Aren did not wake.
Not at first.
Pain came before consciousness. A deep, crushing pressure inside his bones, as if something had been carved into his skeleton while he slept.
His eyes opened slowly.
Stone ceiling.
Dim torchlight.
The infirmary.
But something was wrong.
Too quiet.
Usually the pit groaned with noise—fighters screaming, chains clattering, guards shouting.
Now there was only silence.
Aren sat up.
The moment he moved, a sharp crack ran through his ribs.
He clenched his teeth but didn't make a sound.
Good.
Still alive.
He looked down.
Across his chest, faint black lines had appeared—thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs beneath the skin.
Not wounds.
Marks.
The Fracture.
It had grown.
And that meant something else had changed too.
Footsteps approached.
Aren turned his head.
But it wasn't a guard.
Three figures stood in the doorway.
Not slaves.
Not fighters.
Not nobles.
They wore plain gray cloaks with no symbol. Their faces hidden beneath deep hoods.
But the air around them felt…
Heavy.
Like standing near deep water.
One of them spoke.
"Subject confirmed."
Aren's eyes narrowed.
"You talk like I'm livestock."
Another figure stepped forward.
"From a certain perspective… you are."
Aren said nothing.
The third figure slowly lifted their hood.
A woman.
Cold eyes. White hair. A thin scar across her lip.
She studied Aren like a weapon being inspected.
Then she said something that made the air in the room freeze.
"You survived the Second Claimant."
Aren stayed silent.
The woman continued.
"No one survives that."
Aren finally spoke.
"I did."
The three figures exchanged glances.
The first one whispered:
"Unindexed variable."
The woman stepped closer.
"You are not supposed to exist."
Aren tilted his head.
"Then stop looking at me."
For the first time, she smiled slightly.
"Unfortunately…"
She placed a small black coin on the table beside him.
"…we've been looking for you."