Blood and Bonds

The second day in the pit dawned with a scream—a high, keening wail that ripped Evan Kael from a restless half-sleep. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering, and for a moment he forgot where he was. The cold stone pressed against his back, the chains clinking as he shifted, and the stench of the slave pit flooded back—sweat, rot, and despair, thick enough to choke on. The scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet gurgle and the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. He didn't need to look to know someone hadn't made it through the night.

Beside him, Lysa stirred, her red hair a tangled mess against the wall. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing dirt across her cheek, and muttered, "Morning already?"

"If you call this morning," Evan said, voice hoarse from the dry air. He stretched as best he could, the chains dragging across the stone, and winced as his ribs twinged—a souvenir from Gorr's boot yesterday. "Sounds like they're starting the day with a bang."

"Or a corpse," she replied, her tone flat but her green eyes sharp as she scanned the pit. The torchlight had dimmed overnight, leaving the cavern in a murky twilight, but he followed her gaze to a slumped figure near the center. A guard kicked it once, twice, then barked something to another, who dragged the body away by the ankles. Blood streaked the stone behind it, dark and glistening.

"Guess he didn't pass the test," Evan said, forcing a lightness he didn't feel. His stomach churned, but he swallowed it down. No point dwelling—survival was the game now, and he wasn't about to lose on day two.

Lysa's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening around the edge of her tunic. "Happens too often. Weak ones go fast. You're not weak, are you, Kael?"

"Not planning on it," he said, meeting her gaze. That spark in her eyes flickered, steady and challenging, and he felt it pull at him again—that need to match it, to keep up with her. "You?"

"Never," she said, smirking faintly, and damn if it didn't ease the knot in his chest. She pushed off the wall, chains rattling, and nodded toward the pit's edge. "Come on. They'll be at us soon. Better to move before they make us."

He nodded, hauling himself up beside her. The pit buzzed with low murmurs as the other slaves stirred, some dragging themselves upright, others curling tighter into their misery. The air felt heavier today, thick with a tension he couldn't place, like a storm brewing under the stone. Evan flexed his hands, the cuts from yesterday's rocks stinging as they cracked open, and followed Lysa's lead. She moved with a quiet purpose, her limp barely slowing her, and he matched her pace, their steps syncing like they'd done this forever.

The horn blared an hour later, sharp and grating, splitting the pit's hum like a blade. Gorr stormed in, his bulk filling the narrow entrance, whip uncoiled and trailing behind him like a tail. Two more guards flanked him, their leather armor creaking, clubs dangling from their belts. The slaves scrambled into lines, a ragged mess of hunched backs and darting eyes, and Evan fell in beside Lysa, her shoulder brushing his.

"Listen up, dogs!" Gorr's voice boomed, bouncing off the walls. "Got a special treat today. Buyers coming tomorrow, and they want fighters, not worms. Prove you're worth the coin, or you're meat for the hounds."

Evan's gut tightened. A test—Lysa had warned him, but hearing it made it real. He glanced at her, catching the hard set of her jaw, the way her hands curled into fists. She'd been through this before, he realized, and the thought twisted something in him—anger, maybe, or a flicker of protectiveness he didn't want to name.

Gorr paced the line, his piggish eyes glinting as he sized them up. He stopped in front of a wiry man two spots down, gray-haired and trembling. "You. Step out."

The man obeyed, stumbling forward, and Gorr grinned, yellow teeth flashing. "Let's see if you've got any fight left, old dog." He nodded to a guard, who tossed a rusted sword at the man's feet. It clattered against the stone, dull and chipped, but the guard drew his own—a short, gleaming blade—and advanced.

Evan's breath caught. The old man barely raised the sword before the guard lunged, steel flashing. Blood sprayed, a hot arc that spattered the ground, and the man crumpled, clutching his gut. The guard kicked him aside, wiping his blade on his sleeve, and Gorr laughed, a wet, ugly sound that echoed too long.

"Next!" Gorr barked, moving down the line. Evan's pulse raced, his mouth dry as sand. Lysa shifted closer, her arm pressing against his, and he felt her tension through the contact—steady, but coiled, like a spring ready to snap.

Gorr stopped in front of them, his gaze flicking between Evan and Lysa. "Well, well. New blood and Red. Let's make this fun." He jerked his chin at the guard. "Both of 'em. Two swords."

