Steel and Sand

The third day in the pit broke with a clamor of boots and shouts, a harsh jolt that yanked Evan Kael from a dreamless sleep. His eyes snapped open, the cold stone under him a familiar ache, the chains around his wrists clinking as he shifted. Beside him, Lysa stirred, her red hair spilling across her shoulder like a splash of fire against the gloom. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse—and rubbed her face, smearing yesterday's dirt into new streaks. The air in the slave pit hung heavy, thick with the same sour stench of sweat and despair, but today it buzzed with a different edge—anticipation, or maybe dread.

"Buyers," Lysa said, her voice low and rough as she sat up. She'd warned him last night, her words slurring with exhaustion as they'd leaned against each other. Now her green eyes flicked to the pit's entrance, sharp and wary. "Told you they'd come."

"Great," Evan muttered, hauling himself upright. His body ached—ribs tender from Gorr's kick, hands scabbed and stiff from hauling rocks—but the fight yesterday had left a fire in him, a stubborn spark stoked by Lysa's grin after they'd won. "Guess we're on the auction block. Any chance they're shopping for interior decorators?"

She snorted, a quick, dry laugh that cut through the tension. "Only if you can decorate with blood and bones. Fighters, Kael. That's what they want."

"Figures," he said, stretching his arms as far as the chains allowed. His gaze drifted to the pit's center, where slaves were already shuffling into a ragged line under Gorr's bellowed orders. The big slavemaster loomed like a storm cloud, whip coiled but twitching in his hand, his scarred face twisted in a grin that promised trouble. Evan's stomach tightened. Whatever came next, it wouldn't be gentle.

The pit's entrance shuddered open, stone grinding against stone, and three figures strode in. They weren't like the guards—grubby brutes in leather and rust. These were sharper, cleaner, their cloaks dyed deep crimson and edged with gold thread that caught the torchlight. One was a woman, tall and angular, her black hair pulled tight into a braid that snaked down her back. She carried a staff tipped with a glowing crystal, its light pulsing faintly, and her eyes—cold and gray—swept the pit like she was appraising livestock. The other two were men, broad-shouldered and silent, swords sheathed at their hips but hands resting on the hilts.

"Redfang's finest," Gorr called, his voice dripping with mock pride as he gestured to the slaves. "Take your pick, Lady Veyra. Strong ones, fresh ones—plenty of meat for the pits."

Lady Veyra stepped forward, her staff tapping the ground with a soft clink. "I need pairs," she said, her voice smooth but edged, like a blade wrapped in silk. "The crowd's bored of solo acts. Give me teams—ones who can last more than a round."

Evan exchanged a look with Lysa. Her jaw tightened, but she gave him a slight nod, a silent agreement—they'd stick together, whatever this was. Gorr's eyes landed on them, and his grin widened, yellow teeth flashing. "You two. New blood and Red. Step out."

The chains rattled as they obeyed, Evan's heart thudding against his ribs. He kept Lysa in his peripheral, her presence a steady anchor as they faced Veyra. The woman's gaze raked over them, lingering on Evan's bruised jaw, Lysa's defiant stance. She tapped her staff again, the crystal flaring briefly, and Evan felt a shiver crawl up his spine—like something was peering inside him.

"Fought yesterday," Gorr said, lumbering closer. "Took down one of my boys together. Scrappy, both of 'em."

"Show me," Veyra said, stepping back. She nodded to one of her guards, who drew his sword—a sleek, polished thing, not the rusted junk they'd used before—and advanced.

"Again?" Evan muttered, but he bent to grab the rusted blade Gorr tossed at his feet. Lysa did the same, her grip steady despite the cut on her cheek still weeping faintly. The guard circled, his stance loose but confident, and the pit went quiet, the slaves' eyes fixed on them.

"Ready?" Lysa whispered, her voice tight but sure.

"Born ready," Evan lied, and then the guard lunged.

It was faster than yesterday—sharper, meaner. The guard's sword slashed high, aiming for Evan's throat, and he ducked, the blade whistling over his head. Lysa darted in, her strike low and quick, but the guard parried, metal clanging as he shoved her back. Evan swung, aiming for the man's ribs, but the guard twisted, catching the blow on his hilt and kicking out. The boot caught Evan's knee, pain flaring, and he stumbled, barely dodging a follow-up slash.

"Move, Kael!" Lysa snapped, lunging again. Her blade grazed the guard's arm, drawing a thin line of blood, and he hissed, pivoting to face her. Evan seized the moment, charging low and tackling the man's legs. They hit the ground hard, stone jarring Evan's bones, and he wrestled the guard's sword arm down, pinning it. Lysa's shadow fell over them, her blade flashing, and she drove it into the guard's shoulder—not deep, but enough to make him grunt and drop his weapon.

Evan rolled off, panting, and Lysa kicked the sword away, her chest heaving. The guard glared up at them, blood staining his cloak, but didn't move. Veyra's staff tapped once, a sharp sound that cut through the silence.

