The Gauntlet loomed before Soren like a dark promise, the sands of the Colosseum bathed in the golden light of dusk. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and the crowd buzzed with anticipation, their faces twisted in excitement at the prospect of blood. Soren's heartbeat thudded in his ears as he was led into the arena, the weight of the chains heavy around his wrists.
The rules were simple: survive until you couldn't.
His first opponent emerged from the opposite end of the arena—a wiry man with a face scarred from countless fights, clutching a dagger in each hand. The crowd roared as he brandished his blades, circling Soren with a twisted grin.
Soren breathed in, feeling the faint, steady pulse of the chains at his wrists. The energy was there, subtle and quiet, like a slumbering beast. He focused, drawing on the warmth within the iron, letting it flow into his limbs. His vision sharpened, the world around him taking on a strange clarity. Every step his opponent took echoed in his mind, each shift of weight visible, each flicker of intent clear as day.
The man lunged, his daggers flashing in the dim light. Soren sidestepped, feeling the chains guide his movements with an instinct not his own. The blades sliced through the air inches from his face, close enough that he could feel the wind of their passage.
Without thinking, he brought his fist down hard on the man's wrist, feeling a sickening crack as the dagger fell from his grasp. The man staggered back, clutching his broken wrist, and Soren moved forward, his hand gripping the chain around his left wrist, swinging it forward like a lash.
The chain struck with brutal force, wrapping around the man's ankle and yanking him to the ground. Soren moved swiftly, pressing his blade to the man's throat, ending the fight before the crowd even had a chance to catch their breath.
A wave of silence swept over the arena, and Soren looked up, meeting the stares of the audience. Their bloodlust remained, but now there was something else—a wary respect, a glint of fascination in their eyes.
Then the gate opened again, and another opponent stepped out.
By the time the fifth opponent had entered the arena, Soren could feel his body tiring, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Each new fighter was stronger than the last, each one pressing him closer to his limits. He could feel the energy within the chains wavering, the warmth growing weaker with each fight. But he had to push forward. If he could just make it through the Gauntlet, it would be more than a victory—it would be a statement.
The fifth fighter was a hulking figure, thick muscles and a ruthless expression, his bare fists the size of Soren's head. He cracked his knuckles, advancing with a confidence that sent a chill down Soren's spine.
Soren adjusted his stance, tightening his grip on the chains. The whispers were faint, weaker than before, but they were still there, a faint guidance in his mind. He focused, channeling what little energy he had left.
The brute charged, moving faster than Soren expected. He barely had time to dodge as a massive fist swung past his head, grazing his cheek and leaving a stinging line of pain. He staggered back, his vision blurring for a moment, the world tilting.
But as he steadied himself, he felt the iron pulse with renewed vigor. A surge of strength flowed through him, sharper, more intense than anything he'd felt before. He didn't question it—he embraced it.
Soren ducked under the next punch, moving with a speed that surprised even himself. He lashed out with the chains, wrapping them around the brute's arm, and yanked. The man stumbled, caught off-balance, and Soren seized the opportunity. He delivered a quick, sharp kick to the man's knee, forcing him to the ground.
Before the brute could react, Soren tightened the chain around his neck, pulling with every ounce of strength he had left. The man struggled, clawing at the chain, but Soren held firm, gritting his teeth, his muscles straining.
Finally, the brute went limp, collapsing to the sand. Soren released the chain, stepping back, his vision swimming as exhaustion washed over him. The crowd roared, the sound a dull roar in his ears. But he barely heard them, focusing only on the iron warmth that still pulsed faintly within the chains.
He had survived. The Gauntlet was over.
Or so he thought.
The gates creaked open once more, and Soren looked up, dread pooling in his stomach. A final figure stepped out, clad in dark armor that gleamed in the fading light. His face was hidden beneath a metal mask, his stance relaxed, yet deadly. The crowd fell silent, their excitement turning to a tense anticipation.
This wasn't just any opponent. This was a test.
The man strode forward, his movements controlled and deliberate, each step radiating a deadly precision. Soren swallowed, his body screaming in protest, his energy nearly drained. He could barely stand, let alone fight someone like this.
But he had no choice.
The chains pulsed weakly at his wrists, the warmth fading with each passing second. He focused, reaching deeper, drawing on whatever fragments of power he could find. The whispers were faint, barely audible, but they urged him forward, a steady beat guiding his tired limbs.
The man lunged, his blade flashing in the dying light. Soren moved to dodge, but his reflexes were slower, his body sluggish. The blade grazed his side, a line of searing pain erupting across his ribs. He staggered, clutching the wound, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The man didn't pause. He pressed forward, each strike precise, unrelenting, pushing Soren back with ruthless efficiency. Soren tried to keep up, his movements erratic, his focus slipping. He could feel his strength waning, the warmth of the chains flickering like a dying flame.
But just as he felt himself falter, a new voice echoed within his mind—a voice stronger than the others, filled with a fierce determination.
Stand.
The single word reverberated through him, filling him with a surge of defiance. He straightened, tightening his grip on the chains, the warmth flaring once more. It wasn't much, but it was enough. He could feel the iron guiding him, the whispers urging him forward.
With a burst of strength, he moved, his body flowing with the rhythm of the chains. He dodged the man's next strike, slipping past his guard, and lashed out with the chain, catching the man's wrist and yanking it down. The masked man staggered, just for a moment, but it was enough.
Soren lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the man's chest, forcing him back. The man stumbled, regaining his balance with a snarl, his eyes flashing with anger. Soren could see the flicker of surprise beneath the mask, the brief glimmer of respect.
The man charged again, his strikes faster, more aggressive, but Soren held his ground, every movement guided by the faint pulse of the chains. He could feel the voices within the iron, their strength flowing into him, lending him their power, their resolve.
The fight was a blur of movement, each strike, each dodge blending together. Soren's vision darkened at the edges, his body numb with exhaustion, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The chains guided him, their rhythm a lifeline that kept him grounded.
Finally, with a last, desperate swing, Soren struck, his blade slicing across the man's chest. The masked figure staggered back, clutching the wound, his gaze fixed on Soren with a mixture of fury and grudging respect.
The man dropped to one knee, blood seeping through his armor. He looked up at Soren, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before he nodded—a silent acknowledgment of Soren's strength.
Then, without a word, he rose to his feet and walked back toward the gates, leaving Soren standing alone in the center of the arena.
The crowd erupted, their cheers a deafening roar that echoed through the Colosseum. But Soren barely heard them, his mind hazy, his body trembling with exhaustion. He had survived. He had faced the Gauntlet, and he had won.
As he was led back to his cell, the warmth of the chains faded, leaving only a faint echo of power in his veins. But he knew that this was only the beginning. The Gauntlet had shown him a glimpse of what he could become, a hint of the strength that lay within the chains.
And he would need every bit of it if he was going to escape the Colosseum—and break free of his chains for good.