Lukas barely heard the roar of the crowd. His focus was on the boy in front of him. Drayson was older, taller, and had the heavy-set build of someone who had fought for far too long. A veteran of this wretched place. His knuckles were wrapped, already stained with old blood, and his stance was practiced, weight shifting evenly between his feet.
They called him "Fire-Fist" in the ring. Drayson's affinity made him a menace in close quarters. Lukas could already see the telltale wisps of steam curling from his fingers, his strikes getting faster, heat distorting the air around his fists.
Lukas exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers. His own body ached—bruises layered over old wounds, exhaustion buried under the need to survive. He could feel his essence stirring just beneath his skin, crackling like a barely contained current. He didn't have much left. They didn't let him rest between fights anymore. He was too valuable for that.
Drayson smirked, rolling his shoulders. "You don't look so good, kid."
Lukas didn't answer. He couldn't afford to. The moment he opened his mouth, he'd waste breath he couldn't spare.
The match started with a snap of fingers from above. Drayson moved first, lunging forward with brutal efficiency. Lukas sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the punch meant for his ribs. He countered, slipping inside Drayson's reach and striking fast—elbow to the gut, knee to the thigh. The older boy barely flinched.
Dreyson hit like a hammer. Lukas barely got his arms up in time, but the force of the punch still sent him reeling, pain flaring through his ribs.
He staggered, cursing under his breath. Dreyson was stronger—probably faster, too. No way he'd win a straight fight.
So don't fight fair.
Lukas wiped blood from his lip, then lunged in low, like he was going for Dreyson's legs. The bigger boy reacted instinctively, shifting back to counter—which was exactly what Lukas wanted.
At the last second, he twisted upward instead, slamming a shock-infused fist into Dreyson's ribs. The jolt cracked between them, shadow essence sinking in to sap Dreyson's strength.
But the bastard barely flinched.
Shit.
Dreyson snarled and swung again. Lukas couldn't dodge in time—the blow caught his shoulder and sent him crashing to the dirt.
Stars burst behind his eyes. His limbs felt like lead. He had maybe one last shot.
As Dreyson loomed over him, Lukas gritted his teeth, snapped his fingers—And let out a spark of storm essence at Dreyson's eyes.
Dreyson flinched, caught off guard for half a second—but half a second was all Lukas needed. He rolled to the side, kicked out a leg, and swept Dreyson's feet out from under him.
The bigger boy crashed down.
The crowd roared, but Lukas barely registered it. He had to end this now. His body was slowing down, limbs heavy, lungs burning. If Drayson got up again—
But he didn't. The match was over.
A hand grabbed Lukas by the wrist and yanked it into the air. Victory. His heart pounded in his ears. The announcer's voice was a blur. His vision swam at the edges. Someone shoved a rag into his hand to wipe the blood off his knuckles, but his fingers barely worked.
He let himself be led away, barely aware of the tunnel swallowing him into the depths of the ring.
Ambrose was waiting. The old man leaned against the rusted bars of Lukas' cage, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You took too long," Ambrose said.
Lukas swallowed, pulse still racing. He didn't answer.
Ambrose sighed, stepping forward. He placed a hand on Lukas' shoulder, squeezing—just hard enough to remind him of his place. "Get cleaned up. You're up again in an hour."
Lukas clenched his jaw, staring at the ground. His body screamed for rest, but rest was a luxury he hadn't earned.
Not yet.
He turned toward the bucket of water in the corner of his cage and began washing the blood from his hands.
Lukas' "room" was four walls and a dirt floor. Ambrose had been generous enough to throw in a straw rug and a cot—luxuries compared to the shacks Lukas had grown up in.
All in all, it was better than he had back in Kenris—that's for sure.
Here, at least, he didn't have his awful parents sending him to beg on the streets as they burned another dose of Emberweed. He could sleep through the night without having to block out the sounds of his newest brother or sister wailing from constant neglect.
Martyr, he did miss his brothers and sisters, though. Each night, as he lay in his tiny stone prison, he would find himself thinking of little Lazrin's infectious smile or the sweet words of comfort Mari would always have for him after a long day of begging or stealing.
He also often wondered if they met the same fate as he did. It had been over a year since his parents sold him to the Dragerian slaver—who knew how desperate they had gotten once they spent all that coin on more Emberweed? No, he told himself, he was the only person in his family "blessed" with a dual affinity in generations.
