The brute's blade came down, a flash of deadly steel glinting under the midday sun.
Soren tightened his grip on his own blade, feeling the pulse of the chains around his wrists. In that brief instant before impact, he let the warmth of the iron flood his senses, centering him, heightening his reflexes, sharpening his awareness. He could feel every beat of his heart, every breath, every slight shift in his opponent's stance.
He sidestepped just as the brute's blade crashed into the earth, sending up a spray of dust and shattered rock. Soren's footwork was precise, faster than anything he'd managed before. Even he was surprised at his own speed. But he didn't have time to linger on it.
The brute roared, wrenching his sword free and swinging again in a wide arc, clearly intending to slice Soren in half.
But Soren was already moving. This time, he was aware of the rhythm that guided him, a rhythm flowing from the chains. It wasn't just strength he was drawing from; it was instinct, a deep, almost primal sense for combat that was woven into the metal. Each step he took felt natural, as if he'd trained with these movements a thousand times before.
He slipped under the brute's guard and slashed upward, his blade cutting a deep line across the man's forearm. The brute stumbled back, eyes wide with fury and confusion.
The crowd gasped, some shouting in disbelief, others in excitement. Soren could feel their energy pouring over the arena, but he blocked it out, focusing only on the beat of the chains.
Hold steady, he thought, drawing on that strange warmth in the iron. The whispers in his mind grew louder, voices from within the chains that seemed to guide his every move, every breath. The brute was slowing, his massive size and blind rage working against him. Soren could see the opening before it happened, the slight misstep in the man's stance.
He struck again, this time a swift cut across the brute's thigh, forcing him to stumble. Blood poured from the wound, staining the sands red. For a moment, Soren allowed himself a small spark of hope. This was more than survival—this was control.
The brute, though weakened, let out a feral scream and charged again, wild and reckless. But Soren held his ground, letting the chains' power steady him. As the man drew close, Soren ducked low, sweeping his leg out in a move he hadn't planned but felt as though he'd practiced countless times. The brute toppled, crashing to the ground with a bone-rattling thud.
In a flash, Soren was upon him, blade pressed to the brute's throat.
The crowd fell into stunned silence, a hush settling over the arena as they watched the nameless slave hold the Grand Arena's champion in the palm of his hand. The brute glared up at him, his eyes blazing with hatred, but there was fear there too. Soren could feel the iron pulse, urging him forward, urging him to end it.
But he hesitated, his mind racing. He didn't want to kill—not like this, not as a spectacle for the crowd's pleasure.
"Finish him!" a guard yelled from the edge of the arena, the crowd picking up the chant in feverish unison. The chants grew louder, pressing down on him, and he felt the weight of their eyes, hungry and demanding.
But Soren remained still, the chains humming with a strength that seemed to ground him. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the crowd's demands. He would not be their puppet.
Slowly, he released the brute, stepping back, lowering his blade. The man scrambled to his feet, confusion and rage written across his face, but he was too bloodied to press on. The brute stumbled back toward the edge of the arena, defeated but alive.
The guards didn't cheer. They watched him with cold, calculating stares as the crowd erupted, a mix of boos and cheers echoing through the Grand Arena. Soren turned his back on them, focusing only on the warmth of the chains that had guided him, still pulsing like a heartbeat.
The moment he returned to his cell, his cellmate Lark was waiting, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and admiration.
"Impossible," Lark whispered. "I've seen that brute crush men twice your size. What… what did you do out there?"
Soren sat down against the wall, the iron still thrumming faintly on his wrists. "I don't know," he replied, though he was beginning to suspect the answer. The whispers, the pulse, the sudden surge of combat instincts—it had to be connected to the chains.
Lark leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've heard rumors about those chains of yours. That they're old, forged with something darker than just metal. They say that those who listen to them too closely go mad. Or worse."
Soren didn't respond, staring down at the chains with a thoughtful frown. If these chains were some kind of weapon, forged by more than just metal, then perhaps they held more power than he'd realized. The energy he felt was still faint, still barely a spark. But it was enough to make him wonder how far it could go.
"What's the worst that could happen?" he murmured, almost to himself.
"You could lose yourself," Lark replied grimly. "I've seen it before. A man believes he's controlling the chains, but they take him over, bit by bit. The stronger he gets, the more they demand. Until there's nothing left but the chains themselves."
Soren looked at him, considering his words. He knew there was a danger here, but he also knew that this was the first true advantage he'd had since being dragged into the Colosseum. If these chains were willing to lend him their strength, then maybe he could use them, learn to control them on his own terms.
And he'd need every edge he could get. His fight with the brute had been a test. If he showed the guards that he could survive, then they'd send him against even stronger opponents. But he was ready for it—ready to face whatever challenge they threw at him, if it meant taking another step toward freedom.
As the days passed, he began to practice with the chains in his cell, reaching out with his mind, listening to the faint whispers that guided his movements. The voices were clearer now, less fragmented, as though each fight, each moment he spent focused on the chains, was strengthening his connection to them.
The warmth within the iron grew stronger with every passing day, and he found that he could summon that pulse more easily, letting it course through his body until it felt like his own heartbeat. He could sense his own strength sharpening, his instincts honed to a razor's edge, his movements faster, more precise.
One evening, a guard stopped by his cell, watching him with a strange gleam in his eye.
"Get ready, slave," the guard sneered. "The masters have decided to put you in the Gauntlet."
Soren raised an eyebrow, hiding the flicker of excitement that sparked within him. He had heard of the Gauntlet—a grueling series of fights against multiple opponents, designed to break even the strongest of men. It was a test of endurance and skill, and few ever survived it.
But he could feel the chains hum with anticipation, the iron growing warm in his hands as if in response to the challenge.
"I'm ready," he replied, meeting the guard's sneer with an unwavering gaze. He was no longer the nameless slave, no longer a mere pawn in the Colosseum's games.
He was a survivor. And if he could master the chains, he would be much more.