The Pits
[Matriarch Status Detected] Name: Caelira of the Silver Spine Title: Matriarch of the Southern Amazon Domain Current Status: 0 Red
The throne room of the Amazon Domain wasn't built for comfort. It was built to remind anyone standing below it exactly where they belonged.
Cold stone. High ceilings. Bladed banners. Torches burning with bluish flame that cast long shadows across the faces of the women who stood on the balconies, watching him with the same attention they might give a stray dog that wandered into a military camp.
At the far end of the chamber, on a throne carved from twisted blackwood and bone, sat Caelira—the Matriarch. The woman whose word could sentence a man to death or drag a kingdom to its knees. Her silver hair gleamed in the firelight, cascading over her shoulders like a mantle of molten steel. She didn't smile. She didn't speak. She didn't blink.
River stood there, drenched from his earlier stumble through the sea, robes clinging to his skin, ribs still sore from the guard's boot. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
The screen had appeared again. A system prompt, hovering silently over the Matriarch's head like a cruel joke:
[Matriarch Status Detected] 0 Red
He didn't need a manual to figure out what that meant.
He needed her heart to change color.
And somehow—somehow—he had to do it through flirting.
Flirting.
His hands were still damp. He wiped them on the side of his robe, forcing a breath through his nose. In another life, he'd never had the guts to even ask a girl for the time. Now? He was about to spit game at the most powerful woman he'd ever seen—in front of a crowd of warrior goddesses—while looking like he'd just crawled out of a grave.
No pressure.
"Matriarch Caelira," he said, letting his voice drop into what he hoped was a low, confident tone. "I've heard stories of power... but no tale warned me it would look like you."
Silence.
Not impressed. Not amused. Not even confused.
Just silence.
River cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. "If I'd known exile meant standing in front of a woman this radiant... I might've failed the test on purpose."
He followed the line with a wink. A goddamn wink.
The room didn't go silent. It went dangerously still.
Somewhere, a woman choked on a laugh. Another muttered something under her breath. On the edge of the hall, Alara turned her head sharply—probably to hide her expression. She looked like someone trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment.
Caelira didn't speak at first. She rose from her throne like a blade being unsheathed—smooth, cold, and inevitable. She descended one step at a time, the rings on her fingers clinking against her thigh armor.
She stopped just in front of him. Her presence was oppressive. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just unshakable, like she'd been forged from war and fury and never lost a single thing in her life.
Her voice was low. Controlled.
"What do you think you're doing?"
River's mouth opened before his brain caught up. "I, uh... I was just—trying to—"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Are you making fun of me?"
"No! No, absolutely not! I swear, I was trying to—" he stammered, every word making it worse.
Caelira turned to the guards with a flick of her fingers.
"To the Pits."
The sentence hit like a slap.
Before River could even protest, two warriors stepped forward, armor gleaming, hands already reaching for his arms.
"Wait! It's not what you think—there's a system! It tells me what to—!"
Alara leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed, voice light. "Well... this is also a way to plead your case. Survive the Pits, and you might earn her attention. Maybe even her amusement."
River shot her a look that could've curdled blood. "Amusement?! That was my plea!"
She gave him a helpless shrug. "Then consider this... an appeal."
The guards didn't wait for further commentary. One grabbed his left arm, the other his right, and they dragged him like a broken offering across the cold floor.
The Pits were not metaphorical.
They were real. Massive.
An open-air arena carved into red stone and earth, circled by raised terraces where warriors leaned over the rails, eager to witness violence. Dozens of Amazonian women were already gathered—soldiers, hunters, champions, apprentices—all standing shoulder to shoulder, voices rising in cruel anticipation.
The center of the pit was bare. A ring of cracked stone and dust. No weapons. No shield. Just a wide space and nowhere to hide.
The gate behind River slammed shut.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't scream or beg.
He just stared forward, jaw tight, spine locked, refusing to show how much his legs wanted to give out.
From the top platform, Caelira stood once more. The torchlight reflected off her silver armor as her voice rang out, calm and deadly.
"Do you know how we welcome uninvited men to our lands?"
River's fingers twitched.
She raised her arm.
"With battle..."Her arm dropped."And then—DEATH!"
The response was immediate.
The crowd roared. A wall of female voices thundered across the pit, rattling River's ribs. Feet stomped. Fists pounded on wood and stone. The chant rose, louder and louder:
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!"
His stomach turned, but his feet stayed planted.
The opposite gate opened.
A woman stepped out.
No, a monster wearing a woman's skin.
She stood nearly seven feet tall, muscles carved like they were sculpted from stone. She was built like a siege engine—biceps bigger than his head, thighs thick enough to break bones. Her chest was bare but painted in crimson war marks. Her arms were wrapped in leather, covered in inked symbols—some of them, River guessed, were tallies of the men she'd killed.
She didn't carry a weapon.
She was the weapon.
She grinned wide as she approached, cracking her knuckles. A predator sizing up a wounded animal.
He licked his lips, forced his voice not to tremble. "Maybe... we could talk about this?"
She didn't answer.
She charged.
A juggernaut of muscle, speed, and bloodlust.
And River—barefoot, unarmed, bruised, and very much not a fighter—could only raise his fists, plant his feet in the dirt, and whisper under his breath:
"What the hell did I get myself into?"