The cell was cold, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and rust. Soren sat in the corner, leaning back against the stone wall, his fingers tracing the iron links binding his wrists. Tonight, the Colosseum was quieter than usual; the crowds had been raucous enough after his victory in the Pit, but now, darkness brought silence. Only the occasional distant clanking of chains reminded him of his prison.
In the faint light from a slit high up in the wall, he could see the dark stains on his wrists from where the chains had bitten into his skin. Yet despite the pain, he couldn't shake the strange sensation he'd felt in the arena, when the chains seemed to move with him, shielding him from the monster's claws. He hadn't imagined it. It was as real as the cold iron pressed against his skin.
The question was, what did it mean?
He closed his eyes, his breaths slow and deliberate. He had never felt such power before—never anything close to it. During the battle, it had surged through him like fire, filling his body with a strength that wasn't his own. Even now, he could feel a faint warmth pulsing from the metal, like an ember waiting to ignite.
What are you? he thought, running his fingers along the length of chain that bound his wrists together. And for a brief moment, as his thoughts reached deeper into the iron links, he felt something strange: a flicker, like a distant heartbeat, buried within the chains.
He focused on it, following the warmth inward. Images and memories flickered through his mind—faces, voices, fragments of lives that were not his own. He saw men and women he didn't recognize, each one shackled like him, each fighting, struggling, and finally falling in the Colosseum's sands. He sensed their anguish, their anger, their will to escape.
Then, a voice—a whisper, as faint as a breath.
We are bound together.
Soren's eyes snapped open, heart pounding. The voice was gone, leaving only silence in its wake. But it had been real. It felt as if the chains held fragments of spirits, the echoes of those who had worn them before. A shiver ran down his spine. Somehow, he was connected to them all, a single link in a long, unbroken chain.
"Going mad already, are we?" The familiar, mocking voice of his cellmate snapped him back to the present. The gaunt man had been watching him, eyes glinting in the dark.
Soren ignored him. His thoughts were whirling too fast, pieces of a puzzle assembling themselves in his mind. If the chains held traces of those before him, their energy lingering, then maybe he could learn to control it. Maybe he could call on that power again, without needing the danger of battle to awaken it.
"Tell me, Lark," he said finally, speaking to his cellmate without looking at him. "These chains—do you know where they come from?"
Lark scoffed. "What does it matter? They come from the forges beneath the Colosseum, same as everything else in this hell."
"Not these," Soren replied, tugging on the links at his wrists. "These are different. I felt… something in them during the fight."
Lark's sneer faded, a look of unease crossing his face. "They say… they say some chains are forged with the blood of the fallen, tempered by the spirit of those who wore them. Superstition, if you ask me. But I've heard guards mutter about cursed chains, old relics that bind more than just flesh." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They say those who listen too closely to the chains lose their minds."
Soren turned back to his bindings, feeling a strange mixture of fear and excitement. If the chains contained some remnant of the dead, then he wasn't simply bound by iron—he was bound by their will, their memories. And maybe, just maybe, he could learn to tap into that power.
A faint scuff of footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by a low murmur of voices. Soren stiffened, slipping back into the shadows of his cell as two guards passed by, their torch casting long shadows against the stone walls. They paused outside his cell, glancing in with expressions of distaste.
"Didn't expect him to survive the Pit," one guard muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "But he's tougher than he looks."
"Not for long," the other replied with a smirk. "They're putting him in the Grand Arena next time. We'll see how long he lasts there."
They moved on, their laughter fading into the distance. Soren's jaw tightened. The Grand Arena was a death sentence, the Colosseum's main stage, reserved for the highest stakes and the most brutal matches. But this time, he felt a glimmer of defiance instead of fear. The chains around his wrists seemed to resonate with his anger, thrumming with a low hum that only he could feel.
I will survive, he thought fiercely, his grip tightening on the iron. And I will find a way out of this place.
That night, Soren didn't sleep. Instead, he sat in silence, focusing on the warmth within the chains, listening for the faint whisper he'd heard before. It was barely there, a thread connecting him to something deeper. He followed it with his mind, reaching inward, trying to draw strength from the lives that had come before him, from the warriors who had fought and died in chains.
Slowly, he began to sense more—a feeling of solidity, like invisible tendrils reaching from the iron into his bones, steadying his heartbeat, sharpening his senses. His surroundings grew clearer, every sound more distinct, every shadow sharper. It was as if he was seeing through the eyes of those who had come before, borrowing their experience, their strength.
The iron grew warm in his hands, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. And this time, he didn't shy away from the power. He embraced it, letting it flood through him, every inch of his body buzzing with a low, electric energy.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the warmth faded. Soren opened his eyes, his mind clearing. He was still bound, still a prisoner. But now he held something different, something that felt as much a part of him as his own blood.
The next morning, he was dragged back out of the cell, shackles clinking as he was led through the winding corridors toward the Grand Arena. The guards didn't speak, but he felt their sneers, their anticipation for his failure.
Soren kept his head high. He could feel the chains humming with the faintest pulse, a steady beat beneath his skin. It was still just a whisper of power, a faint ember, but he knew it was real. And if he could draw on it here, in the depths of the Colosseum, then maybe he could use it to survive.
He was led into the blinding sunlight of the Grand Arena, where a vast crowd awaited him, the roar of their voices filling the air. His opponent stood across from him—a massive brute of a man, clad in heavy armor and wielding a blade twice the size of Soren's own.
The guards tossed him a weapon, and he caught it with ease, feeling the warmth of the iron against his palms. The connection was there, faint but growing stronger with every second, every breath. He gripped the blade tightly, his mind focused on the pulse of the chains.
The horn sounded, and the brute charged.
But Soren didn't move. He held his ground, his mind clear, his grip steady, and his focus sharp. The chains were with him, lending him the strength of a thousand warriors, the will of countless souls who had fought and fallen before him.
As the brute's blade descended, Soren raised his own, feeling the iron pulse with the rhythm of battle.
And for the first time, he felt like he could win.