The guard tossed a pair of rusted blades at their feet, the metal screeching as it hit the stone. Evan stared at them, then at Gorr, whose grin widened. "Fight him together. Win, you eat tonight. Lose, you don't eat tomorrow—if you're still breathing."

"Great," Evan muttered, bending to grab a sword. The hilt was slick with grime, the blade notched and heavy, but he hefted it anyway, testing its weight. "Guess we're the entertainment."

Lysa snatched hers up, her grip sure despite the tremble in her fingers. "Stay sharp, Kael. He's fast."

The guard stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, his sword gleaming in the torchlight. He was lean, wiry, with a scar cutting across his cheek—a man who'd done this too many times. The pit went quiet, the slaves' eyes fixed on them, a mix of fear and grim curiosity. Evan tightened his grip, adrenaline surging, and shot Lysa a look. "Got a plan, Red?"

"Hit him hard," she said, voice low. "Don't die."

"Solid," he replied, and then the guard charged.

The fight was chaos—fast, brutal, and messy. The guard swung low, aiming for Evan's legs, and he jumped back, the blade whistling past his shins. Lysa darted in, her sword slashing at the guard's arm, but he twisted, parrying with a clang that jarred her back. Evan lunged, aiming for the man's side, but the guard sidestepped, his boot catching Evan's ankle and sending him sprawling. Pain flared as he hit the stone, the sword skittering from his hand, and he cursed, rolling as the guard's blade stabbed down where his chest had been.

"Evan!" Lysa shouted, her voice cutting through the haze. She swung again, forcing the guard to pivot, and Evan scrambled up, snatching his sword. Blood trickled from a scrape on his elbow, hot and sticky, but he ignored it, circling as Lysa pressed the attack. She was quick, her limp forgotten in the heat of it, her blade a blur of rust and fury. The guard blocked, grunting, and Evan saw his chance—a gap in the man's stance, his weight shifted too far.

He charged, shoulder low, and slammed into the guard's side. They hit the ground together, a tangle of limbs and steel, and Evan drove his elbow into the man's jaw. Bone crunched, the guard's head snapping back, and Lysa was there, her sword flashing down. It bit into the guard's shoulder, a shallow cut but enough to make him howl, blood welling through his leather. Evan wrestled the man's sword arm down, pinning it, and Lysa stomped on his wrist. The blade clattered free, and Evan grabbed it, pressing the rusted edge to the guard's throat.

"Yield," he snarled, breath heaving. The guard glared, blood bubbling at his lips, then went limp, nodding once.

Gorr's laugh broke the silence, loud and grating. "Not bad, dogs! You live—for now." He waved a hand, and another guard dragged the injured man away, leaving a smear of red on the stone. Evan dropped the sword, chest burning, and turned to Lysa. She was panting, her hair plastered to her forehead, a thin cut on her cheek oozing blood. But her eyes burned, fierce and alive, and she grinned—a wild, reckless thing that hit him like a punch.

"Told you," she said, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. "Hit him hard."

"Yeah," he said, grinning back, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. "Guess we're a team now."

"Guess so," she replied, and the weight of it settled between them—solid, real, a thread tying them tighter in this hell.

Dusk came slow, the pit settling into a bruised quiet. The guards tossed them a scrap of meat—tough, half-rotted, but food—and Evan and Lysa sat against the wall, tearing into it together. His hands shook, the fight replaying in his head, but her presence steadied him. She chewed in silence for a while, then nudged his shoulder, her touch light but warm.

"You're not bad, Kael," she said, voice soft. "Kept up with me."

"Had to," he said, nudging her back. "Can't let you hog all the glory."

She laughed, a small, bright sound, and it dug into him deeper—past the sarcasm, past the survival. He was falling for her, he realized, and it scared him more than the fight. In this pit, caring was a risk, a wound waiting to bleed. But when she leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder, he didn't pull away. Her hair smelled of dirt and sweat, but under it, faintly, was something like crushed herbs—alive, defiant. He closed his eyes, memorizing it, and let the moment stretch.

"Tomorrow's the buyers," she murmured, half-asleep. "We'll figure it out. Together."

"Together," he echoed, and the word felt like a promise—one he'd kill to keep.