He still remembered the glint in his father's eyes as the magi had told him. The wicked smile that covered his face from ear to ear on their walk home still made Lukas sick whenever he recalled it.
Lukas was grateful that he escaped that place and those people. For even here—forced to fight, to grovel, to obey—he had a purpose, a goal. Becoming a champion meant that he was someone, anyone other than the pathetic child of Ember addicts.
Here, he could fight, earn a place for himself in the Realms.
Gael grunted as the brute shoved him forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. The narrow corridor reeked of sweat and damp wood, the roar of the distant crowd shaking the plaster walls, sending dust trickling from the ceiling.
"At least tell me where you're taking me," Gael muttered, rolling his shoulders.
The man answered the same way he had the last three times—a grunt and a harder shove.
Gael caught himself before stumbling, irritation flaring hot in his chest. "Are you deaf, or just fucking daft?"
The words had barely left his mouth before a boot drove into the square of his back. Pain exploded through his ribs as he hit the floorboards, the impact rattling his skull.
Stars burst across his vision, blending with fragmented memories—the tip-off that led him here, the merchant's smug grin when he slipped through the upstairs window. A trap. A goddamn setup.
At least Vess had been waiting outside. Small mercy. One captured idiot was better than two.
But still—he'd fallen for it. Hook, line, and sinker. Was he getting sloppy? Was working with someone else dulling his edge?
A meaty hand snagged the back of his coat, hauling him upright like a misbehaving pup. The brute dumped him on his feet and smacked him between the shoulders, sending him stumbling forward. Another grunt—his only cue to keep walking.
Gael clenched his jaw and obeyed, but the shame stung worse than the blows.
Fortunately, it wasn't much longer until Gael had his answer. The small, cramped hallway opened into a massive underground arena, flanked on all sides by rising seating that stretched higher than he thought possible. The sheer size of it made him question just how deep underground he was—his walk here hadn't felt that long.
Then the sound hit him.
A tidal wave of noise swallowed the space, thousands of voices colliding into a chaotic, bone-shaking roar. The dim arena was lit by scattered essence lamps, their flickering glow casting uneven shadows across the crowd. It was impossible to make out individual faces, but Gael knew what kind of people came to places like this. Not ones who wanted a fair fight.
A familiar unease twisted in his gut.
Kino District. A fight in the market square.
Gael had been eleven, just another street kid small enough to go unnoticed. He'd been perched on a crate, watching through a gap in the crowd as two boys squared up in the dirt—a stocky, older teen, maybe fifteen, and a skinny, younger one, closer to Gael's own age.
It hadn't been a fight.
It had been a beating.
The older boy toyed with his opponent, shoving him down, letting him scramble up, only to knock him flat again. The crowd hollered, placing bets, laughing, jeering. Gael remembered the younger boy's hands, too small to make a proper fist, trembling as he forced himself up one last time.
Then a boot crashed into his ribs.
The laughter had drowned out the sound of the hit, but Gael had felt it.
He never saw what happened after that—he had turned away, slipping out before he could watch the boy stop moving.
Now, standing before the stone pit at the arena's center, he realized how familiar it all felt—the roaring voices, the flickering lamps, the scent of dirt and sweat and desperation.
"This is a mistake. I'm just a footpad, not a fighter," Gael said, his voice just barely steady.
The goon beside him gave a low chuckle. "Boss doesn't care what you are, kid. If you win, he makes coin. If you lose, he gets rid of a problem. Win-win."
So, a lose-lose for Gael. Fantastic.
As Gael approached, his eyes locked onto the figure waiting in the opposite cage—a broad-shouldered boy, taller by an inch or two, his bare arms wrapped in blood-stained cloth.
Oh, great.
Before he could get a better look, a hand slammed into his back. He stumbled forward, boots scuffing against the polished stone before being shoved into a cramped metal cage. The door clanged shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sick finality.
Gael whirled around, but the ugly bastard of a guard was already retreating down the tunnel, tossing him one last grin before vanishing into the shadows.
Then, the crowd noticed him.
A fresh wave of cheers erupted, a thunderous cacophony that crashed over him like a breaking tide. Thousands of feet hammered against the rafters, shaking the arena to its bones. The weight of all those voices pressed against his skull. The cage bars suddenly felt too tight. The air, too thin.
It felt like a ritual sacrifice.
And at this rate, it wasn't far off.
With the bars no longer obscuring his view, Gael could finally size up his opponent. The boy leaned against his cage, chest heaving, sweat glistening across his skin. He looked exhausted. Drained.
