Blood in the Sand

Torik rolled his shoulders, feeling the slow trickle of blood from his side.

It was a familiar warmth now.

The ache in his ribs. The sting of open wounds. The way his limbs felt heavier by the second.

It wasn't new.

But it was getting worse.

And now?

There were two of them.

One held a short sword, crouched low, light on his feet.

The other held a spear, standing tall, waiting to strike.

Torik exhaled slowly.

He could barely keep his stance steady.

But he still lifted his fists.

Garik watched from the stands, his smirk widening.

"You can kneel, you know," he called out.

Torik spat blood into the sand.

The fight began.

The swordsman moved first.

Torik twisted, but not fast enough.

The blade sliced across his forearm.

Pain flared, sharp and hot.

He gritted his teeth, then the spear came from behind.

He dropped low, barely avoiding the thrust.

Sand kicked up around him. His knee nearly gave out.

Too slow. Too weak.

And they knew it.

Torik backed up, forcing them into his line of sight.

They weren't reckless. They weren't fools.

They stayed just out of reach, wearing him down.

The spear jabbed forward, Torik twisted, but it cut across his ribs. The swordsman moved in, slashing low, Torik barely parried it with his forearm.The next spear strike clipped his thigh, his leg buckled for half a second.

The crowd cheered.

For the inevitability of his death.

Kain could feel it.

Every time Torik took a hit, he felt the weight of it in his own chest.

His fingers clenched.

"You feel that?" Alric murmured beside him.

Kain didn't answer.

"That's what happens when you start caring about something that's already dying."

Kain's jaw locked.

Torik wasn't dead yet.

And as long as he was still fighting, Kain wasn't letting go.

The spear came again.

Torik didn't dodge this time.

He stepped in.

The blade pierced his shoulder, hot, deep, sinking into flesh.

The spearman's grin barely formed, before Torik grabbed the shaft with his bare hand and yanked him forward.

The swordsman reacted to late.

Torik drove his forehead into the spearman's face. The man stumbled, blood pouring from his shattered nose.

Torik didn't let go.

He ripped the spear from his own body.

Turned it.

And drove it into the spearman's throat.

A wet, choking gurgle.

The man collapsed.

The swordsman froze.

Torik was already moving.

The swordsman lunged, slashing wildly.

Torik blocked with the shaft of the spear, then swung wide.

The spear's wooden end cracked against the man's temple.

He reeled.

Torik closed the distance.

Grabbed the man's wrist, twisted.

The sword dropped into the sand.

Torik caught it before it fell.

And with the last of his strength, he buried the blade into the man's chest.

The arena was silent again.

Torik stood there, dripping blood. His own. His enemies.

His vision swayed.

His knees trembled.

But he didn't fall.

Not yet.

The noble watching didn't look away.

Garik, for the first time, exhaled through his nose.

This wasn't the plan.

Someone might want to meet Torik after this.

Someone might want to buy him.

But first, Garik still wanted to break him.

And that meant no rest.

Kain didn't blink.

Torik should be dead.

He wasn't.

And something in Kain's chest tightened.

He realized, then, what he wanted.

It wasn't just survival anymore.

It was for Torik to live.

He didn't know why.

Didn't understand it.

But he would make sure it happened.

Even if he had to fight for it himself.

The bodies had been dragged from the sand.

The blood remained.

Torik sat against the stone wall of the pit, breathing slow and controlled.

His wounds were deep, his body failing. 

Above, the crowd was shifting.

They weren't jeering anymore.

Some whispered. Some watched.

And one man?

He had already made his decision.

Lucian Varentis stood near the private viewing stands, his expression unreadable.

He had watched every moment of Torik's suffering.

Now, he stepped forward, moving toward Garik, who was still watching from above.

"An impressive display," Lucian murmured, his tone polite but distant.

Garik barely glanced at him. Still irritated. Still processing.

"What do you want, Varentis?"

Lucian smiled, a small, thin expression, like a man who already knew the outcome.

"To discuss business, of course."

From the stands, Kain saw the exchange.

He didn't know the noble.

Didn't know what was being said.

But he knew a shift in power when he saw one.

Lucian glanced back at the pit, where Torik still sat, barely breathing.

"The people are watching, Garik." He spoke as if the two of them were alone. "They've seen something today. A fighter who should be dead but isn't. That has value."

Garik scoffed. "He's a dead man walking."

Lucian tilted his head.

"Perhaps." His gaze flicked back to Torik. "But I'm willing to bet he's worth more alive than dead."

"I want him."

Garik let out a slow breath.

"You think I'll just sell him off because you fancy a new pet?"

Lucian chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Not a pet. An investment."

"You'll get your money. A generous price." He paused, voice deliberate. "Or you can keep trying to break him, until there's nothing left to sell."

A beat of silence.

Garik's jaw tightened.

He hated losing.

Lucian smiled slightly.

"Think it over, Garik. But don't wait too long."

His eyes flickered toward Torik one last time.

"Things that survive against the odds tend to become legends."

With that, he turned, leaving Garik standing in quiet frustration.

Kain watched the noble walk away, a heavy feeling settling in his gut.

Garik remained in the stands, arms crossed, staring down at the arena.

Torik was still sitting against the stone wall.

Barely breathing.

Barely alive.

But still unbroken.

Lucian Varentis had seen that and wanted to buy him.

And Garik?

He wasn't sure if he hated that more than he liked the money.

Torik was supposed to be an example.

A warning.

A leader, dragged into the mud, reduced to nothing.

And yet, he kept standing.

The crowd had seen it. Lucian had seen it.

If Garik let Torik leave now, what did that say about him?

That he had failed to break him?

That Torik had won?

Garik's fingers curled tight against his arms.

Lucian had been right about one thing.

Torik was valuable.

A fighter who should be dead but wasn't? That was something people paid to see.

But Lucian was also wrong.

Torik wasn't a legend yet. He was still just a man.

Garik exhaled, shaking his head.

Then he made his decision.

"Not yet."

The guards near the pit straightened as Garik turned toward them.

"No food. No rest. And in two days, throw him back in."

A pause.

"Give him a weapon this time."

The men hesitated. Surprised.

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

Garik's smirk returned, slow and dangerous.

"If they want a legend, let's see if he can survive long enough to become one."

Kain clenched his fists, watching from above.

Garik had made his choice.

Torik wasn't being sold.

He wasn't being spared.

He was being used.

Kain swallowed, his chest tight.

Torik wouldn't survive another fight like that.

Would he?