"Enough," she said, her lips curling slightly—not a smile, but close. "They'll do. Ten silvers for the pair."

Gorr haggled, his voice a low growl, but Evan barely heard it over the blood rushing in his ears. Lysa offered him a hand, pulling him up, and her grin—small, fierce—lit something in him. "Still alive," she said.

"Barely," he replied, grinning back. Her touch lingered, warm against his calloused palm, and he didn't let go until Gorr's whip cracked, herding them toward Veyra's men.

The journey was a blur of dust and jolting wagons. They were unchained from the pit's walls, wrists bound with rope instead, and shoved into a wooden cart with bars like a cage. The road rattled beneath them, winding through jagged hills under a sky too gray to call daylight. Evan sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Lysa, the rope chafing his skin, and watched Atherion unfold—craggy peaks stabbing the clouds, patches of scrub clinging to the earth, the distant rumble of a river he couldn't see. It was vast, wild, and it made the pit feel small.

"Where're they taking us?" he asked, voice low. The guards rode ahead, Veyra's crimson cloak a slash of color against the drab landscape.

"Fighting pits," Lysa said, her eyes on the bars. "Heard of 'em. Slaves fight for coin, crowds cheer, winners live. Losers don't."

"Sounds like a blast," he said, sarcasm thick. "Guess we're sticking together?"

"Better odds that way," she replied, glancing at him. "You're not half-bad with a sword, Kael."

"High praise," he said, nudging her shoulder. "You're not so bad yourself, Red."

She smirked, nudging him back, and the moment stretched—light, almost easy, despite the ropes and the cage. He didn't know what lay ahead, but with her beside him, it felt less like a death sentence.

The cart rolled into a sprawling compound at dusk, a sprawl of stone walls and wooden stands ringing a sand-packed arena. The air thrummed with noise—shouts, jeers, the clang of metal—and the stench of blood and sweat hit Evan like a wave. They were dragged out, shoved through a gate into a holding pen beneath the stands. Iron bars separated them from the arena, where two slaves hacked at each other with axes, the crowd roaring as blood sprayed the sand.

"Welcome home," Lysa muttered, her voice dry but her eyes hard.

A guard—an older man with a limp and a missing ear—unbound their wrists and tossed them a pair of short swords, better than the pit's rust but still notched and dull. "You're up next," he growled. "Two against two. Don't die quick—the crowd hates that."

Evan hefted the sword, testing its balance, and glanced at Lysa. "Ready for round two?"

"Always," she said, her grin returning, sharp and alive. They stepped to the gate, the roar of the crowd swelling, and when it swung open, they walked out together.

The arena was a pit of sand and noise, the stands packed with jeering faces—merchants, soldiers, drunks, all baying for blood. Their opponents waited across the sand: a wiry man with a scarred chest and a woman with a shaved head, both clutching swords and shields. The man spat, grinning, and the woman twirled her blade, her stance loose but sure.

"Fresh meat!" the man shouted, and the crowd laughed, a hungry sound that set Evan's teeth on edge.

"Focus," Lysa whispered, her shoulder brushing his as they advanced. "We've got this."

The fight started fast. The man charged Evan, sword slashing high, and Evan parried, the impact jarring his arm. Lysa ducked the woman's swing, rolling under a shield bash and slicing at her leg. The woman cursed, blood welling, but swung again, forcing Lysa back. Evan traded blows with the man, steel clanging, sand kicking up under their feet. The guy was strong, relentless, but sloppy—Evan ducked a wild swing and drove his sword into the man's thigh, twisting it free as the guy howled and dropped.

Lysa's opponent lunged, shield slamming into her chest, and she stumbled, gasping. Evan moved without thinking, tackling the woman from the side. They hit the sand, her shield flying, and Lysa finished it, her blade stopping an inch from the woman's throat. The crowd roared, some cheering, some booing, but the fight was done.

Evan pulled Lysa up, her breath ragged but her eyes blazing. "Nice save," she said, clapping his shoulder.

"Teamwork," he replied, and they stood there, panting, as the guards dragged their opponents away.

Night fell in the pen, the air cooler but thick with the day's blood. They sat against the bars, a scrap of bread and a strip of dried meat between them—meager, but earned. Evan tore the bread, handing her half, and she took it, her fingers brushing his. They ate in silence, the arena quiet now, the crowd gone.

"You're getting better," she said finally, wiping her hands on her tunic. "Might keep you around."

"High honor," he said, smirking. "You're not so bad yourself."

She laughed, soft and tired, and leaned her head on his shoulder. The weight was light, warm, and he froze for a second before letting his own head rest against hers. Her hair tickled his cheek, smelling of sand and sweat but still carrying that faint herb scent he'd caught before. His chest tightened—not fear, not pain, but something softer, riskier. He didn't name it, just closed his eyes and let the moment hold.

"Tomorrow's another fight," she murmured, half-asleep. "We'll make it."

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "Together."