That was, unfortunately, the only thing Gael had going for him.
Because even tired, this guy looked like he could knock him out with a single punch.
Gael exhaled sharply and let his gaze drift past the arena's edge, past the leering gamblers and shouting spectators—to the upper walkways, where the guards kept watch.
A flicker of movement, too smooth for a guard. A shadow slipping between the torchlight. He barely caught the gleam of dark hair before it vanished. Not a threat. Not a stranger.
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Vess.
She was in.
A booming voice cut through the chaos, rolling over the arena like thunder. The crowd hushed—just enough to hear it echo off the cavernous walls.
"And now, for the final event of the night!"
The arena shook with fresh cheers, thousands of feet stomping against the wooden rafters above. Gael swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders, trying not to feel the weight of all those eyes on him.
"In the blue corner—our reigning champion! You know him. Some of you love him. Some of you—depending on your betting habits—might just hate him. Give it up for Luuukas!"
The name meant nothing to Gael. But the reaction did. The crowd erupted, some jeering, most cheering, all of them invested.
Then the announcer's voice boomed again—unnaturally loud, essence-enhanced.
"And in the red corner..."
A pause. The kind meant to drag out dread. Gael clenched his fists.
"A new fighter. A common thief, caught red-handed trying to embarrass our generous patron, Lord Farnum!"
The entire arena turned on him at once. Booing. Laughter. Someone whistled. Someone else called out, "Dead man walking!"
Gael forced his face blank. Masked the spike of fear in his chest. But deep down, he knew exactly what this was.
It wasn't a fight. It was a spectacle. And he was the punchline. A whistle shrieked. The cage doors groaned open. Gael bolted the second his foot left the polished stone of the cage floor to the fine sand of the arena.
The first punch came fast. A bit too fast. He barely ducked in time, the right hook slicing through the air where his head had been. Another strike—faster—came a breath later.
Already moving. Already channeling.
A burst of wind exploded from his palm, shoving his opponent back a step. Gael twisted with it, letting the force carry him as he pivoted away, wind at his heels.
Speed. That was his answer. He couldn't trade blows. Couldn't overpower him. But he could outpace him. Another attack. Gael surged forward, wind coiling around his hand as he pushed off the floor, snapping him just out of reach. The moment the pressure shifted behind him, he pivoted—air suddenly propelling him forward.
His fist slammed home right into to Lukas' face.
A crack of impact. Lukas' head snapped to the side. The crowd roared. Gael barely had time to register the hit before a sharp arc of black lightning coiled off Lukas' cheek and zapped straight into his arm.
Gael yelped, pain shooting through his muscles. His fingers curled involuntarily, his whole limb numb for a heartbeat. What the hell was that?
Lukas barely looked fazed.
The boy grunted, stumbled—but didn't falter. His expression barely changed.
Another lunge. Gael dodged—almost. A glancing blow scraped his ribs, and the second it did, another black arc snapped against his skin.
His legs buckled.
It wasn't just a normal shock.
He should feel energized. He was channeling his element, a lot of it, moving, attacking. But his limbs felt heavier. His heartbeat pounded in his ears—loud, unsteady. Something wasn't right. He dismissed it. Adrenaline. Fear. Nothing more.
Gael stepped back, bracing for the next exchange.
Then Lukas grinned—not like a fighter, but like someone enjoying himself. Gael had spent his life outpacing trouble. But right now, he wasn't sure he was fast enough.
Lukas spat out a mouthful of blood, rolling his shoulders as he circled Gael. His sharp gaze tracked every movement, every misstep. The kid fought like a beginner—wasteful, reckless. Six bursts of air already, and the fight had barely begun.
Lukas forced himself to steady his breath but his fingers twitching at his sides. Don't rely on brute strength. Don't let him dictate the fight.
Gael shifted forward, feinting with a jab, and Lukas barely twisted away before the real attack came—a gust of wind slamming into his side, staggering him back.
He wants distance.
Lukas exhaled sharply and closed in fast, forcing Gael into close-quarters before he could build momentum. He ducked under a wild punch, slipped around Gael's back, and clapped a palm against his shoulder.
A jolt of electricity cracked between them—small, barely more than a static shock. But Lukas layered it, twisting shadow into the charge like ink spilling into water. The essence sank deeper, clinging, draining.
Gael tensed—slower than before, just slightly off-beat. Lukas saw it. Felt it. And for the first time, a sharp edge of satisfaction curled at the corners of his mouth.
