The Silence After the Storm

The bruiser laid in the dirt. 

Torik stood over him, bloodied.

The crowd, which had been roaring moments ago, was silent now.

Garik saw it.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to irritation.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his jaw, forcing himself to smile.

"Well, I'll be damned."

His voice cut through the silence, dragging the attention back to him.

"You're harder to kill than I thought."

Garik stepped forward, boots crunching against the dirt.

Torik hadn't moved.

He was still breathing hard, his knuckles split and raw.

Garik tilted his head slightly, studying him.

No pride. No smugness.

Just a man who refused to fall.

Some of his men shifted uneasily. That was the problem.

Torik was supposed to be a joke.

A relic of a failed war. A dog waiting to be put down.

But now?

Some of them were looking at him differently.

And Garik couldn't have that.

Garik sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

"You know, I was going to let you rest after this."

His smirk returned, slow and sharp.

"But you're a stubborn bastard, aren't you?"

He turned to his men.

"Get him up."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"When I throw you into the arena?"

Garik leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

"You won't be a warrior anymore. Just a beaten dog waiting to die."

The guards grabbed Torik's arms. Dragged him toward the cage.

Kain watched as Torik's head stayed high.

Torik sat in the cage, wrists bound, his body heavy with exhaustion. The bruises on his ribs had deepened into ugly patches of black and purple. His lip was split, dried blood crusted over it.

He wasn't asleep. Men like him never truly slept in places like this.

The sound of boots crunching in the dirt made his eyes open.

Garik.

Torik didn't move as the slaver crouched outside the bars, grinning.

"Big day tomorrow," Garik said, voice thick with amusement. "You get to die for the good people of the city."

Torik's breath came slow.

"You keep talking, Garik. Must mean you're nervous."

Garik chuckled, shaking his head.

"Not nervous. Just eager to see the look on your face when you realize there's no crawling out of this one."

He gestured lazily to one of his men.

"Make sure he's hurt before they take him in. Let's make it entertaining."

Torik didn't flinch as they dragged him out of the cage.

Didn't resist as they held him down in the dirt.

He didn't move, until the knife slid into his side.

Garik crouched beside him, watching his reaction.

"You'll bleed out in the sand."

Torik's teeth clenched as the blade twisted slightly. Pain flared, sharp and hot.

"I'll make sure to get some on you before that happens," he muttered.

Garik's smirk widened.

"We'll see."

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

Kain stood with Alric in the stands, watching as Torik was dragged into the pit.

The sun glared down, turning the sand into a sea of gold.

Torik was bare-chested, his wound still bleeding sluggishly down his ribs.

His opponent stood across from him.

A hulking man in iron-studded leather, wielding a two-handed axe.

Not a fair fight.

A spectacle.

"They want a show," Alric murmured beside Kain, his voice unreadable.

Kain didn't answer.

Alric exhaled, watching Torik stand tall despite his wound. "They want to see a man break. A leader crawl. They want to believe that no one is strong forever."

Kain's fists clenched.

The axe-wielding gladiator didn't hesitate.

He charged, swinging his weapon in a wide arc, aiming to end this quickly.

Torik didn't move until the last second.

Then, he stepped into the strike.

The axe blade clipped his shoulder, carving a shallow but bloody wound.

But Torik was already moving, turning the pain into momentum.

His fist slammed into the gladiator's jaw.

The man stumbled, surprised.

The crowd gasped.

Not because Torik had landed a hit.

But because he was fighting back at all.

The gladiator regained his footing fast.

Torik was already on him.

A brutal elbow to the throat.

A knee to the ribs.

A headbutt that cracked open skin.

But the gladiator was still stronger. Still fresher.

And when he swung the axe again, Torik wasn't fast enough to dodge completely.

The blade bit deep into his thigh.

Blood spilled onto the sand.

The crowd roared.

Torik's leg buckled.

And for the first time, he wavered.

Kain's breath hitched.

His fingers twitched toward his side instinctively, only to remember he had no weapon.

Alric watched him carefully.

"That feeling in your gut?" Alric muttered. "That's what happens when you realize you can't do a damn thing."

Kain didn't respond.

Because Torik wasn't dead yet.

And as long as he still moved—

There was still something to hold onto.

The gladiator stepped forward, raising the axe for the killing blow.

The crowd screamed for blood.

Kain's fingers dug into the wooden railing.

Torik forced himself to move.

The moment the axe came down, he twisted.

The blade slammed into the sand.

Torik rose, using the last of his strength to grab the gladiator's wrist, locking him in place.

Then, he drove his forehead into the man's face.

Once.

Twice.

Until the gladiator collapsed, skull caved in.

The arena fell silent.

The audience stared, waiting for someone to declare the fight over.

Torik stood there, drenched in blood—his own and his enemy's.

Just alive.

And that was more than they had expected.

Kain exhaled slowly, his pulse still racing.

Alric hummed.

"He wasn't supposed to win."

A pause.

Then a smirk.

"But now they want to see him again."

The body laid still.

The sand, once golden, was now soaked in red.

Torik stood in the center of it all.

The crowd's silence lingered longer than expected.

Some had wanted a quick execution. They hadn't gotten it.

And Garik?

He sighed, slow and deep, as he stood from his seat in the stands.

"You just don't know when to die, do you?"

Garik stepped onto the arena floor, boots crunching against the bloodstained sand.

Torik's gaze flicked to him, but nothing else moved.

Just the quiet, steady breath of a man who had already decided he wasn't going to break.

Garik let his smirk return, tilting his head.

"You're not supposed to be the attraction," he mused, voice almost light. "You're supposed to be the warning."

He turned to the announcer.

"Send another one in."

A ripple ran through the crowd.

"Again?" someone muttered."He's already torn apart.""Let him rest, Garik, the man's already done more than we expected."

Garik barely glanced at them.

"Rest?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "He hasn't earned it yet."

But among the murmurs, one figure watched in silence.

A noble, dressed in subtle but fine clothes, fingers tapping against his chin.

He didn't look away from Torik.

He had seen something valuable today.

The gate slammed open.

Another man stepped forward.

Not a fresh warrior. Not a trained killer.

But two.

One wielding a spear.The other a short sword.

Two opponents. One already bleeding.

The crowd leaned forward.

Torik rolled his shoulders, slow, stiff from blood loss.

Kain exhaled sharply in the stands.

This wasn't a fight.

This was a slaughter.

And yet, Torik still lifted his fists.