The silence of his cell was as thick as the iron bars that enclosed him. Every inch of Soren's body ached, bruised and battered from the Gauntlet. A dull throb lingered in his ribs where his final opponent's blade had grazed him, and his muscles felt as if they'd been torn apart and roughly stitched back together. But it wasn't the pain that troubled him.
It was the chains.
They had fallen quiet, the pulsing warmth he'd come to rely on now a faint, nearly imperceptible echo. In the silence, he found himself wondering if he'd somehow broken them—or worse, if they had finally rejected him.
He lay there, his back against the cold stone wall, staring up at the dark ceiling of his cell. The memory of that last fight—the masked man, the intensity of the combat, the strange voice that had commanded him to stand—flashed through his mind. That voice had felt so clear, so forceful, unlike the fragmented whispers he'd heard before. It had felt… conscious.
The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. Lark entered the cell with a tense expression, his usual carefree manner dampened by a quiet, worried look in his eyes.
"Didn't think you'd make it out of that one," Lark said, lowering himself beside Soren. "The Gauntlet… I've seen it break men, Soren. And yet, here you are, barely looking alive, but alive nonetheless."
Soren let out a rough laugh, the pain in his side spiking at the movement. "Barely is right. But I think I… found something. Or maybe it found me."
"What do you mean?" Lark asked, his tone cautious.
Soren raised his wrists, showing him the chains. "These chains—they're not just metal. I can feel something in them, guiding me. Sometimes I think they have a mind of their own."
Lark's expression turned grim. He had seen the brutality of the arena, but this was different. "You're starting to sound like some of the prisoners they dragged out of here years ago. The ones who went… well, mad. They thought the chains were speaking to them too."
Soren shook his head. "I know how it sounds. But I'm not imagining it. There's a power in these chains. They helped me survive out there. The energy—it's like a second heartbeat." He looked at Lark, his gaze steady. "And it's fading."
Lark frowned, glancing uneasily at the door, as if expecting someone to overhear them. "Listen, Soren, I've heard enough stories to know that if these chains are powerful, they don't come without a cost. They could burn you out, consume you from within. Power like that isn't meant to be wielded by ordinary men."
Soren took a deep breath, nodding slowly. He knew that Lark had a point. This power—it felt as dangerous as it was compelling, as if each use left something behind, a lingering shadow. "Maybe you're right," he said. "But it's the only way I'll survive here. If I can learn to control it, maybe… maybe I can find a way out."
Lark shook his head, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "If you try to harness that power without knowing what it is, it might be your undoing."
They fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Lark's words settling over them both. For the first time, Soren wondered if this power might indeed consume him before he even had a chance to escape.
The next morning, the guards dragged Soren from his cell earlier than usual. He stumbled, still sore from the previous day's battle, but the guards were relentless, practically hauling him through the dark stone corridors of the Colosseum.
They led him to a smaller arena, a circular pit surrounded by high walls, empty except for a single figure waiting for him in the center.
The man was tall, his frame draped in dark, heavy robes, his face obscured by a hood. Only his eyes were visible, piercing and cold. They watched Soren with a calculating interest, a hint of curiosity that made Soren's skin crawl.
"Slave," the man's voice was calm, yet it cut through the silence like a knife. "You've survived the Gauntlet. Few ever do. Do you know why you're here?"
Soren clenched his fists, feeling the faint, fading pulse of the chains. "If you're asking me, I'm guessing it's not to congratulate me."
The man chuckled, a sound as hollow as it was unsettling. "You are here because you displayed… an unusual resilience. An ability to draw on something beyond your own strength." His eyes flickered down to the chains on Soren's wrists, a knowing gleam in his gaze. "And we're curious about that."
Soren felt a shiver run down his spine. "We?"
"Those who govern this place," the man said. "We are interested in harnessing your potential, in understanding the source of your strength. If you cooperate, you may find life here a little more… bearable."
Soren scowled. "You think I want to work for the people who keep me caged?"
The man's expression didn't change. "I don't think you have a choice."
Soren's jaw tightened, anger simmering just beneath the surface. He felt the chains respond to his rage, a faint warmth stirring within them, as if urging him forward. He focused, letting the sensation grow, feeling the chains hum with energy. The faint voice from before—the one that had commanded him to stand—whispered again, a soft echo in the back of his mind.
The man's eyes narrowed, as if sensing the shift. "Ah, so you do have a connection to them. I'd wondered if it was merely luck or something more… substantial."
Soren said nothing, clamping down on the energy, trying to stifle the voice that urged him to fight, to resist. He didn't know how much power he had left, and he wasn't eager to test it against this man, whoever he was.
The man took a step closer, his gaze fixed on Soren's wrists. "The chains are old," he murmured, almost to himself. "Forged from something more than mere iron. Few are chosen by them, fewer still survive the bond."
Soren's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about these chains?"
The man's lips curved into a cold smile. "Enough to know they can consume you if you're not careful. They feed off your energy, your will. The stronger you become, the stronger their grip on you." He paused, his gaze sharp. "But if you learn to control them, they could grant you power beyond imagination."
Soren's pulse quickened, a spark of hope mingling with the fear. If he could control the chains, maybe he could turn the tables on his captors, maybe even escape. But he knew better than to trust this man.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice steady.
The man tilted his head, studying him. "I want to see what you're capable of. If you can harness the chains' power without succumbing to it, perhaps we can find… common ground."
Soren clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. "I won't be your weapon."
The man chuckled again. "We'll see. For now, I'll give you a choice. Submit, and we'll grant you more freedom, resources to train, opportunities to grow stronger. Resist, and you'll face the wrath of the Colosseum's masters. The Gauntlet was just the beginning, after all."
Soren glared at him, the chains pulsing faintly in response to his anger. He felt the urge to attack, to strike out, but he held back. He couldn't risk it—not yet.
"Think it over," the man said, turning to leave. "But remember, the longer you resist, the harder it will be to survive here."
The gate closed behind him, leaving Soren alone in the pit. He stared down at the chains on his wrists, the faint warmth flickering like a dying ember. The man's words echoed in his mind, a dark promise of the power he could gain if he embraced the chains fully.
But he knew there would be a price. The whispers, the strange voice that had commanded him to stand—they were growing stronger, more insistent. The chains were more than just tools; they had a will of their own, a hunger that he was only beginning to understand.
As he returned to his cell, he felt a grim resolve settle within him. He would learn to control the chains, to harness their power without losing himself. If he could do that, then maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to break free from this prison.
For now, he would wait. He would bide his time, growing stronger, learning more about the chains and their power. The Colosseum's masters thought they could control him, that they could use him as their weapon.
But they were wrong. And when the time came, he would show them just how wrong they were.