Then Gael spun with a wind-enhanced kick, and Lukas barely threw himself back in time, the strike brushing the tip of his nose.
Lukas rolled to his feet, smirking despite himself. "That all you got?"
Gael scowled. "I'm just getting started." He lunged, essence rippling as he fired a blast of air behind him, kicking up a swirl of dust. Another wild haymaker. Predictable. This time, Lukas was ready. A quick sidestep sent Gael's fist swinging into empty space, wiping the grin clean off his face.
Fast. Too fast. If Lukas had been a second slower, he might be on the ground.
But he'd fought speed before—those with storm or air affinity, those who thought quick feet and sharper reflexes made them untouchable. It always ended the same way. A few glancing blows, a moment of false hope, and then exhaustion took hold. Their reserves would drain, their bodies would falter, and Lukas would still be standing.
The fights weren't always entertaining for the crowd. But they were always his to win.
Eight months in this pit, and he hadn't lost once. That was a fact he intended to keep.
He had to let the kid burn himself out. He still had fight in him, but every breath came harder now. His muscles screamed from overuse, his movements growing fractionally slower with each exchange.
Then Lukas saw the opening.
Gael lunged—too fast, too eager, swinging wide with another reckless hook. Lukas caught the motion, sidestepped with a sharp pivot, and drove a fist deep into Gael's ribs.
The impact sent him stumbling, but Lukas didn't let up. He pressed forward, ducking under a sluggish counterstrike and slamming an elbow into Gael's sternum. The breath left his lungs in a sharp gasp, his body curling inward as he staggered back.
One last hit. That's all it would take.
Lukas surged in, twisting his entire weight into the final blow—a brutal cross that cracked against Gael's jaw. His head snapped to the side, and for a second, it looked like he might stay standing out of sheer will.
Then his legs gave out.
Lukas exhaled, shaking the sting from his knuckles as Gael crumpled to the ground. Sand clung to his skin, his chest rising and falling in shallow pants. It was over.
The cheers from the crowd barely registered. Lukas let his body relax, stepping back, already pulling himself from the fight—
Then, just as Lukas turned away—the wind shoved him forward.
Not strong. Not even enough to hurt. Just a reminder. A final, defiant flick of air essence that whispered, I'm not done yet.
Lukas stiffened. He looked over his shoulder.
Gael was barely conscious as he leaned on one elbow, arm outstretched and shaking, his grin flickering for half a second before his body fully gave out and hit the sand.
For a long moment, Lukas didn't move. The crowd's roar blurred into meaningless noise. His fingers twitched. His breath slowed.
That last spell.
Not an act of desperation. Just a final, defiant shove.
Lukas clenched his jaw, forcing his shoulders to loosen as he turned away.
"You let it go on too long."
Ambrose's voice echoed in his head, laced with displeasure. Lukas didn't need to look to know his patron was watching, measuring, judging. He would no doubt be adding to his bruises tonight in his anger.
The first fight in months that had actually meant something. And still, it wasn't enough.
Gael woke to the taste of blood and the dull throb of bruises. His body ached everywhere, stiff from the cold stone beneath him. He cracked an eye open and immediately regretted it—the dim lantern light outside the cell felt like it was stabbing straight into his skull.
A familiar voice reached him from the adjacent cell. Gruff, but steady.
"Took you long enough."
Gael groaned and rolled onto his side, just enough to make out Lukas sitting against the bars, arms resting over his knees. His face was half-hidden in shadow, but Gael could tell he didn't look much better than he felt.
"How long was I out?" Gael rasped.
"Couple hours." Lukas's gaze flickered over him. "Thought you might not wake up."
"I'm too stubborn for that, I assure you." Gael shifted, testing his limbs. Everything hurt, but nothing felt broken. A win, he supposed.
Lukas didn't respond right away. He was staring at his hands, turning his fingers over like he was working through something. Gael recognized the look. Restless. Tense.
"We're getting out of here," Gael said.
Lukas snorted softly, shaking his head. "Oh, is that right?"
"Damn right," Gael muttered.
"Step one: stay loose. Can't fight our way out if we're stiff as corpses." He flexed his fingers, then grinned. "Step two: we warm up."
Lukas gave him a skeptical look. "Warm up?"
"Cantrip battle." Gael wiggled his fingers, ignoring the ache in them. "First to yield loses."
Lukas stared at him for a long second. "You're serious, the kids game?"
