her group.
The people fell silent.
"There are slaves in our kingdom," she began. "In the capital."
Something changed in her voice.
"I too was once a slave."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"I want to free them. Who is with me?"
A moment of silence.
Then — shouts.
Hands were raised. People screamed, supported her, followed her.
Ragna looked at the faces before her — young, old, broken, hungry, but with fire in their eyes.
She knew what she was doing.
She was leading them toward death.
But she also knew that if she stayed silent, if she turned away and continued to live as before — she would never forgive herself.
She was once a slave.
And it was better to die standing… than to live on her knees again.
"Prepare yourselves," Ragna shouted. "At dawn we leave."
The next day, before dawn, they set out.
The day passed in a silent march, with wounded legs and clenched jaws.
The sun was setting when the walls of Khar'Zun appeared before them.
No one spoke.
Everyone knew — once they entered, there was no return.
Ragna stood alone.
Rovan approached her.
"What if we fail?" he asked quietly.
She did not look at him.
"Then at least we will know that we tried."
Rovan nodded.
In his eyes there was no fear. Only hunger.
A column of people without uniforms, but with the same goal.
The plan was a silent entry.
But the city saw them.
The gate was breached, but the alarm was raised. Knights arrived quickly — more numerous, better equipped.
The plan failed.
The fight began.
Rovan — the child with red hair — was hungry for blood.
He moved like a shadow, knives flew, bodies fell.
Although a child — he killed without hesitation.
Rovan moved among the bodies.
He felt no guilt.
He felt no fear.
Each fallen man was just a step forward.
Toward something he did not know how to name… but knew belonged to him.
Ragna stood at the front.
She kept them together, defended them, led them.
One fell with a strike to the chest.
Another — with a blade to the head.
A third — with a leg cut out from beneath him.
She was a leader.
But the body has limits.
In one moment — her legs gave way.
Not from a blow.
Not from a wound.
From exhaustion.
The last thing she saw were the faces of the people who trusted her.
And then — darkness.
Consciousness left her.
The line broke.
The battle was lost.
Bound, disarmed, and pushed forward, they had no choice but to walk.
They were taken to the colosseum.
The colosseum smelled of old blood and rust.
Chains clanged with every step.
This was not a place for justice.
This was a place where people died for entertainment.
Ragna woke with pain in her body and heaviness in her chest.
"Rovan!" she shouted. "Rovan!"
The crowd shifted.
The child stepped forward.
She embraced him tightly.
"Without you we are lost," Rovan said.
Ragna closed her mouth, then quietly replied:
"Even if I had stayed on my feet… we would have lost. There would only have been more dead."
The next day, King Kael asked to see someone.
The servants took him to a special prison — deep beneath the stone.
"Do not look too long," one of the servants whispered.
"What is he?" Kael asked.
"Some say he is a monster," said the other.
"Others — that he is a man who refused to die."
He had been there seventeen years.
And he was still breathing.
There, in the darkness, sat a man.
Long black hair.
One eye bound.
A body full of bruises, scars, marks.
In chains.
Tortured. Forgotten.
Kael did not know about him — until he read about him in the book.
The servants fed him, but no one spoke.
Kael thought:
This was not a man…
This was something the world had broken again and again —
and still failed to destroy.
"So you are the one," Kael said. "I read about you. That is how I found you."
The prisoner remained silent.
He looked at him coldly, with rage and hatred that had not faded for years.
Kael looked at him for a long time.
"You will fight in the colosseum," he finally said.
The prisoner smiled for the first time.
He remained silent.
Kael turned to leave, then added:
"And the entire city will watch you."
The door closed.
And in the darkness — something awakened.
End of Chapter 16