"What else are we gonna do? Count the rats?" Gael smirked. "C'mon. Unless you're scared."
Lukas sighed but lifted his hand. A faint crackle of lightning sparked at his fingertips. "Fine. But keep it small. If they hear us—"
"Yeah, yeah, I don't plan on dying in a cell." Gael flicked his wrist, stirring the air around his palm. "On three?"
Lukas didn't bother counting. His first shock cantrip was already flying.
Gael tilted his head just enough for the spark to fizzle past his cheek. It snapped against the iron bars, leaving a faint scorch mark.
"Scrappy bastard aren't you?" he murmured.
"You're one to talk," Lukas shot back, already casting another. The next cantrip crackled toward Gael's shoulder, but he shifted his fingers just so, letting out a soft pulse of air that nudged the bolt barely off course. It stung as it passed, but it wasn't a direct hit.
Gael's smirk widened. "Better."
Lukas exhaled sharply, shaking out his hands. He was controlled, measured—not wasting anything.
Gael's turn.
He rolled his wrist, gathering a thread of air essence, then snapped his fingers. A tiny gust of wind slipped between the bars, just enough to send dust flicking up into Lukas's face.
Lukas flinched, half-coughing. "Asshole."
"All part of the game," Gael said lightly, already shaping another cantrip. This time, he compressed the air into a thin, sharp flick, aiming low. Lukas barely moved his foot in time.
Lukas's answering cantrip came just as quick—but this time, something shifted.
Gael barely registered the difference until the lightning came tinged with black. It struck his forearm, colder than normal lightning should be, and for a split second, he felt it—like something was tugging at his reserves, siphoning his essence just slightly.
He hissed and flexed his fingers, shaking off the numbness. "The hell was that?"
Lukas just rolled his shoulders, looking unfazed.
Gael narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't just a spark."
Lukas tilted his head, watching him carefully. Then, after a beat, he lifted his fingers again and let another spark flicker between them—first the usual crisp blue, but then shifting to that shadowed black.
Gael studied the color shift. The way the darker sparks seemed to pull inward before leaping outward. Storm and shadow!
"Huh." Gael leaned back against the wall, rubbing his arm. "Never met someone with a dual affinity before. Thought you lot were supposed to be rare and special."
Lukas arched a brow. "I am rare and special."
Gael looked him over again, "Fair enough."
Their movements were slower now. Gael lifted a hand, readying another spell—but the weight of exhaustion pressed against him. Lukas noticed. His fingers twitched, but he hesitated. The silence stretched. Then—
"Call it a draw?" Lukas asked, voice quiet.
Gael tilted his head, considering. Then he lowered his hand. "Yeah, I can live with that."
Lukas let out a breath, leaning back against the bars. Neither of them spoke for a while.
Finally, Gael broke the silence.
"When we get out of here, I'm kicking your ass for real."
Lukas huffed a tired laugh. "You can try."
A few seconds later a booming explosion shook through the makeshift prison.
Gael snapped upright at the familiar sound, his instincts kicking in a second before a second boom tore through the prison. Dust rained from the ceiling, and across the corridor, Lukas stiffened, his hands gripping the bars of his cell.
The pit had fallen into chaos. The guards' distant shouts clashed with the startled yells of prisoners, and in the dim torchlight, Gael caught the briefest flicker of movement—a shadow slipping between the bars.
A low click sounded.
Then another.
Gael's cell door creaked open.
His grin sharpened.
"You guys took your time," he murmured, rubbing his wrists as he stepped forward.
The boy crouched beside the lock scoffed, straightening. He was lean, wiry, and too clean for someone in the pits. His clothes weren't the rags of a prisoner, and his fingers were stained with something dark—oil, or maybe alchemical residue.
That crazy little bastard Soren was here.
Soren barely spared Gael a glance before moving to the next cell, working a small set of picks into the lock. His focus was razor-sharp, his motions practiced.
"You want out or not?" Soren muttered, barely above a whisper.
Gael chuckled. "Oh, I like you."
Another click. The lock to Lukas' cell gave way, the door swinging open. Lukas hesitated just long enough for Soren to shoot him a glare before slipping back into the shadows, disappearing down the corridor.
The boys barely had time to process what was happening before the final explosion hit.
The world shook.
A blast of fire roared through the stone hallway, consuming everything behind them in a shockwave of heat and pressure. The force sent loose rubble skidding across the ground, and when the dust settled, a familiar silhouette emerged through the smoke.
"Vess!" Gael cheered.
Hair wild, hands still smoking from the impact, she stepped over a pile of broken stone like she'd done this a hundred times before. Behind her, fire licked at the walls, spreading fast.
Vess huffed, then flicked a glance toward Lukas. "We taking him, or leaving him for dead?"
Lukas tensed, like he hadn't considered either option yet.
Gael tilted his head, watching him. "I dunno, champ. You coming?"
Lukas' throat worked, but he didn't answer. His fingers flexed at his sides, his stance unreadable. He was standing at the edge of his cage, free to step out, free to run, free to leave—but he didn't move.
For a moment, Gael actually thought he might stay.
The hesitation was so brief that most wouldn't have caught it. But Gael did. That split second before someone folds. Before they convince themselves the cage was safer after all.
Gael stepped forward, voice quieter now, but razor-sharp.
"You can stay here," he said. "You can rot. Or you can walk."
Lukas' jaw clenched. Then, finally—he moved.
One step. Another. Then he was out.
Gael let out a breath, a grin tugging at his lips. "See? Easy." Then, with a flick of his fingers—one last gust of air.
Not strong. Just a little shove. Just enough to push Lukas forward a step.
Lukas barely turned before Gael strode past him, already falling in step beside Vess as she led them up toward the burning remains of their prison.
"How many explosions did it take, and how long will it buy us?"
Soren answered first, his breath still uneven. "Four canisters worth, and enough of her juice to leave her essence-drunk."
Vess flashed a sharp grin, eyes still alight with adrenaline. "Perks of fire affinity—when you blow things up, there's always more fire to take back!" As if to prove her point, she strode ahead, crouching beside a low-burning flame. She hovered a hand over it, fingers twitching as the fire shrank, its glow dimming until it withered into nothing.
"Ahh, Much better."
A bolt slammed into the dirt wall an inch from her head. The sudden impact cracked through the tunnel, freezing her mid-rise. Before she could react, Gael's instincts kicked in—he swept a gust toward her, sending her stumbling forward just as a second bolt buried itself into the wall where she'd been standing.
The air was thick with dust and the lingering burn of sulfur. No warning shots. Just kills.
Well, that's just downright unfriendly.
Lukas moved before he could think. His body knew before his mind did—fight, strike first, don't hesitate.
He slipped past Gael, closing in on the reloading guard just as the man realized he wouldn't have time to aim. His hand shot to his belt, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword.
"That's the bitch who started the fire—get her. I've got this brat." The guard snarled, throwing the crossbow aside with a clatter and unsheathing his blade with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment.
Lukas wasn't sure why he was rushing him. He wasn't a hero. Never had been. He barely knew these three, and yet—his fist was already flying.
Knuckles met bone with a sharp crack. The guard's head snapped sideways, his body crumpling in one clean stroke.
The second guard started forward, ready to barrel past Lukas—until he saw his partner hit the ground. He hesitated, face grim, and turned toward Lukas instead.
Big mistake.
Flames roared across his body before he could react, Vess's outstretched hand painting him in firelight.
"Who's a bitch now?!" she screeched, eyes alight with manic glee. She vaulted over the burning man as he hit the ground, rolling frantically to smother the flames. She gave him a quick kick for good measure.
Gael yanked Lukas's arm as he ran by, urging him forward. "We don't got all day, champ. You coming or not?"
Lukas could see the tunnel's exit ahead, the cold bite of fresh air cutting through the stifling heat of smoke and stone. Almost there. Almost free.
The night air hit like a slap—brisk, unfamiliar, unforgiving. The tunnel's mouth yawned open before them, spilling out into the unknown. Vess and Soren surged ahead, chasing freedom like it was theirs by right. Gael was just behind them, turning only once to make sure Lukas was following.
Lukas wasn't moving. His body screamed run, but his feet stayed rooted. Not from fear. Not from hesitation. From something worse.
Out there, beyond the tunnel's mouth, he was nobody. No champion. No pit-fighter. No name carved in the bones of the underground. Just another stray, drowning in a city that wouldn't care if he lived or died.
Here, at least, he mattered. Here, in the pit, he was someone.
"Move, idiot."
Gael's voice snapped him back, and then a hand grabbed his wrist—firm, real, undeniable. A gust of wind shoved him forward, his footing breaking before instinct took over. Lukas grit his teeth and ran, chasing the others into the night, into the city, into whatever came next.
The past wouldn't hold him back any longer.